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the highest honour on the poet, and the air on the composer. They are each grand, harmonious, and inspiring. The music without the words is never heard without enthusiasm; and the words cannot be read without exciting an elevated feeling of national pride. They are much less known than "God save the King," and we may therefore extract them without impropriety.

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More dreadful, from each foreign stroke :
As the loud blast that tears the skies,
Serves but to root thy native oak.
"Rule," &c.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame:
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame;
But work their woe, and thy renown.
66 Rule,"
" &c.

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine:
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine.
"Rule," &c.

The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair:

"Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown'd,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves."

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There is another very beautiful, though less popular song, of the same character,- Britain's best Bulwarks are her Wooden Walls." One of our most animating compositions of a warlike nature is, "Britons, strike home!" It was first performed in the tragedy of "Queen Boadicea, or the British Heroine," in 1696. The music is by an eminent composer, Henry Purcell. The following are the words :

"To arms, to arms, your ensigns straight display,
Now set the battle in array ;-

The oracle for war declares,

Success depends upon our hearts and spears.

Britons, strike home, revenge your country's wrongs;
Fight and record yourselves in Druids' songs."

It is affirmed that the music of this song was played, as the great Marlborough led his troops to the attack, at the battle of Blenheim. We were present on an occasion when it was performed under very peculiar circumstances. It was in 1805, when the alarm of French invasion was general, and the national spirit was called forth in the most zealous preparations to defend our altars and our homes; and when the great Nelson was in search of the combined fleets previous to the battle of Trafalgar. Our late patriotic Monarch was walking on Windsor Terrace. He was surrounded by all ranks of his subjects. The military band were about "Rule Briplay bout to tannia," when the King stepped up to them, and with a loud voice called out, "No, no, let us first have Britons, strike home." The air was immediately played, and it seemed as if it strengthened the bonds of affection and fidelity between the Sovereign and the people.

A great portion of the Patriotic Songs of England have reference to her character as a maritime nation. These allusions not only preserve amongst the people generally a habit of referring to the great cause of our national triumphs, but they keep alive amongst the seamen those proud and heroic feelings sustain their superiority in the day of battle. A sailor's life is one of intermitting hardship and leisure; and it is natural that in the pauses of his duty he should relieve the monotony of his situation by those songs, which recal the idea of his home or of his love, or give him confidence in his painful though glorious career of exertion. Our language possesses abundance of ballads peculiarly suited to the simplicity of a seaman's affection, and of these some are exquisitely beautiful; but it is not our object to remark on them. We may perhaps happily close this hasty notice of a very interesting subject, by the following beautiful adaptation of modern words to a fine old air, "Ye Mariners of England." This noble song is by Thomas Campbell, Esq. a living poet of the first excellence :

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YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

Ye Mariners of England,

That guard our native seas;

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Whose flag has brav'd, a thousand years, via

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow ;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

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Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak,

She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till Danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceas'd to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceas'd to blow.

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EDITOR-K.

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In the neighbourhood of a small town in the south of England there came to dwell, some years ago, a young mother, whose family consisted of a boy six years old, and a lovely little girl three years younger. She was a stranger to the inhabitants; and there was about her something of mystery, which the uncharitable interpreted to her disadvantage, and which prevented even the kindly-disposed from warmly interesting themselves in her fortune. Her name was Mary Williams.

Mary Williams lived for some time unknown and unnoticed. She intimated her wish to maintain her family by receiving the children of her neighbours to instruct in the rudiments of education and in their Christian duties: but no pupils presented themselves. She desired to be employed as a seamstress; but no work was offered her. Mary saw her little savings visibly declining; she sometimes looked upon her children with a sad foreboding, and wiped the secret and unbidden tear from her sunken eye.

The inmates of the cottages which surrounded her little dwelling were excessively curious to know the history of Mary Williams. She was seldom seen in the day-time, for she was employed in instructing her little boy, who was docile and industrious; or she was endeavouring to conceal the approaches of poverty by additional care in the preservation of their humble garments. She and her children were still ever neat and clean. But on a summer evening she sat in the garden in front of her door, and, listening to the prattle of her loved ones, endeavoured to forget the cares which had removed the bloom of youth from her cheek. It t was at this hour of repose that the gossips would sometimes come around her. Their manifest intention was to break through the reserve which she had resolved to maintain. They sometimes made her feel bitterly; but she was not uncivil to them; and they generally went home with an impression that Mary Williams was a strange young woman, bu that there was no harm in her.

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Mary still wanted employment. The full difficulties of her situation now became visible to her. A few shillings only remained to provide for the necessities of the passing week. But she had still the comfort of feeling that she had not been improvident, and the 986 auth wash 9:01)

equal satisfaction of knowing that she was not in debt. Her spirit did not sink; for she had been accustomed to place a firm reliance on the mercy of the Most High; and she looked for a sure relief to the Almighty Protector of the widowed and the fatherless.

On the day that her last shilling only remained to her, Mary Williams determined to make a more strenuous effort to procure work as a seamstress. Should this fail, her only resource was to engage herself as a servant, and bestow all her earnings upon her children. But she dreaded a separation. She therefore resolved to conquer her natural timidity, and to solicit that assistance which she felt that she could honestly ask. She stated her case to several tradesmen. Their first question was, 661 are you a widow ?"—she could only answer by her tears. The conclusion was, that her chil dren were illegitimate, and that she was unworthy. She returned home without success, and almost heart-broken. For the first time she sat down and sobbed aloud in the presence of her children.

Her little Susan clung around with unconscious indifference ;-but her Henry felt and shared her grief. "Mother," he said," you have told us that God will take care of us, and why do you cry?" "My dear boy, that is the last loaf of bread I have the power to procure, and must I see you starve, my children, O my children?" "My dear mother, that is sufficient for to-day, and God will take care of tomorrow." The afflicted parent remembered the promises of Scrip ture ; she kissed her children, and wiping her tears, fell on her knees, and silently prayed for a short space. She then turned to her Bible and read aloud the sixth chapter of Matthew. She confided in the promises of her Redeemer, and laid herself down to sleep in the tranquillity of innocence and of faith.

In the morning Mary rose with a resigned heart. She had sufficient left for the first meal of her household; and she sat down to her scanty fare with thankfulness, in the assurance that her hea venly Father," who "feedeth the fowls of the air," would supply their future wants. They had scarcely breakfasted, when a lady of mild and benevolent appearance entered the cottage. "I have heard," said she, "of your necessities and your desires. But I love sincerity; let me know your history without reserve, and if you are deserving, you will not want a friend."

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There was something in the manner of this kind visitor that told Mary Williams she had no idle curiosity to shrink from; she felt that her prayers had been heard. Dismissing her children, she respectfully requested the lady to be seated, and in a faultering voice commenced her narrative. She was a woman of good sense and strong feeling; she spoke from her heart, and she therefore at once produced conviction, and obtained pity.

Oh, Madam!" she said, "I have perhaps been wrong in keeping my sorrows to myself, and in thus exposing myself and my poor children to want, it may be, to reproach; but though I blush not for my own crimes, I blush for the fault of one I loved, the father of those dear little ones. I was the only daughter of a decent trades

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