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 hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

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

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 That the foe was 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.

116

OLD IRONSIDES.

OLD IRONSIDES.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon's roar;

The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood.
And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;

Nail to the mast her holy flag,
every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,

The lightning and the gale!

HOLMES.

118

SWEET HOME.

SWEET HOME.

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us here, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with else where.

Home, home, sweet home!

There's no place like home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain!
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly that came at my call;
Oh, give me sweet peace of mind, dearer than all !
Home, home, sweet home!

There's no place like home!

PAYNE

THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.

Sweet to the morning traveller

The song amid the sky,
Where, twinkling in the dewy light,

The skylark soars on high.

And cheering to the traveller

The gales that round him play,
When faint and heavily he drags
Along his noontide way.

And when beneath the unclouded sun

Full wearily toils he,

The flowing water makes to him

A soothing melody.

And when the evening light decays,
And all is calm around,

There is sweet music to his ear

In the distant sheep-bell's sound.

But, oh! of all delightful sounds
Of evening or of morn,

The sweetest is the voice of love

That welcomes his return.

SOUTHEY.