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,
The seas and shores their grave?

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.

If it be sad to speak of treasures gone,
Of sainted genius called too soon away,
Of light, from this world taken, while it shone
Yet kindling onward to the perfect day;-
How shall our griefs, if these things mournful be,
Flow forth, oh! thou of many gifts, for thee?

Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard?
And that deep soul of gentleness and power,
Have we not felt its breath in every word,

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,
Our life's immortal birthright from above!
With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just,

Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love,

And yet can weep!-for nature thus deplores

The friend that leaves us, though for happier shores.

And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier,
One strain of solemn rapture be allowed—
Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career,

Not to decay, but unto death, hast bowed:
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 endowed,
To cheer and guide us, onward as we press;
Yet one more image, on the heart bestowed,

To dwell there, beautiful in holiness!

Thine, Heber, thine! whose memory from the dead, Shines as the star which to the Saviour led.

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

CHILD, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;

Mother, with thine earnest eye

Ever following silently;

Father, by the breeze of eve
Call'd thy harvest-work to leave;
Prayere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Traveller, in the stranger's land
Far from thine own household band;

Mourner, haunted by the tone

Of a voice from this world gone ;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;

Sailor, on the darkening sea—

Lift the heart and bend the knee!