"Here each proud column's bed

Hath been wet by weeping eyes,—
Hence! and bestow your dead

Where no wrong against him cries!"

Shame glow'd on each dark face

Of those proud and steel-girt men,
And they bought with gold a place
For their leader's dust e'en then.

A little earth for him

Whose banner flew so far!
And a peasant's tale could dim

The name, a nation's star!

One deep voice thus arose

From a heart which wrongs had rivenOh! who shall number those

That were but heard in Heaven?*

* For the particulars of this and other scarcely less remarkable circumstances which attended the obsequies of William the Conqueror, see Sismondi's Histoire des Français, vol. iv. p. 480.

THE SOUND OF THE SEA.

THOU art sounding on, thou mighty sea,

For ever and the same!

The ancient rocks yet ring to thee,
Whose thunders nought can tame.

Oh! many a glorious voice is gone,
From the rich bowers of earth,
And hush'd is many a lovely one
Of mournfulness or mirth.

The Dorian flute that sigh'd of yore
Along thy wave, is still;
The harp of Judah peals no more

On Zion's awful hill.

And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord
That breathed the mystic tone,

And the songs, at Rome's high triumphs pour'd,
Are with her eagles flown.

And mute the Moorish horn, that rang
O'er stream and mountain free,

And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang,
Hath died in Galilee.

But thou art swelling on, thou deep,
Through many an olden clime,
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep
Until the close of time.

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice
To every wind and sky,

And all our earth's green shores rejoice
In that one harmony.

It fills the noontide's calm profound,
The sunset's heaven of gold;
And the still midnight hears the sound,
Ev'n as when first it roll'd.

Let there be silence, deep and strange,
Where sceptred cities rose !

Thou speak'st of one who doth not change-
-So may our hearts repose.

CASABIANCA.*

#

THE boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form.

The flames roll'd on-he would not go,
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He call'd aloud-" Say, father, say
If yet my task is done?"

He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.

Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile), after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.

"Speak, Father!" once again he cried,

"If I may yet be gone!"

-And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll'd on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;

And look'd from that lone post of death,
In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,

"My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And stream'd above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound-
The boy-oh! where was he?
-Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strew'd the sea!

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part-

But the noblest thing that perish'd there,
Was that young faithful heart