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THE WATERFOWL.

There is a Power, whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-
The desert and illimitable air,-

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end,

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet, on my heart,
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone

Will lead my steps aright.

BRYANT.

7

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

I.

YE mariners of England!

That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep

While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

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Shall start from every wave ;

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow ; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

III.

Britannia needs no bulwark

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore

When the stormy winds do blow ;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

IV.

The meteor-flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

"Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow.

CAMPBELL.

9

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sod with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And our lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin confined his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lowly pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
Of the enemy sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

WOLFE.

11

LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF
RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE.

"It is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias."Matt. xvii. 4.

METHINKS it is good to be here:

If thou wilt, let us build—but for whom?

Nor ELIAS nor Moses appear,

But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,

The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb.

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