« AnteriorContinuar »
130 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
"There scattered oft, the earliest of the year,
The redbreast loves to build and warble there,
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
Heaven did a recompense as largely send; — He gave to misery all he had, — a tear;
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.
No further seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
YE MARINERS OP ENGLAND. —Campbell
Ye Mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
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,v And the stormy tempests blow.
The spirit of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow, —
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow.
Britannia needs no bulwark, —
No towers along the steep;
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 ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.
132 A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT.
ON MUNGO PARK'S FINDING A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT. — Edinburgh Christian Herald.
The sun had reached its midday height,
On Afric's burning land;
Was filled with glowing sand.
No mighty rock upreared its head
In all the weary plain;
But one wide, sandy main.
Dauntless and daring was the mind
Those deserts to explore;
In wilds untrod before.
And, ah! shall we less daring show,
Than ever heroes dream;
Whence flows salvation's stream?
Let peril, nakedness, and sword,
A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT. 133
Yet, martyr-like, we '11 lift the voice,
And blossom as the rose.
Sad, faint, and weary, on the sand
Covered his burning head;
All nature seemed as dead.
One tiny tuft of moss alone,
Fixed his delighted gaze;
His lips o'erflowed with praise.
O, shall not He who keeps thee green,
Thy fellow-exile save?
Me from a scorching grave.
The heaven-sent plant new hope inspired,
And bore him safe along,—
Lulled by the negro's song.
Thus we, in this world's wilderness,
134 LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.
May faint because we feel alone,
And join our homeward strain.
Yet often, in the bleakest wild
Of this dark world, some heaven-born child,
Expectant of the skies,
Meets our admiring eyes.
From gazing on the tender flower,
Hath all its beauty given;
And brilliant hues of heaven.
Our drooping faith, revived by sight,
New hope distends the breast;
And seek the pilgrim's rest.
LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.
The breaking waves dashed high
And the woods against a stormy sky