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« You drank of the Well I warrant betimes ?45

He to the Cornish-man said: But the Cornish-man smiled as the Stranger spake,

And sheepishly shook his head. “I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my Wife in the porch;

50 But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church.”

SOUTHEY.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moon-beams' misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;

10 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the strangerwould tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

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Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-
But little he 'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,

25 When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun,

That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory; 30 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stoneBut left him alone with his glory!

WOLFE.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

A NAVAL ODE.

Ye Mariners of England !

That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirits of your

fathers
Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave:

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Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 15

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.

20 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,

25 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.

30 The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of

peace

return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors !

35 Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

40 CAMPBELL.

TO THE RAINBOW.

TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky,

When storms prepare to part,

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I ask not proud Philosophy

To teach me what thou art.-
Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,

A midway station given
For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that optics teach, unfold

Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold

Hid in thy radiant bow?
When Science from Creation's face

Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place

To cold material laws!
And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,

But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams

Was woven in the sky.
When o'er the green undeluged earth

Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's grey

fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign! And when its yellow lustre smiled

O’er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child

To bless the bow of God. Methinks thy jubilee to keep,

The first-made anthem rang On earth deliver'd from the deep,

And the first poet sang.

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Nor ever shall the Muse's eye

Unraptured greet thy beam: Theme of primeval prophecy,

35 Be still the prophet's theme! The earth to thee her incense yields,

The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshen'd fields
The snowy mushroom springs.

40 How glorious is thy girdle, cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,

A thousand fathoms down!
As fresh in

yon
horizon dark,

45 As young thy beauties seem As when the eagle from the ark

First sported in thy beam:
For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,

50 Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man.

CAMPBELL.

ON PRAYER.
PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire,

Utter'd or unexprest;
The motion of a hidden fire

That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burden of a sigh,

The falling of a tear;
The upward glancing of an eye,

When none but God is near.

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