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THE

JUVENILE

POETICAL LIBRARY.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

YE Mariners of England!

That 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 loud and long,

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:

B

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 loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark,

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 loud and long,

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.

TO THE CUCKOO.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee, and rejoice;

O Cuckoo, shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering voice?

While I am lying on the grass,
I hear thy restless shout:
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
About, and all about!

To me no babbler, with a tale

Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou tellest, Cuckoo! in the vale

Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird; but an invisible thing,

A voice-a mystery.

The same who in my school-boy days

I listen'd to;

that cry

Which made me look a thousand ways,

In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee often I did rove

Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love
Still longed for, never seen!

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain,
And listen till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;

That is fit home for thee.

CASABIANCA.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

[Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.]

THE boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck

Sh one round him o'er the dead.

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