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 part-

But 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.

L

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.1
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves;

And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.

1 Churches.

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 beeWhere 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!