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And the slight cadence of a whispered word
A daughter's love may prove;
Yes, thou canst hear; and He
Heaven, and earth, and sea !
N. P. WILLI8.
Whose fruit and gorgeous bloom
Its rich and rare perfume:
Around her trim alcoves :
Old England has a tree as strong,
As stately as them all,
In cottage and in hall.
Its greenness to the grave;
Its branches o'er the wave;
Be beautifully fair,--
As maiden's flowing hair.
May from afar be seen;
With leaves of glossy green.
All these are fair, but they may fling
Their shade unsung by me;
The British Oak shall be !
Its giant branches throw
O'er man and beast below;
Its leaf, though late in spring it shares
The zephyr's gentle sigh,
A deeper, richer dye.
It opes not at a breath ;
Until it sinks in death.
Its acorns, graceful to the sight,
Are toys to childhood dear;
Adds mirth to Christmas cheer.
Worn out with care or ill,
Its arms are open still.
But prouder yet its glories shine,
When, in a nobler form,
And braves the bursting storm ;
To some benighted clime
Of gospel truths sublime ;
Oh! then, triumphant in its might,
O’er waters dim and dark,
A second glorious Ark.
On earth the forest's honoured king !
Man's castle on the sea !
CAILD, 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,
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 dreamt 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 fulness of heart.
Stay, stay with us !-rest, thou art weary and worn!
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stayBut sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear nielted away.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried ;
O'er the grave of the hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
And the lantern dimly burning.
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his
And we far away on the billow ! [head,
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him!
But half of our heavy task was done
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!
Our lives and safeties all;
In Chevy Chase befall: