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O'er-shadowing laurels deck,
The living hero's brows;
But lovelier wreaths entwine his neck,
!! is children and his spouse.

Foxulting o'er his lot,
The dangers he has braved,
He clasps the dear one, hails the cot,
Which his own valour saved.

DAUGHTERs of Albion, weep :
On this triumphant plain,
Your fathers husbands, brethren sleep,
For you and freedom slain.

O gently close the eye
That loved to look on you;
O seal the lip whose earliest sigh,
Whose latest breath was true :

With knots of sweetest flowers
Their winding-sheet perfume;
And wash their wounds with true-love showers,
And dress them for the tomb.

For beautiful in death
The WARRior's corse appears,
Embalmed by fond Affection's breath
And bathed in Wom AN's tears.

Give me the death of those
Who for their country die ;
And O be mine like their repose,
When cold and low they lie

Their loveliest mother Earth
Entwines the fallen brave,
In her sweet lap who gave them birth
They find their tranquil grave.


This shadow on the Dial's face,
That steals from day to day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Moments, and months, and years away;-
This shadow, which, in every clime,
Since light and motion first began,
Hath held its course sublime;—
What is it? Mortal Man!
It is the scythe of TIME:
—A shadow only to the eye;
Yet, in its calm career,
It levels all beneath the sky!
And still through each succeeding year,
Right onward, with resistless power,
Its stroke shall darken every hour,
Till Nature's race be run,
And Time's last shadow shall eclipse the sun.

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Nor only o'er the Dial's face,
This silent phanton, day by day,
With slow, unseen, uncensing pace,
Steals moments, months, and years away;
From hoary rock and aged tree,
From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls
From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea,
From every blade of grass, it falls;
For still where'er a shadow sleeps
The scythe of time destroys,
And man at every footstep weeps
O'er evanescent joys ;
Like flowerets glittering with the dews of morn,
Fair for a moment, then for ever shorn:
—Ah ! soon, beneath the inevitable blow,
I too shall lie in dust and darkness low.

Then Time, the Conqueror, will suspend
His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb,
Whose moving shadow shall portend
Each frail beholder's doom.
O'er the wide earth's illumined space,
Though TIME's triumphant flight be shown,
The truest index on its face
Points from the churchyard stone.


Friend after friend departs;
Who hath not lost a friend ?
There is no union here of hearts
That finds not here an end;
Were this frail world our final rest,
Living or dying none were blest.

Beyond the flight of time,
Beyond the reign of death,
There surely is some blessed clime
Where life is not a breath ;
Nor life's affections, transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upwards and expire!

There is a world above,
Where parting is unknown;
A long eternity of love,
Formed for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying, here,
Translated to that glorious sphere'

Thus star by star declines,
Till all are past away :
As morning high and higher shines,
To pure and perfect day:
Nor sink those stars in empty night,
But hide themselves in heaven's own light.



Ye Mariners of England 1 That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle, and the breeze 1 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 l—
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,

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