The hurricane hath might Along the Indian shore, And far, by Gunga's banks at night, But let the sound roll on! It hath no tone of dread For those that from their toils are gone!There slumber England's Dead. Loud rush the torrent-floods The western wilds among, And free, in green Columbia's woods, But let the floods rush on! Let the arrow's flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done?There slumber England's Dead. The mountain-storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky, Like rose-leaves on the breeze: 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 "T is 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 doneThere slumber England's Dead. The warlike of the isles! The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles, Go, stranger! track the deep, Free, free the white sail spread! MRS. HEMANS. EVENING. T' OUR tale.-The feast was over, the slaves gone, The lady and her lover left alone, The rosy flood of twilight's sky admired; Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea, That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee! Ave Maria! blessed be the hour! The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer. Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer! Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love! Ave Maria! may our spirits dare Look up to thine and to thy Son's above! Ave Maria! oh that face so fair! Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty doveWhat though 'tis but a pictured image strikeThat painting is no idol, 't is too like. Sweet hour of twilight!-in the solitude The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along: The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng, Which learn'd from this example not to fly From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye. Ob Hesperus! thou bringest all good things- Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart BYRON. FROM CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE HE that has sail'd upon the dark-blue sea, So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. And oh, the little warlike world within! And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. White is the glassy deck, without a stain, Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale! Thus loitering-pensive on the willing seas, The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like these! The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve! Or to some well-known measure featly move, rove. Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore, From mountain cliff to coast descending sombre down. "Tis night, when meditation bids us feel Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. Death hath but little left him to destroy! Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy? Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, |