"Speak, father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" And-but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. And looked from that lone post of death And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?” While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing'fires 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- With fragments strewed the sea!— But the noblest thing which perished there Was that young faithful heart! The Sunbeam. THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall- Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles; To the solemn depths of the forest shades, Thou art streaming on through their green arcades; And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow, Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. I looked on the mountains-a vapour lay I looked on the peasant's lowly cot- And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell. G To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, Thou takest through the dim church-aisle thy way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold. And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave; Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. Sunbeam of Summer! oh, what is like thee? Harvest Hymn. ow autumn strews on every plain, In rich profusion pours around Her flowing treasures on the ground. The infant corn, in vernal hours, The valleys echo to the strains Of blooming maids and village swains- The grateful song, the hymn of praise. The Homes of England. HE 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 And the swan glides past them with the sound 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 lips move tunefully along The blessed homes of England! 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, |