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.
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 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.
K
A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT.
ON MUNGO PARK'S FINDING A TUFT OF GREEN
MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT.-Edinburgh
Christian Herald.
THE sun had reached its midday height,
And poured down floods of burning light
On Afric's burning land;
No cloudy veil obscured the sky,
And the hot breeze that struggled by
Was filled with glowing sand.
No mighty rock upreared its head
To bless the wanderer with its shade,
In all the weary plain;
No palm-trees, with refreshing green,
To glad the dazzled eyes, were seen,
But one wide, sandy main.
Dauntless and daring was the mind
That left all home-born joys behind
Those deserts to explore;
To trace the mighty Niger's course,
And find it bubbling from its source
In wilds untrod before.
And, ah! shall we less daring show,
Who nobler ends and motives know
Than ever heroes dream;
Who seek to lead the savage mind
The precious fountain-head to find
Whence flows salvation's stream?
Let peril, nakedness, and sword,
Hot, barren lands, and despot's word,
Our burning zeal oppose;
A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT. 133
Yet, martyr-like, we 'll lift the voice,
Bidding the wilderness rejoice,
And blossom as the rose.
Sad, faint, and weary, on the sand
Our traveller sat him down; his hand
Covered his burning head;
Above, beneath, behind, around,
No resting for the eye he found;
All nature seemed as dead.
One tiny tuft of moss alone,
Mantling with freshest green a stone,
Fixed his delighted gaze;
Through bursting tears of joy he smiled,
And, while he raised the tendril wild,
His lips o'erflowed with praise.
O, shall not He who keeps thee green,
Here in the waste, unknown, unseen,
Thy fellow-exile save?
He who commands the dew to feed
Thy gentle flower can surely lead
Me from a scorching grave.
The heaven-sent plant new hope inspired,
New courage all his bosom fired,
And bore him safe along,-
Till, with the evening's cooling shade,
He slept within the verdant glade,
Lulled by the negro's song.
Thus we, in this world's wilderness,
Where sin and sorrow, guilt, - distress,
Seem undisturbed to reign,
LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.
May faint because we feel alone,
With none to strike our favorite tone,
And join our homeward strain.
Yet often, in the bleakest wild
•
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Of this dark world, some heaven-born child,
Expectant of the skies,
Amid the low and vicious crowd,
Or in the dwellings of the proud,
Meets our admiring eyes.
From gazing on the tender flower,
We lift our eye to Him whose power
Hath all its beauty given;
Who in this atmosphere of death
Hath given it life, and form, and breath,
And brilliant hues of heaven.
Our drooping faith, revived by sight,
Anew her pinions plumes for flight,
New hope distends the breast;
With joy we mount on eagle wing,
With bolder tone our anthem sing,
And seek the pilgrim's rest.
LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. -
Mrs. Hemans.
THE breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tost;
LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear,
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang,
And the stars heard and the sea!
And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang
To the anthems of the free!
The ocean-eagle soared
From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared, This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim-band; —
Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.
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