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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.

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.

11

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.

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.

Shall we build to Ambition ? Oh, no!
Affrighted he shrinketh away ;

For, see! they would pin him below,
In a small narrow cave and begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty ? Ah, no!—she forgets
The charms which she wielded before-

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

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-
Who hid, in their turn have been hid—

The treasures are squander'd again
And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
The revel the laugh, and the jeer ?

Ah! here is a plentiful board :
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD

13

Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah, no! they have withered and died,

Or fled with the spirit above,-
Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve,-
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve;
Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear,-
Peace, Peace, is the watchword, the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ?
Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow :
Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

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.

HERBERT KNOWLES.

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