The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave !—

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,

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.

HELVELLYN.

SIR W. SCOTT.

[In the spring of 1805, Mr. Charles Gough, of Manchester, perished by losing his way over the mountain Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered until three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier, his constant attendant during his frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.]

I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;

All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And, starting, the echoes around me replied.

On the right, Strathen-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,

And Catchedecam its left verge was defending,

One huge nameless rock on the front was impending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Dark green was that spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather,

Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay :
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
The much-loved remains of his master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garments, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long nights didst thou number,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? But ah! was it meet, that no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him, Unhonour'd the pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded,
The dark tapestry waves round the dim-lighted hall;
With 'scutcheons of silver, the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall;

Through the courts at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming,

In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beam

ing,

Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, 'wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature,

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam;
And more stately thy couch, by this desert lake
lying,

Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,
With but one faithful friend to witness thy dying,

In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedecam.

THE BUTTERFLY.

BARTON.

BEAUTIFUL creature! I have been
Moments uncounted watching thee,
Now flitting round the foliage green
Of yonder dark, embowering tree;
And now again, in frolic glee,

Hovering around those opening flowers,
Happy as nature's child should be,
Born to enjoy her loveliest bowers.

And I have gazed upon thy flight,
Till feelings I can scarce define,
Awaken'd by so fair a sight,
With desultory thoughts combine
Not to induce me to repine,

Or envy thee thy happiness;
But from a lot so bright as thine
To borrow musings born to bless.

For unto him whose spirit reads
Creation with a Christian's eye,
Each happy living creature pleads

The cause of Him who reigns on high;

Who spann'd the earth, and arch'd the sky, Gave life to every thing that lives,

And still delighteth to supply

With happiness the life He gives.

This truth may boast but little worth, Enforced by rhet'ric's frigid powers ;But when it has its quiet birth

In contemplation's silent hours; When Summer's brightly peopled bowers Bring home its teachings to the heart, Then birds and insects, shrubs and flowers, Its touching eloquence impart.

Then thou, delightful creature, who
Wert yesterday a sightless worm,

Becomest a symbol fair and true

Of hopes that own no mortal term;
In thy proud change we see the germ
Of Man's sublimer destiny,
While holiest oracles confirm
The type of immortality!

A change more glorious far than thine,
E'en I, thy fellow worm, may know,
When this exhausted frame of mine
Down to its kindred dust shall go :
When the anxiety and woe

Of being's embryo state shall seem
Like phantoms flitting to and fro

In some confused and feverish dream.

For thee, who flittest gaily now,
With all thy nature asks supplied,
A few brief summer days, and thou

No more amid these haunts shall glide,