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BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.-Campbell. OF Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line : It was ten of April morn by the chime : As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death ; And the boldest held his breath, For a time.But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O’er the deadly space between. 'Hearts of oak! our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again ! again ! again ! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back ;Their shots along the deep slowly boom : Then ceased--and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail ; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom.Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave;
“Ye are brothers ! ye are men !
Then Denmark bless'd our chief,
Now joy, Old England, raise !
Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride
* Captain Riou, justly styled by Lord Nelson the gallant and the good.
THE LOST DAY.-Mrs. L. H. Sigourney.
LOST! lost ! lost!
A gem of countless price,
And graved in Paradise :
Large diamonds, clear and bright,
All changeful as the light.
In Fashion's mazes wind,
Leaving a string behind.
A golden harp to buy,
To deathless minstrelsy.
I feel all search is vain :
Can ne'er be mine again :
For till these heartstrings sever,
Is reft away for ever.
Like burning scroll have fled,
Who judgeth quick and dead ;
That man can ne'er repair,
O ENGLAND ! model to thy inward greatness,
ADVERSITY.-Shakspeare. SWEET are the uses of adversity ; Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head : And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
A FOREST HYMN.-Bryant. THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them--ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down, And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences That, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks that, high in heaven, Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, why Should
in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, at least Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn-thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in His ear. Father ! thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns; thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till at last they stood,
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,