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A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,-
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea!
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black,-and now, the glee

Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
Heights, which appear as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted!
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,
Love was the very root of the fond rage
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then-departed!

Itself expired, but leaving them an age
Of years all winters !-war within themselves to wage!

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,
The mightiest of the storms hath ta’en his stand!
For here, not one, but many, make their play,
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand,
Flashing and cast around! of all the band,
The brightest through these parted hills hath forked
His lightnings, -as if he did understand,

That in such gaps as desolation worked,
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked.

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(SIR WALTER SCOTT.) William Pitt, son of the Earl of Chatham, was born in 1759, and died in 1806

Horatio Nelson, Viscount Nelson, was the son of a clergyman in Norfolk, and was born in 1758. He was killed at the battle of Trafalgar in 1805. Charles James Fox, son of the first Lord Holland, was born in 1748. He entered Parliament when only nineteen years of age. In the House of Commons he was the great opponent and rival of Mr. Pitt. He died in 1806, a few months after Mr. Pitt, beside whom he was buried in Westminster Abbey.

To mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings:
The genial call dead Nature hears,
And in her glory re-appears.

But, oh! my country's wintry state
What second spring shall renovate?
What powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike and the wise ;
The mind that thought for Britain's weal,
The hand that grasped the victor-steel ?
The vernal sun new life bestows
E’en on the meanest flower that blows;
But vainly, vainly may he shine,
Where glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine ;
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom,
That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallowed tomb !

Deep graved in every British heart, Oh! never let those names depart! Say to your sons,-Lo, here his? grave Who victor died on Gadite2 wave! To him, as to the burning levin, Short, bright, resistless course was given. Where'er his country's foes were found, Was heard the fated thunder's sound, Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, Rolled, blazed, destroyed,--and was no more.



Nor mourn ye less his perished worth,
Who bade the conqueror go forth,
And launched that thunderbolt of war
On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar ;&
Who, born to guide such high emprise,
For Britain's weal was early wise;
Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,
For Britain's sins, an early grave!
His worth, who, in his mightiest hour,
A bauble held the pride of power,
Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf,
And served his Albion for herself ;

· That is, Nelson. 2 That is, Spanish, from Gades, the ancient name of Cadiz. 3 Lightning.

4 Battle of the Nile, 1798. 5 Battle of Hafnia, that is, Copenhagen, 1801. 8 Battle of Trafalgar, 1805.

Who, when the frantic crowd amain
Strained at subjection's bursting rein,
O'er their wild mood full conquest gained, -
The pride, he would not crush, restrained,-
Showed their fierce zeal a worthier cause,
And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws.


Hadst thou but lived, though stript of power,
A watchman on the lonely tower,
Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,
When fraud and danger were at hand;
By thee, as by the beacon-light,
Our pilots had kept course aright;
As some proud column, though alone,
Thy strength had propped the tottering throne.
Now is the stately column broke,
The beacon-light is quenched in smoke,
The trumpet's silver sound is still,
The warder silent on the hill !

Oh! think how to his latest day,
When Death, just hovering, claimed his prey,
With Palinure's? unaltered mood,
Firm at his dangerous post he stood;
Each call for needful rest repelled,
With dying hand the rudder held,
Till, in his fall, with fateful sway
The steerage of the realm gave way!
Then, while on Britain's thousand plains
One unpolluted church remains,
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound,
But still upon the hallowed day
Convoke the swains to praise and pray ;
While faith and civil peace are dear,
Grace this cold marble with a tear,—
He who preserved them, Pitt, lies here !

1. Palinurus, the faithful pilot of Aeneas, who in devotion to his master's cause lost his life.


Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, Because his rival slumbers nigh; Nor be thy requiescat dumb, Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb:For talents mourn, untimely lost, When best employed, and wanted most; Mourn genius high and lore profound, And wit that loved to play, not wound; And all the reasoning powers divine, To penetrate, resolve, combine; And feelings keen and fancy's glow,They sleep with him who sleeps below. And, if thou mourn’st they could not save From error him who owns this grave, Be every harsher thought suppressed, And sacred be the last long rest. Here, where the end of earthly things Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings; Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung : Here, where the fretted aisles prolong The distant notes of holy song, As if some angel spoke again,

All peace on earth, good-will to men;" If ever from an English heart, Oh! here let prejudice depart, And, partial feeling cast aside, Record, that Fox a Briton died ! When Europe crouched to France's yoke, And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, And the firm Russian's purpose brave Was bartered by a timorous slave; E'en then dishonour's peace he spurned, The sullied olive-branch returned, Stood for his country's glory fast, And nailed her colours to the mast! Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave A portion in this honoured grave; And ne'er held marble in its trust Of two such wondrous men the dust.



(MRS. HEMANS.) Ivan the Great, Czar of Muscovy (1533 to 1584), was besieging Novgorod; but

as he was now old and enfeebled, his generals begged that he would give the command of the assault to his son. This proposal enraged him beyond measure; nothing would appease him; and his son having prostrated hiinself at his feet to seek pardon and reconciliation, the old man struck him with such violence that he died two days afterwards. The father was now inconsolable; he took no further interest in the war, and soon followed his son to

the grave.

He sat in silence on the ground,

The old and haughty czar;
Lonely, though princes girt him round,

And leaders of the war :
He had cast his jewelled sabre,

That many a field had won,
To the earth beside his youthful dead,

His fair and first-born son.


With a robe of ermine for its bed

Was laid that form of clay,
Where the light a stormy sunset shed

Through the rich tent made way :
And a sad and solemn beauty

On the pallid face came down,
Which the lord of nations mutely watched

In the dust, with his renown.

Low tones at last of woe and fear

From his full bosom broke;
A mournful thing it was to hear

How then the proud man spoke !
The voice that through the combat

Had shouted far and high,
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones,

Burdened with agony.
“There is no crimson on thy cheeks,

And on thy lip no breath;

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