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BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

205

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 look'd 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' blazę,
While the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amid 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 !

206

THE ORDER OF PROVIDENCE.

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!

Campbell.

THE ORDER OF PROVIDENCE.

All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul;
That, changed through all, and yet in all the same,
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame;
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees;
Lives through all life, extends through all extent ;
Spreads undivided, operates unspent;
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart;
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns,
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns;
To him no high, no low, no great, no small;
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.

Cease, then, nor order imperfection name :
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
Know thy own point: This kind, this true degree
Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee.
Submit.-In this or any other sphere,
Secure to be as bless'd as thou canst bear,
Safe in the hand of one disposing power,
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.
All nature is but art, unknown to thee;
All chance, direction, which thou canst not see;
All discord, harmony, not understood;
All partial evil, universal good.

Pope.

TO SLEEP.

O GENTLE Sleep! do they belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the brooding dove,
A captive never wishing to be free.
This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
A fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above,
Now on the water vex' with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience—no;
Hence I am cross and peevish as a child ;
And pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled :
O gentle creature ! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled !

Wordsworth.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

An me, my babe, my blossom, ah, my child,
My one sweet child, whom I shall see no more!
For now will cruel Ida keep her back,
And either she will die from want of care,
Or sicken with ill usage, when they say
The child is hers--for every little fault
The child is hers; and they will beat my girl,
Remembering her mother; O my flower!
Or they will take her, they will make her hard,
And she will pass me by in after-life
With some cold reverence, worse than were she dead.
Ill mother that I was to leave her there
To lag behind, scared by the cry they made,
The horror of the shame among them all;
But I will go and sit beside the doors,

208

THOUGHT OF A BRITON.

a

And make a wild petition night and day,

a
Until they hate to hear me like a wind
Wailing for ever, till they open to me,
And lay my little blossom at my feet-
My babe, my sweet Aglaia, my one child;
And I will take her up and go my way,
And satisfy my soul with kissing her.
Ah! what might that man not deserve of me,
Who gave me back my

child ? “Be comforted,”
Said Cyril, “ you shall have it :” but again
She veil'd her brows, and prone she sank, and so
Like tender things that, being caught, feign death,
Spoke not, nor stirred.

Alfred Tennyson.

THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION

OF SWITZERLAND.

Two voices are there one is of the sea,
One of the mountains—each a mighty voice:
In both, from age to age, thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty !
There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against him, but hast vainly striven ;
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmur's heard by thee,
Of one sweet bliss thine ear hath been berett:
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;
For, high-soul'd maid, what sorrow it would be
That mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful voice be heard by thee !

Wordsworth.

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

I'm wearing awa, Jean,
Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean;
I'm wearing awa, Jean,

To the land o' the leal.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean;
There's nae cauld there, Jean;
The day's aye fair, Jean,

In the land o' the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean;
Your task's ended now, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.
Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean;
She was baith guid and fair, Jean,
And we grudged her right sair

To the land o' the leal.

Jean;

Then dry that tearfu' ee,
My soul longs to be free, Jean,
And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal.
Now fare ye well, my ain Jean,
This world's care is vain, Jean;
We'll meet, and aye

be fain
In the land o' the leal.

Lady Nairne.

SONNETS TO LIBERTY.

I.

It is not to be thought of that the flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flow'd, “ with pomp of waters unwithstood"-

P

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