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Star of the deep! at that blest name
The waves sleep silent round the keel,
The tempests wild their fury tame

That made the deep's foundations reel;
The soft celestial accents steal

So soothing through the realms of woe,
The newly damned a respite feel
From torture, in the depths below.
Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the mild and placid seas,
Whom rain-bow rays of mercy crown,
Whose name thy faithful Portugueze,
O'er all that to the depths go down,
With hymns of grateful transport own;
When gathering clouds obscure their light,
And heaven assumes an awful frown,
The Star of Ocean glitters bright.
Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the deep! when angel lyres
To hymn thy holy name essay,

In vain a mortal harp aspires
To mingle in the mighty lay!
Mother of God! one living ray
Of hope our grateful bosoms fires,

When storms and tempests pass away,

To join the bright immortal quires.
Ave Maris Stella!


W. S. Roscoe.

VALE of the cross, the shepherds tell
"Tis sweet within thy woods to dwell,
For there are sainted shadows seen
That frequent haunt thy dewy green;
In wandering winds the dirge is sung,
The convent bell by spirits rung,
And matin hymns and vesper pray'r
Break softly on the tranquil air.

Vale of the Cross, the shepherds tell
'Tis sweet within thy woods to dwell,
For peace hath there her spotless throne
And pleasure to the world unknown;
The murmur of the distant rills
The sabbath silence of the hills,

And all the quiet God hath giv'n
Without the golden gates of heav'n.


T. Moore.

HOW dear to me the hour when day-light dies

And sun-beams melt along the silent sea;

For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee!

And as I watch the line of light that plays

Along the smooth wave towards the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays,

And think 'twould lead to some bright Isle of rest!



ARE days of old familiar to thy mind,
O reader? hast thou let the midnight hour
Pass unperceived whilst thou in fancy lived
With high-born beauties and enamoured chiefs,
Sharing their hopes, and with a breathless joy
Whose expectation touched the verge of pain
Following their dangerous fortunes? If such love
Hath ever thrilled thy bosom, thou wilt tread
As with a Pilgrim's reverential thoughts
The groves of Penshurst.

Sidney here was born,

Sidney than whom no gentler, braver man
His own delightful genius ever feigned,

Illustrating the vales of Arcady

With courteous courage and with loyal loves.-
Upon his natal day the acorn here was planted
-It grew up a stately oak

And in the beauty of its strength it stood
And flourished, when his perishable part

Had mouldered dust to dust.

That stately oak itself hath mouldered

Now, but Sidney's fame

Endureth in his own immortal works.


T. Moore.

IT is not the tear at this moment shed

When the green turf has just been laid o'er him; That can tell how belov'd was the soul that's fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.

"Tis the tear thro' many a long day wept Thro' a life by his loss all shaded,

"Tis the sad remembrance fondly kept, When all lighter griefs have faded!

Oh! thus shall we mourn and his memory's light, While it shines thro' our hearts will improve them, For worth shall look fairer and truth more bright, When we think how he liv'd, but to love them.

And as buried saints the grave perfume,

Where fadeless they've long been lying;

So our hearts shall borrow a sweet'ning bloom
From the image he left there in dying!

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ART thou a Patriot, Traveller? on this field
Did FALKLAND fall, the blameless and the brave,
Beneath a Tyrant's banners: dost thou boast
Of loyal ardour? HAMBDEN perished here,
The rebel HAMBDEN, at whose glorious name
The heart of every honest Englishman

Beats high with conscious pride. Both uncorrupt,
Friends to their common country both, they fought,
They died in adverse armies. Traveller!

If with thy neighbour thou shouldst not accord,
In charity remember these good men,

And quell each angry and injurious thought.




Enter this cavern, Stranger! the ascent
Is long and steep and toilsome; here awhile
Thou mayst repose thee from the noontide heat,
O'ercanopied by this arched rock that strikes
A grateful coolness: clasping its rough arms
Round the rude portal, the old ivy hangs

Its dark green branches down. No common spot
Receives thee, for the Power who prompts the song
Loves this secluded haunt. The tide below
Scarce sends the sounds of waters to thine ear;

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