· The flames rolled on-he would not go

Without his father's word ; That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud : “Say, father, say

If yet my task is done ?”
He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.

“Speak, father,” once again he cried,

“If I may yet be gone?” And but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair; And looked from that lone post of death,

In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,

“My father, must I stay?” While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fire made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high ;
And streamed above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound

The boy-oh! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strewed the sea ;

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,

That well had borne their partBut the noblest thing which perished there Was that young faithful heart !

Mrs. Hemans.

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

Child, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away ;
Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently ;
Father, by the breeze of eve
Called thy harvest work to leave-
Pray: ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee !

Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone ;

Captive, in whose narrow narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea,
Lift the heart, and bend the knee !

Warrior, that from battle won
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain
Weeping on his burial-plain ;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven's first star alike ye see-
Lift the heart, and bend the knee!

Mrs. Hemans.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND..

The stately homes of England !

How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O’er all the pleasant land !
The deer across their greensward bound

Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound

Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England !

Around their hearths by night
What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light !
There woman's voice flows forth in song,

Or childish tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along

Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England !

How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours ! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime

Floats through their woods at morn ; All other sounds, in that still time,

Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England !

By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,

And round the hamlet fanes.' Through glowing orchards forth they peep,

Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair homes of England !

Long, long in hut and hall
May hearts of native proof be reared

To guard each hallowed wall !
And green for ever be the groves,

And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God !

Mrs. Hemans.

THE FIRST GRIEF.

O, call my brother back to me;

I cannot play alone;
The summer comes with flowers and bee-

Where is my brother gone?

“ The butterfly is glancing bright

Across the sunbeam's track :
I care not now to chase its flight,

O, call my brother back !

“ The flowers run wild-the flowers we sowed

Around our garden-tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load ;
O, call him back to me!