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Yet prophet-like that lone one stood,

With dauntless words and high, That shook the sear leaves from the wood

As if a storm passed by, Saying, We are twins in death, proud sun! Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears

That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth

His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth

The vassals of his will ?
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrownéd king of day;

For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang
Healed not a passion or a pang

Entailed on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again:
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe,
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,

Like grass beneath the scythe.

yon skies

Even I am weary

in To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sunless agonies,

Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath

To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of nature spreads my pall, The majesty of Darkness shall

Receive my parting ghost !

This spirit shall return to Him

Who gave its heavenly spark ;
Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim

When thou thyself art dark !
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,

By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of victory,

And took the sting from death!

Go, sun, while mercy holds me up,

On nature's awful waste,
To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste,
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race

On earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his immortality,

Or shake his trust in God !

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

Bry-tan'ni-a, Great Britain. bul' warks, forts.

launch, Aling out.
oak, war-ships.

Ye mariners of England!

Who 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 tempests blow;
While the battle rages long and loud,

And the stormy tempests 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 tempests blow;
While the battle rages long and loud,

And the stormy tempests 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 tempests blow;
When the battle rages long and loud,

And the stormy tempests 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.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

ar-ray', order in regular lines. fain, gladly.

pallet, rude couch.
truce, cessation of hostilities.

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,

Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track: 'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young: I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore

From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart, —

“Stay, stay with us ! rest, thou art weary and worn!”

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear— melted away.

THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND."

hor'rid, inspiring fear.

pu-is'sant, mighty. pan'dours, Hungarian foot-soldiers. Sar-ma'tia, (-shyah), Poland. pre-sag'ing, foreboding, foretelling. Itoc'sin, an alarm-bell.

O SACRED Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to northern wars Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars;

| From Pleasures of Hope.

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