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Ye Mariners of England.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave !

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,

Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

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.

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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,
By the glorious deeds ye've done,
Trophies captured-breaches mounted,
Navies conquered—kingdoms won!

Yet, remember, England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreath of fame,

If the freedom of your fathers

Glow not in your hearts the same.

What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail, in lands of slavery,
Trophied temples, arch and tomb?

Pageants!-Let the world revere us
For our people's rights and laws,

And the breasts of civic heroes

Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's, Russel's glory,
Sydney's matchless shade is yours,
Martyrs in heroic story,

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,
And seem of thee the fonder,
My own green isle !

While many who have left thee,
Seem to forget thy name,
Distance hath not bereft me
Of its endearing claim :
Afar from thee sojourning,
Whether I sigh or smile,

I call thee still, "Mavourneen,"
My own green isle !

Fair as the glittering waters

Thy emerald banks that lave,
To me thy graceful daughters,
Thy generous sons as brave.
Oh! there are hearts within thee
Which know not shame or guile,
And such proud homage win thee,
My own green isle !

For their dear sakes I love thee,
Mavourneen, though unseen;
Bright be the sky above thee,

Thy shamrock ever green;

May evil ne'er distress thee,
Nor darken nor defile,

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,
To gather the fragrant buds;

For he loved them better than any flower
Which the blossomed earth bestuds.

And so do the wise and pure of heart,
Of all the human kind,

Esteem and love with a closer bond

A lowly heart and mind.

Pride.

So does the Wise One who dwells above
Look down on the meek below,
And causes the fragrance of inward peace
Round the hearts of such to flow.

321

IRNE.

PRIDE.

OW proud we are! how fond to show
Our clothes, and call them rich and new;

When the poor sheep and silk-worm wore

That very clothing long before.

The tulip and the butterfly
Appear in gayer coats than I;

Let me be dressed fine as I will,

Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still.

But let me seek and strive to find
Inward adorning of the mind;

Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace,
These are the robes of richest dress.

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;
God will approve it in his sight

'Tis his own work, and his delight.

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