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Ay, tear his body limb from limb,

Bring cord, or axe, or flame:
He only knows, that not through him

Shall England come to shame.
Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed,

Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed,

One sheet of living snow;,
The smoke, above his father's door,

In gray soft eddyings hung :
Must he then watch it rise no more,

Doomed by himself, so young ?
Yes, honour calls !— with strength like steel

He put the vision by ;
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel ;

An English lad must die.
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,

With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,

To his red grave he went.
Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed ;

Vain, those all-shattering guns ;
Unless proud England keep, untamed,

The strong heart of her sons.
So, let his name through Europe ring-

A man of mean estate,
Who died, as firm as Sparta's king

Because his soul was great.

THE OCEAN.-Byron. ROLL on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin-his control Stops with the shore ;-upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin'd, and unknown.


His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in som near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth :-there let him lay.
The Armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ;
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters washed them power while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts ;—not so Thou ;-
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play-
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving ;-boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of Eternity--the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made : each zone
Obeys thee : thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy
I wanton'd with thy breakers--they to me

Were a delight; And if the freshening sea
Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane-as I do herc.

GIBRALTAR.–Archbishop Trench. ENGLAND, we love thee better than we know And this I learned, when after wanderings long 'Mid people of another stock and tongue, I heard again thy martial music blow, And saw thy gallant children to and fro Pace, keeping ward at one of those huge gates, Which like twin giants watch the Herculean straits: When first I came in sight of that brave show, It made my very heart within me dance, To think that thou thy proud foot shouldst advance Forward so far into the mighty sea; Joy was it and exultation to behold Thine ancient standard's rich emblazonry, A glorious picture by the wind unrolled.

THE chief in silence strode before,
And reach'd that torrent's sounding shore,
Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,
From Vennachar in silver breaks,
Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines
On Bochastle the mouldering lines,
Where Rome, the Empress of the world,
Of yore her eagle-wings unfurld.
And here his course the Chieftain staid,
Threw down his target and his plaid,
And to the Lowland warrior said,

Bold Saxon! to his promise just,
Vich Alpine has discharged his trust.
This murderous Chief, this ruthless man,
This head of a rebellious clan,
Hath led thee safe through watch and ward,

Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard.
Now, man to man, and steel to steel,
A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.
See, here, all vantageless I stand,
Armed, like thyself, with single brand :
For this is Coilantogle ford,
And thou must keep thee with thy sword.'
The Saxon paused :—'I ne'er delayed,
When foeman bade me draw my blade ;
Nay, more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death :
Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,
And my deep debt for life preserv’d,
A better meed have well deserved.
Can nought but blood our feud atone?
Are there no means?' 'No, Stranger, none:
And hear, to fire thy flagging zeal,-
The Saxon cause rests on thy steel ;
For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred,
Between the living and the dead :
“Who spills the foremost foeman's life,
His party conquers in the strife.”'.
“Then, by my word,' the Saxon said,
“The riddle is already read.
Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff, -

There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff.
Thus Fate has solved her prophecy,
Then yield to Fate, and not to me.
To James, at Stirling, let us go,
When, if thou wilt be still his foe,
Or if the King shall not agree
To grant thee grace and favour free,
I plight mine honour, oath, and word,
That, to thy native strengths restored,
With each advantage shalt thou stand,
That aids thee now to guard thy land.'
Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye-
'Soars thy presumption then so high,
Because a wretched kern ye slew,
Homage to name to Roderick Dhu?
He yields not, he, to man nor Fate!
Thou add'st but fuel to my hate :-

My clansman's blood demands revenge.
Not yet prepared ? By heaven, I change
My thought, and hold thy valour light
As that of some vain carpet knight,
Who ill deserved my courteous care,
And whose best boast is but to wear
A braid of his fair lady's hair.'-
'I thank thee, Roderick, for the word ;
It nerves my heart, it steels my sword ;
For I have sworn this braid to stain
In the best blood that warms thy vein.
Now, truce, farewell! and, ruth, begone !--
Yet think not that by thee alone,
Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown ;
Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,
Start at my whistle clansmen stern,
Of this small horn one feeble blast
Would fearful odds against thee cast.
But fear not-doubt not-which thou wilt,
We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.'-
Then each at once his falchion drew,
Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
Each look'd to sun, and stream, and plain,
As what they ne'er might see again ;
Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,
In dubious strife they darkly closed.
Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,
That on the field his targe he threw,
Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide
Had death so often dashed aside ;
For, train'd abroad his arms to wield,
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.
He practised every pass and ward,
To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard ;
While less expert, though stronger far,
The Gael maintained unequal war.
Three times in closing strife they stood,
And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood ;
No stinted draught, no scanty tide,
The gushing flood the tartans dyed.
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,
And shower'd his blows like wintry rain :

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