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YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

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 tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The spirit of your fathers
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 tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

In both from age to age, thou didst.

rejoice, They were thy chosen music, Lib

erty! There came a tyrant, and with holy

glee Thou foughtst against him, but hast

vainly striven; Thou from thy Alpine holds at

length art driven, Where not a torrent murmurs heard

by thee. Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been

bereft: Then cleave, () cleave to that which

still is left; For, high-souled maid, what sorrow

would it be That mountain floods should thunder

as before, And ocean bellow from his rocky

shore, And neither awful voice be heard by thee!

WORDSWORTH.

SONNET.

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 food below,
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests 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.

CAMPBELL.

ALAS! what boots the long, laborious

quest Of moral prudence, sought through

good and ill; Or pains abstruse, to elevate the

will, And lead us on to that transcendent

rest Where every passion shall the sway

attest Of Reason, seated on her sovereign

hill? What is it but a vain and curious

skill, If sapient Germany must lie de

pressed Beneath the brutal sword ? Her

haughty schools Shall blush; and may not we with

sorrow say, A few strong instincts and a few

plain rules, Among the herdsmen of the Alps,

have wrought More for mankind at this unhappy

day, Than all the pride of intellect and thought.

WORDSWORTH.

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SCHILL.

No sleep till morn, when youth and

pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with

flying feet. But, hark! - that heavy sound

breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would

repeat, And nearer, clearer, deadlier than

before! Arm! arm! it is – it is the can

non's opening roar!

BRAVE Schill! by death delivered,

take thy flight From Prussia's timid region. Go,

and rest With heroes, ’mid the Islands of the

Blest, Or in the fields of empyrean light. A meteor wert thou crossing a dark

night; Yet shall thy name, conspicuous

and sublime, Stand in the spacious firmament of

time, Fixed as a star: such glory is thy

right. Alas! it may not be: for earthly fame Is fortune's frail dependent; yet

there lives A Judge, who, as man claims by

merit, gives; To whose all-pondering mind

noble aim, Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed; In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed.

WORDSWORTH.

a

Within a windowed niche of that

high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain:

he did hear That sound the first amidst the

festival, And caught its tone with death's

prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he

deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that

peal too well Which stretched his father on a

bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood

alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, fore

most fighting, fell.

WATERLOO.

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INDIANS.

We shall march prospering, - not

through his presence; Songs may inspirit us, - not from

his lyre; Deeds will be done — while he boasts

his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the

rest bade aspire. Blot out his name, then, — record

one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more

foot-path untrod, One more triumph for devils, and

sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one

more insult to God! Life's night begins; let him never

come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation,

and pain, Forced praise on our part, — the

glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning

again! Best fight on well, for we taught

him, — strike gallantly, Aim at our heart ere we pierce

through his own; Then let him receive the new knowl

edge and wait us, Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the throne!

ROBERT BROWNING.

ALAS! for them, their day is o'er, Their fires are out on hill and shore; No more for them the wild deer

bounds, The plough is on their hunting

grounds; The pale man's axe rings through

their woods, The pale man's sail skims o'er their

floods; Their pleasant springs are dry; Their children, - look, by power

opprest, Beyond the mountains of the west, Their children go to die.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

THE LANDING OF THE PIL

GRIM FATHERS IN NEW

ENGLAND.
The breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rockbound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches tossed. And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er, Wher a band of exiles moored their

bark On the wild New England shore.

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