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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 !
And we conquer but to save :-
So peace instead of death let us bring ;
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our King:-

Then Denmark bless'd our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose ;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As death withdrew his shades from the day.
While the sun looked smiling bright
O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

Now joy, Old England, raise !
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died
With the gallant good Riou ;
Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!-

* 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,
Cut from the living rock,

And graved in Paradise :
Set round with three times eight

Large diamonds, clear and bright,
And each with sixty smaller ones,

All changeful as the light.
Lost-where the thoughtless throng

In Fashion's mazes wind,
Where trilleth folly's song,

Leaving a string behind.
Yet to my hand 'twas given,

A golden harp to buy,
Such as the white-robed choir attune

To deathless minstrelsy.
Lost! lost ! lost !

I feel all search is vain :
That gem of countless cost

Can ne'er be mine again :
I offer no reward

For till these heartstrings sever,
I know that Heaven's entrusted gift

Is reft away for ever.
But when the sea and land,

Like burning scroll have fled,
I'll see it in His hand,

Who judgeth quick and dead ;
And when of scathe and loss

That man can ne'er repair,
The dread enquiry meets my soul,
What shall it answer there?

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O ENGLAND ! model to thy inward greatness,
Like little body with a mighty heart,
What might'st thou do, that honour would thee do
Were all thy children kind and natural.-Shakspeare

H

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

we,

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,
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
Communion with his Maker. These din vaults,
These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride
Report not. No fantastic carvings show
The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of thy fair works. But thou art here-thou fill'st
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds,
That run along the summit of these trees
In music ; thou art in the cooler breath
That, from the inmost darkness of the place,
Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground,
The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee.
Here is continual worship-nature here,
In the tranquillity that thou dost love,
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around,
From perch to perch the solitary bird
Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs,
Wells softly forth, and wandering steeps the roots
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness, in these shades,
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace
Are here to speak of Thee. This mighty oak-
By whose immoveable stem I stand, and seem
Almost annihilated--not a prince,
In all that proud old world beyond the deep,
E’er wore his crown as loftily as he
Wears the green coronal of leaves, with which
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his feet
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower,
With scented breath, and look so like a smile,
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,
An emanation from the indwelling Life,
A visible token of the upholding Love,
That are the soul of this wide universe.
My heart is awed within me, when I think
Of the great miracle that still goes on
In silence round me--the perpetual work
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed

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