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One, who strove darkly sorrow's sob to stay, ..
Upraised the body. Thrice I bade him stay ;
For still my wordless woe had much to say,
And still I bent and gazed, and gazing wept.
At last my sisters, with humane constraint,
Held me, and I was calm as dying saint;
While that stern weeper lowered into the sea
My ill-starred boy! Deep-buried deep, he slept !
And then I looked to heaven in agony,
And prayed to end my pilgrimage of pain,
That I might meet my beauteous boy again!
Oh, had he lived to reach this wretched land,
And then expired, I would have bless'd the strand !
But where my poor boy lies I may not lie;
I cannot come, with broken heart, to sigh
O'er his loved dust, and strew with flowers his turf-
His pillow hath no cover but the surf;
I may not pour the soul-drop from mine eye
Near his cold bed : he slumbers in the wave ! -
Oh! I will love the sea, because it is his grave!



It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun ;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild, Wilhelmine,

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh“ 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, “Who fell in the great victory.

I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about ; And often, when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out : For many a thousand men,” said he, "Were slain in that great victory.” —

“Now tell us what 'twas all about,”

Young Peterkin he cries ; And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes : “Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for.”

“It was the English,” Kaspar cried,

“Who put the French to rout; But what they killed each other for,

I could not well make out: But everybody said," quoth he, “ That 'twas a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by.
They burned his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly :
So with his wife and child he fled ;
Nor had he where to rest his head.

With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then

And new-born baby died :
But things like that, you know, must be,
At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won ;
For many thousand bodies there

Lay rotting in the sun :
But things like that, you know, must be,
After a famous victory.

Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

And our good Prince Eugene.”— “Why, 'twas a very wicked thing !”

Said little Wilhelmine. “Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, “It was a famous victory; And everybody praised the Duke,

Who such a fight did win.”— “But what good came of it at last?

Quoth little Peterkin.“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, “But 'twas a famous victory.”



NAPOLEON's banners at Boulogne

Armed in our island every freeman ; His navy chanced to capture one

Poor British seaman.

They suffered him I know not how

Unprisoned on the shore to roam ; And aye was bent his longing brow

On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight

Of birds to Britain half way over,
With envy they could reach the white

Dear cliffs of Dover.
A stormy midnight watch, he thought,

Than this sojourn would have been dearer, If but the storm his vessel brought

To England nearer.

At last, when care had banished sleep,

He saw one morning-dreaming-doating, An empty hogshead from the deep

Come shoreward floating.

He hid it in a cave, and wrought

The livelong day laborious; lurking Until he launched a tiny boat

By mighty working.

Heaven help us ! 'twas a thing beyond

Description wretched : such a wherry
Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond,

Or crossed a ferry.
For ploughing in the salt sea field,

It would have made the boldest shudder ; Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,

No sail-no rudder !

From neighbouring woods he interlaced

His sorry skiff with wattled willows; And thus equipped he would have passed

The foaming billows

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,

His little Argo sorely jeering;
Till tidings of him chanced to reach

Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood,

Serene alike in peace and danger, And in his wonted attitude

Addressed the stranger :

“Rasb man, that wouldst yon Channel pass

On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned ! Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassioned.”—

“I have no sweetheart,” said the lad;

"But, absent long from one another, Great was the longing that I had

To see my mother.”—

"And so thou shalt !” Napoleon said;

“Ye've both my favour fairly won : A noble mother must have bred

So brave a son.”---

He gave the tar a piece of gold,

And with a flag of truce commanded
He should be shipped to England Old,

And safely landed.
Our sailor oft could scantily shift

To find a dinner plain and hearty ;
But never changed the coin and gift

Of Bonaparte.



THERE is a flower, a little flower,

With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour,

And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field

In gay but quick succession shine; Race after race their honours yield, —

They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to Nature dear,

While moon and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year,

Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,

To sultry August spreads its charms;
Lights pale October on his way,

And twines December's arms.

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