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Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A proud, though child-like form.
Without his Father's word ;
His voice no longer heard.
If yet my task be done ?"
Unconscious of his son.
“If I may yet be gone! And”—but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
And in his waving hair ;
In still, but brave despair.
“My Father! must I stay ?” While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They caught the flag on high,
Like banners in the sky.
The boy-oh! where was he?
With fragments strewed the sea !
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part-
Ye Mariners of England !
Britannia needs no bulwark,
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
and feast shall flow,
PRIDE, ugly pride, sometimes is seen
* This and the four following Poems are taken from Taylor's “Hymns for Infant Minds,” a book of which these extracts form a most inadequate specimen, and the whole of which ought to be in the hands of every child.
And while the looks are mild and fair,
Now if you really wish to find
any corner of your heart ?
Put all these questions to your heart,
AN EVENING HYMN.
LORD, I have passed another day,
And come to thank thee for thy care : Forgive my faults in work or play,
And listen to my evening prayer.
Thy favour gives me daily bread,
And friends, who all my wants supply; And safely now I rest my head,
Preserved and guarded by thine eye. Look down in pity, and forgive
Whate'er I've said or done amiss ; And help me, every day I live,
To serve thee better than on this.
Now, while I speak, be pleased to take
A helpless child beneath thy care ;