And many a childing mother then, But things like that, you know, must be “They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun: But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. "Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why, 't was a very wicked thing! Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he; "And everybody praised the Duke, Who this great fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. 'Why, that I cannot tell," said he; "But 't was a famous victory." Robert Southey. BUT BLENHEIM. JT now the trumpet, terrible from far, In shriller clangors animates the war, Confederate drums in fuller concert beat, And echoing hills the loud alarm repeat: Gallia's proud standards, to Bavaria's joined, Unfurl their gilded lilies in the wind; The daring prince his blasted hopes renews, And while the thick embattled host he views Stretched out in deep array, and dreadful length, His heart dilates, and glories in his strength. The fatal day its mighty course began, That the grieved world had long desired in vain : Armies of martyrs that in exile groaned, Behold, in awful march and dread array, O'erlook the foe, advantaged by his post, Lessen his numbers, and contract his host:' 'T was then great Marlbro's mighty soul was proved, In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed, Joseph Addison. THEA Bonn. A TRUANT HOUR. HE golden stars keep watch aloft; Save that around me scatters oft The hum of men, the roar of wheels, The lovely river rolling on. The course of thoughts and being, pent Of life and things, in gleamy show. Thus rest, so hushed with airs of balm That reach them from their promise land, All that has been, and all that is, The while, side-heard as in a dream, Henry Alford. Bremen. IN PORT. THE Rathhaus, in the Market-place, has the side facing the Dom of beautiful Gothic. . . . . In a particular compartment of the cellars beneath it, shown only by permission of the burgomaster, are casks called the Rose, and the Twelve Apostles, filled with fine hock, some of it a century and a half old.-MURRAY'S Hand-Book, Northern Germany. APPY the man who is safe in his haven, HAP And has left far behind the sea and its sorrows, And now so warm and calmly sits In the cosey Town-Cellar of Bremen. O, how the world so homelike and sweetly Ancient and modern histories by myriads, Berlin, and Schilda, and Tunis, and Hamburg, |