Ye Mariners of England. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave ! For the deck it was their field of fame, Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, Britannia needs no bulwarks, 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 winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terriffic 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 light is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. CAMPBELL. 317 MEN OF ENGLAND. EN of England! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on land and flood: By the foes you've fought uncounted, Yet, remember, England gathers If the freedom of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same. What are monuments of bravery, Pageants!-Let the world revere us And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom's holy cause. Yours are Hampden's, Russel's glory, Worth a hundred Agincourts! The Irish Maiden's Song. We're the sons of sires that baffled Crowned and mitred tyranny :— They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights-so will we! CAMPBELL. 319 THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG. HOUGH lofty Scotia's mountains, Where savage grandeur reigns; Though bright be England's fountains, And fertile be her plains; When 'mid their charms I wander, Of thee I think the while, While many who have left thee, I call thee still, "Mavourneen," Fair as the glittering waters Thy emerald banks that lave, For their dear sakes I love thee, Thy shamrock ever green; May evil ne'er distress thee, But heaven for ever bless thee, My own green isle! BERNARD BARTON. LOWLINESS OF MIND. (WAS a summer morn, and the softened breeze Scarce ruffled the tiny flowers, As they lay half hid in the velvet grass Or nestled in leafy bowers. And a happy child was wandering there, And with a wild delight, Stooped down to pluck the violets sweet, Half hidden from his sight. And down he lay on that cushion green, For he loved them better than any flower And so do the wise and pure of heart, Esteem and love with a closer bond A lowly heart and mind. Pride. So does the Wise One who dwells above 321 IRNE. PRIDE. OW proud we are! how fond to show When the poor sheep and silk-worm wore That very clothing long before. The tulip and the butterfly Let me be dressed fine as I will, Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still. But let me seek and strive to find Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace, This never fades, it ne'er grows old, Nor fears the rain, nor moth, nor mould; It takes no spot, but still refines; The more 'tis worn, the more it shines. In this on earth would I appear, Then go to heaven and wear it there; 'Tis his own work, and his delight. |