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YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
No towers along the steep ;
Her home is on the deep.
She quells the floods below,
When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
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.
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;
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;
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 ;
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.
LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF
"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 :
Nor ELIAS nor Moses appear,
Shall we build to Ambition ? Oh, no!
For, see! they would pin him below,
To Beauty ? Ah, no!—she forgets
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets
Shall we build to the purple of PrideThe trappings which dizen the proud ?
Alas! they are all laid asideAnd here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd, But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.
To Riches ? Alas! 'tis in vain-
The treasures are squander'd again
To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
Ah! here is a plentiful board :
LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD
Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Or fled with the spirit above,-
Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve,-
Which compassion itself could relieve;
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ?
And here there are trophies enow :
The first tabernacle to HOPE we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise :
The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilld, And the third to the LAMB of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies.