With many a stroke and strong

The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars, And yet the eye beheld them labouring long Between thy winding shores.

Now down thine ebbing tide The unlabour'd boat falls rapidly along; The solitary helmsman sits to guide, And sings an idle song.

Now o'er the rocks that lay
So silent late the shallow current roars ;
Fast flow thy waters on their sea-ward way,
Through wider-spreading shores.

Avon! I gaze and know

The lesson emblem'd in thy varying way;
It speaks of human joys that rise so slow,
So rapidly decay.

Kingdoms which long have stood,

And slow to strength and power attain'd at last, Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood Ebb to their ruin fast.

Thus like thy flow appears

Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage;
Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years
Then hasten to old age!

THE VICTORY.

HARK, how the church bells' thundering harmony
Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come,—
Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships
Met on the element;-they met, they fought
A desperate fight !—good tidings of great joy!
Old England triumph'd!-yet another day
Of glory for the ruler of the waves!

For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause, They have their passing paragraphs of praise, And are forgotten!

There was one who died

In that day's glory, whose obscurer name
No proud historian's page will chronicle.

Peace to his honest soul! I read his name,—
'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God
The sound was not familiar to mine ear.
But it was told me, after, that this man
Was one whom lawful violence had forced
From his own home, and wife, and little ones,
Who by his labour lived; that he was one
Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel
A husband's love,—a father's anxiousness;
That, from the wages of his toil, he fed
The distant dear ones, and would talk of them
At midnight, when he trod the silent deck
With him he valued ;-talk of them, of joys
Which he had known,-oh God! and of the hour
When they should meet again, till his full heart,
His manly heart, at last would overflow—
Even like a child's-with very tenderness.
Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly
It came, and merciful the ball of death,—
For it came suddenly and shatter'd him,
And left no moment's agonizing thought
On those he loved so well..

He, ocean deep,

Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter

Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know What a cold sickness made her blood run back

When first she heard the tidings of the fight:

Man does not know with what a dreadful hope
She listened to the names of those who died:
Man does not know,-or, knowing, will not heed,—
With what an agony of tenderness

She gazed upon her children, and beheld

His image who was gone. O God! be Thou,

Who art the widow's friend, her comforter!

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

Ir was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;

He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

'Tis some poor fellow's scull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory."

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I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about; "And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out! "For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries;
While little Wilhelmine looks up,
With wonder-waiting eyes;

"Now tell us all about the war,

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
"But what they kill'd each other for,
16 I could not well make out.

"But every body said," quoth he,

My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by ;

"They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

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And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide;

And many a childing mother then,

"And new-born baby died;

'But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking sight

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After the field was won;

"For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

"But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

"And our good prince Eugene."

Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"

Said little Wilhelmine.

Nay-nay-my little girl," quoth he,

"It was a famous victory.

And every body prais'd the Duke
"Who this great fight did win."
But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin.

Why, that I cannot tell," said he,
But 'twas a famous victory."

TO A BEE.

THOU wert out betimes, thou busy, busy Bee!
As abroad I took my early way,
Before the cow from her resting-place
Had risen up and left her trace
On the meadow, with dew so grey,
Saw I thee, thou busy, busy Bee.

Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee!
After the fall of the Cistus flower;

When the Primrose of evening was ready to burst,
I heard thee last, as I saw thee first;
In the silence of the evening hour,
Heard I thee, thou busy, busy Bee.

Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy Bee!
Late and early at employ;

Still on thy golden stores intent,

Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent What thy winter will never enjoy;

Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy Bee!

Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy Bee!
What is the end of thy toil.

When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,
And all thy work for the year is done,
Thy master comes for the spoil :
Woe then for thee, thou busy, busy Bee!

SONNET.

O GOD! have mercy in this dreadful hour
On the poor mariner ! in comfort here
Safe shelter'd as I am, I almost fear
The blast that rages with resistless power.

What were it now to toss upon the waves, The madden'd waves, and know no succour near; The howling of the storm alone to hear,

And the wild sea that to the tempest raves : To gaze amid the horrors of the night, And only see the billow's gleaming light; And in the dread of death to think of her, Who, as she listens, sleepless, to the gale, Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale?

O God! have mercy on the mariner!