Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, O let us keep the soul embalm'd and pure HORACE SMITH. VIII.-Ye Mariners of England. YE mariners of England, That guard our native seas; While the stormy tempests blow; The spirit of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, While the stormy tempests blow; Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep: With thunder from her native oak, She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, While the stormy tempests blow; The meteor flag of England Till danger's troubled night depart, When the storm has ceas'd to blow; CAMPBELL. IX.-Extracts from Burns. The Daisy.-Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem ; To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such fate to suffering worth is giv❜n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n To mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of every stay but Heav'n, He ruin'd, sink! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate That fate is thine-no distant date; Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom! Pleasures. But pleasures are like poppies spread, A moment white-then melts for ever; That flit ere you can point their place; ABard's Epitaph.-Is there a man, whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, Wild as the wave; Here, pause-and, thro' the starting tear, Survey this grave. The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, Reader, attend-whether thy soul In low pursuit ; Know, prudent, cautious, self-control, Is wisdom's root. X.-Hannibal on the Alps. He has toil'd to the Alpine brow, Still red from Saguntum's woe; Beneath is the eagle's nest, And clouds in dim wreaths curl'd; And his glances dart south, and east, and west, But life's flood in his bounding heart beats high, From the sands of the burning south How worthless with him is the thought of all, His warriors trail dark and slow, Up the peak where their leader stands; By defile and torrent they wind below,— Those daring heroic bands! They shall that fair land see, Where, marching o'er hill and plain, They will shout in delirium of victory, For Trebia and Thrasymene; And the conqueror conquering, in vengeful hour, Their country's wrath on the Roman pour. XI.-The Alps. C. REDDING. WHO first beholds the Alps-that mighty chain A sense, a feeling that he loses not, A something that informs him 'tis a moment Nearing them more and more, day after day, A strange delight, mingled with fear, came o'er me, For the first time! Great was the tumult there, Deafening the din, when in barbaric pomp Then tumbled headlong, swallow'd up and lost, ROGERS. Above me are the Alps, The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls Alps and other Mountains.—Once more upon the woody Apennine, The infant Alps, which-had I not before Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine The thundering lauwine-might be worshipp'd more; Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name; BYRON. |