130 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. There scattered oft, the earliest of the year, THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; — a tear; He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. - Campbell. YE Mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, Your glorious standard launch again, And sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. The spirit of your fathers For the deck it was their field of fame, Britannia needs no bulwark,- 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, And the stormy tempests blow. The meteor flag of England 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. K 132 A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT. ON MUNGO PARK'S FINDING A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT.- Edinburgh Christian Herald. THE sun had reached its midday height, No mighty rock upreared its head No palm-trees, with refreshing green, Dauntless and daring was the mind And, ah! shall we less daring show, Who seek to lead the savage mind Whence flows salvation's stream? Let peril, nakedness, and sword, A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT. 133 Yet, martyr-like, we 'll lift the voice, And blossom as the rose. Sad, faint, and weary, on the sand Above, beneath, behind, around, All nature seemed as dead. One tiny tuft of moss alone, Mantling with freshest green a stone, Through bursting tears of joy he smiled, O, shall not He who keeps thee green, He who commands the dew to feed Me from a scorching grave. The heaven-sent plant new hope inspired, And bore him safe along,— Till, with the evening's cooling shade, Lulled by the negro's song. 134 LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. May faint because we feel alone, Yet often, in the bleakest wild Of this dark world, some heaven-born child, Amid the low and vicious crowd, From gazing on the tender flower, Who in this atmosphere of death Our drooping faith, revived by sight, New hope distends the breast; LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. THE breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, |