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Again) again! again!

And the havock did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back ;—

Their shots along the deep slowly boom:

Then ceas'd—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 blest 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 fun'ral light

Died away.—

Now joy, old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
While the wine cup shines in light;
And yet amidst 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 :*

Soft sigh the winds of heav'n o'er their grave t

While the billow mournfully rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!—

* Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good, by Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his dispatches.

POOR SUSAN.

Wordsworth*

AT the corner of Wood-street, when day-light appears,
There's a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only Dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.

BEMEMBRANCE.

Southey.

Man hath a weary pilgrimage

As thro' the world he wends;
On every stage from youth to age

Still discontent attends:
With heaviness he casts his eye

Upon the road before,
And still remembers with a sigh

The days that are no more.

To school the little exile goes
Torn from his mother's arms",

What then shall soothe his earliest woes,
When novelty hath lost its charms?

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Condemn'd to suffer thro' the day
Restraints which no rewards repay,

And cares where love has no concent, Hope lightens as she count the hours

That hasten his return.
From hard oontroul and tyrant rules
The unfeeling discipline of schools,

The child's sad thoughts will roam,
And tears will struggle in his eye
While he remembers with a sigh

The comforts of his home.

Youth comes; the toils and cares of life

Torment the restless mind;
Where shall the tired and harrass'd heart

Its consolation find?
Then is not Youth as Fancy tells

Life's summer prime of joy?
Ah no! for hopes too long delayed
And feelings blasted or betrayed,

The fabled bliss destroy,
And he remembers with a sigh
The careless days of Infancy.

Matnrer manhood now arrives
And other thoughts come on,

But with the baseless hopes of youth
Its generous warmth is gone;

Cold calculating cares succeed,

The timid thought the weary deed,

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The dull realities of truth;
Back on the past he turns his eye
Remembering with an envious sigh

The happy dreams of youth.

So reaches he the latter stage
Of this our mortal pilgrimage

With feeble step and slow;
New ills that latter stage await
And old experience learns too late

That all is vanity below.
Life's vain delusions are gone by,

Its idle hopes are o'er,
Yet Age remembers with a sigh

The days that are no more.

COME REST IN THIS BOSOM.

T. Moore.

v/cOME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer!

Tho' the herd have-fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast,
And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Thro'joy and thro' torments, thro' glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not if guilt's in that heart
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!

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