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 winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

III.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

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 winds do blow;

When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

IV.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the morn 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.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,*
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track :
'Twas Autumn,-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,

From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

66

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us,-rest, thou art weary and worn!"
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;-

But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

YARROW UNVISITED.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.-1770-1850.

[ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH was born at Cockermouth, in the county of Westmorland, on the 7th of April, 1770. He received his education at St. John's Cambridge. Having finished his academical course, and taken his degree, he married his cousin, and took up his residence at Rydal Mount, among the lakes and mountains of Westmorland. Through the patronage of Lord Lowther, he received, in 1814, the easy and lucrative situation of Distributor of Stamps, which left the greater portion of his time at his own disposal; and he was thereby enabled to indulge his love for poetry, which was with him almost the sole occupation of his life. In 1835 he received from Government a pension of £300 a year; and was permitted to resign his situation of Stamp Distributor in favour of his son. In 1843, at the death of Southey, he was appointed poet-laureate. He died, in his eighty-first year, on the 23rd of April, 1850, and was buried in the quiet churchyard of Grasmere.]

FROM Stirling Castle we had seen

The mazy Forth unravell'd,

Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travell'd;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my winsome Marrow,'
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the braes of Yarrow."

"Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow,

But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,

Both lying right before us;

And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed

The lintwhites sing in chorus ;

There's pleasant Tiviotdale, a land

Made blythe with plough and harrow :

Why throw away a needful day

To go in search of Yarrow?