THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE.'
How sleep? the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod3
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,5
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
And dwell, a weeping hermit, there.

Collins.

(1) Montgomery has said, perhaps with some degree of pardonable exaggeration, that these stanzas "are almost unrivalled in the association of poetry with picture, pathos with fancy, grandeur with simplicity, and romance with reality." See "Lectures on Poetry," p. 200.

(2) How sleep, &c.-"Not," says Montgomery, "how sweetly, soundly, happily; for all these are included in the simple apostrophe,' How sleep the brave!""

(3) Sweeter sod--Why sweeter? Because of the moral interest associated with it, as the grave of those who died for their country.

(4) Fairy hands, forms unseen -These expressions, as well as the personifications of Honour and Freedom, refer to the influence which the memory of brave patriots diffuses over both the present and the future. The "fairy hands" and "forms unseen," are the feelings of gratitude, admiration, and pity, which affect the heart as mournful music does the ear.

(5) A pilgrim grey-A "pilgrim," because Honour comes from far-from other countries to visit the shrine; "grey," because in distant years to come their memory shall still survive.

(6) Freedom, &c.-Freedom repairs thither-to weep alone (" a weeping hermit") because they are his children; "awhile" only, because he has other children still alive, and because time heals sorrow.

(7) Hohenlinden-A village of Germany, about twenty miles from Munich, where General Moreau completely defeated the combined army of Austrians and Bavarians, on the 3rd of December, 1800.

(8) Iser, or Isar-a tributary of the Danube.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,1
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every
turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND;2

A NAVAL ODE.

YE Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!

(1) Hun-the Austrian force.

Campbell.

(2) This spirited lyric well deserves to take rank with "Rule Britannia" (see p. 190). The main blemish in both is the want of a specific recognition of Almighty power as the only source of our own.

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:
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 terrific 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 fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

Campbell.

THE MOTHER'S SACRIFICE.

"WHAT shall I render Thee, Father Supreme,
For thy rich gifts, and this the best of all ?"
Said a young mother, as she fondly watched
Her sleeping babe. There was an answering voice
That night in dreams :-

"Thou hast a little bud

Wrapt in thy breast, and fed with dews of love :
Give me that bud. "Twill be a flower in heaven."1
But there was silence. Yea, a hush so deep,
Breathless, and terror-stricken, that the lip
Blanched in its trance.

"Thou hast a little harp

How sweetly would it swell the angel's hymn:
Give me that harp." There burst a shuddering sob,
As if the bosom by some hidden sword

Was cleft in twain.

Morn came. A blight had struck

The crimson velvet of the unfolding bud;

The harp-strings rang a thrilling strain and broke-
And that young mother lay upon the earth,
In childless agony.

Again the voice

That stirred her vision:- "He who asked of thee
Loveth a cheerful giver." So she raised
Her gushing eyes, and, ere the tear-drop dried
Upon its fringes, smiled-and that meek smile,
Like Abraham's faith, was counted righteousness.

Mrs. Sigourney.

(1) This beautiful metaphor is also found in Coleridge's "Epitaph on an Infant:"

"Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade,

Death came with friendly care,
The opening bud to heaven conveyed,
And bade it blossom there."

SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW.1

THOUGH the torrents from their fountains
Roar down many a craggy steep,
Yet they find among the mountains
Resting-places calm and deep.

Clouds that love through air to hasten
Ere the storm its fury stills,
Helmet-like themselves will fasten
On the heads of towering hills.

What, if through the frozen centre
Of the Alps the chamois bound,
Yet he has a home to enter
In some nook of chosen ground.

And the sea-horse, though the ocean
Yield him no domestic cave,
Slumbers, without sense of motion,
Couched upon the rocking wave.

If on windy days the raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,
Not the less she loves her haven
In the bosom of the cliff.

The fleet ostrich till day closes
Vagrant over desert sands,
Brooding on her eggs reposes
When chill night that care demands.

Day and night my toils redouble,
Never nearer to the goal;

Night and day I feel the trouble
Of the Wanderer in

my soul.

Wordsworth.

(1) The legend of the wandering Jew is of great, but unknown, antiquity. He was, the fable informs us, Pilate's porter, and when the soldiers were dragging the Saviour out of the judgment-hall, struck him on the back, saying, “Go faster, Jesus, go faster; why dost thou linger?" upon which Christ said to him, "I indeed am going, but thou shalt tarry till I come." He was soon after converted, but the doom rested upon him, and even so lately as 1228, an Armenian bishop, visiting England, professed with all sincerity to have dined recently with the man. See Percy's "Reliques of Ancient English Poetry," vol. iii. p. 133.