Clime of the unforgotten brave!
Whose land, from plain to mountain cave,
Was freedom's home or glory's grave!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,

That this is all remains of thee?

LORD BYRON.

76. NAPOLEON AND THE YOUNG ENGLISH

I1

SAILOR.

LOVE contemplating-apart

From all his homicidal glory—
The traits that soften to our heart
Napoleon's story.

'Twas when his banners at Boulogne
Arm'd in our island every freeman,
His navy chanced to capture one
Poor British seaman.

They suffer'd him, I know not how,
Unprison'd on the shore to roam;
And aye was bent his youthful brow
On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight
Of birds to Britain, half way over,

With envy

they could reach the white

Dear cliffs of Dover.

A stormy midnight watch, he thought,
Than this sad state would have been dearer,
If but the storm his vessel brought

To England nearer.

At last, when care had banish'd sleep,
He saw one morning, dreaming, doating,
An empty hogshead from the deep
Come shoreward floating.

He hid it in a cave, and wrought
The live-long day, laborious, lurking,
Until he launch'd a tiny boat,
By mighty working.

Oh dear me! 'twas a thing beyond
Description such a wretched wherry,
Perhaps, ne'er ventured on a pond,
Or cross'd a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt sea field,
It would have made the boldest shudder;
Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd,-
No sail-no rudder.

From neighbouring woods he interlaced
His sorry skiff with wattled willows;
And thus equipp'd he would have pass'd
The foaming billows.

A French guard caught him on the beach,
His little Argo sorely jeering;

Till tidings of him chanced to reach
Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood,
Serene alike in peace and danger,
And, in his wonted attitude,

Address'd the stranger.

"Rash youth, that wouldst yon channel pass
On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd,
Thy heart with some sweet English lass
Must be impassion'd."

"I have no sweetheart," said the lad;
แ But, absent years from one another,
Great was the longing that I had
To see my mother."

"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said,
"You've both my favour justly won;
A noble mother must have bred
So brave a son."

He gave the tar a piece of gold,
And, with a flag of truce, commanded
He should be shipp'd to England old,
And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift
To find a dinner, plain and hearty;
But never changed the coin and gift
Of Buonaparte.

CAMPBELL.

77. THERE'S A GARDEN OF ROSES.

THERE'S a garden of roses by Bendamere's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;

In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream To sit 'midst the roses, and hear the birds' song.

That garden of roses I ne'er can forget;

But oft when alone in the spring of the year, I think "Is the nightingale singing there yet?

Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendamere?"

No! the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gather'd while freshly

they shone;

And a dew was distill'd from the flowrets, that gave The fragrance of summer, when summer was gone. Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,

An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus sweet to my heart, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendamere. T. MOORE.

78. NOON-TIDE.

P to the throne of God is borne

UP

The voice of praise at early morn;
And He accepts the punctual hymn,
Sung as the light of day grows dim.

Nor will He turn his ear aside
From holy offerings at noon-tide;
Then, here reposing, let us raise
A song of gratitude and praise.

What though our burden be not light,-
We need not toil from morn to night;
The respite of the mid-day hour
Is in the thankful creature's power.

Blest are the moments, doubly blest,
That, drawn from this our hour of rest,
Are with a ready heart bestow'd
Upon the service of our God!

Look up to heaven! th' industrious sun
Already half his race hath run:
He cannot halt or go astray,
But our immortal spirits may.
Lord! since his rising in the east,
If we have falter'd or transgress'd,
Guide from thy love's abundant source
What yet remains of this day's course.

Help with thy grace, through life's short day,
Our upward and our downward way;

And glorify for us the west,

When we shall sink to final rest.

WORDSWORTH.

79. THE DEATH OF MARMION.

[From MARMION.]

WITH fruitless labour, Clara bound,

And strove to staunch, the gushing wound:

The monk, with unavailing cares,

Exhausted all the Church's prayers:

Ever he said, that close and near

A lady's voice was in his ear,

And that the priest he could not hear,

For that she ever sung,

"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, "Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!” So the notes rung;