And the slight cadence of a whispered word And while I speak thou knowest if I smile, Yes, thou canst hear; and He Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung, And 'tis a lesson in our hearts to know, N. P. WILLIS. ENGLAND'S OAK. LET India boast its spicy trees, And France exult her vines to train Old England has a tree as strong, As worthy of a minstrel's song 'Tis not the yew-tree, though it lends Its greenness to the grave; Nor willow, though it fondly bends Nor birch, although its slender tress As graceful in its loveliness As maiden's flowing hair. 'Tis not the poplar, though its height May from afar be seen; Nor beech, although its boughs be dight With leaves of glossy green. All these are fair, but they may fling My favourite and the forest's king, Its stem, though rough, is stout and sound; Its leaf, though late in spring it shares As late and long in autumn wears Type of an honest English heart, But having opened, plays its part Its acorns, graceful to the sight, For childhood, youth, or hoary age, But prouder yet its glories shine, And braves the bursting storm; Oh then, triumphant in its might, It seems in Heaven's approving sight On earth the forest's honoured king! Who will, another tree may sing— Old England's Oak for me! BERNARD BARTON. VESPERS. CHILD, amidst the flowers at play, Traveller, in the stranger's land, Warrior, that from battle won MRS. HEMANS. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. OUR bugles sang truce, for the night cloud had lowered, When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array 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 And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay, stay with us!-rest, thou art weary and worn! But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, CAMPBELL. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done [head, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory! CHEVY CHASE. GOD prosper long our noble king, A woful hunting once there did WOLFE. |