ENGLAND'S DEAD. SON of the ocean isle! Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed. Go, stranger! track the deep, Free, free, the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead. On Egypt's burning plains, By the pyramid o'ersway'd, With fearful power the noon-day reigns, And the palm-trees yield no shade. But let the angry sun From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done! There slumber England's dead. The hurricane hath might Along the Indian shore, And far, by Ganges' banks at night, Is heard the tiger's roar. But let the sound roll on! It hath no tone of dread For those that from their toils are gone; Loud rush the torrent-floods And free, in green Columbia's woods, The hunter's bow is strung. But let the floods rush on! Let the arrow's flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done? There slumber England's dead! The mountain-storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky, Like rose-leaves on the breeze. But let the storm rage on! Let the forest-wreaths be shed! For the Roncesvalles' field is won, There slumber England's dead. On the frozen deep's repose "Tis a dark and dreadful hour, When round the ship the ice-fields close, To chain her with their power. But let the ice drift on! Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done, There slumber England's dead. The warlike of the isles, The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles, Go, stranger! track the deep, Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead. TO THE MEMORY OF BISHOP HEBER. Ir it be sad to speak of treasures gone, Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard? Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower? -Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn'd Of Heaven they were, and thither have return'd. How shall we mourn thee?-With a lofty trust, Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love, And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier, One strain of solemn rapture be allow'd— Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career, Not to decay, but unto death, hast bow'd: In those bright regions of the rising sun, Where victory ne'er a crown like thine had won. Praise for yet one more name with power endow'd, Thine, Heber, thine! whose memory from the dead, |