Nor ever shall the Muse's eye, The earth to thee her incense yields, How glorious is thy girdle cast Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, As fresh as yon horizon dark, For, faithful to its sacred page, Nor lets the type grow pale with age, YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 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, And sweep through the deep, The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 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, When the storm has ceased to blow: EXILE OF ERIN. THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh! Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood? Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,— Erin mavournin,-Erin go bragh! HOHENLINDEN. ON Linden, when the sun was low, Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Then shook the hills with thunder riven, But redder yet that light shall glow 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry. Few, few shall part where many meet, THE LAST MAN. ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep |