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Not blither is the mountain roe;

With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,

That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time;

She wandered up and down ; And many a hill did Lucy climb,

But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide ;
But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them for a guide,

At daybreak on a hill they stood,

That overlooked the moor ; And thence they saw the bridge of wood

A furlong from their door.

They wept, and, turning homeward, cried,

In heaven we all shall meet !! When in the snow the mother spied

The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge

They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge,

And by the long stone wall;

And then an open field they crossed

The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost,

And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank

Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank ;

And further there were none !

NAVAL ODE.

Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind ; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

Wordsworth.

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NAVAL OD E.1
Ye Mariners of England !
Who guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze;

Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe,
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow ;
While the battle rages long and loud,
And the stormy tempests blow.
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 long and loud,
And the stormy tempests blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks, 3
No towers along the steep ; 4
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 long and loud,
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.

Campbell 24

THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE.

1 This is perhaps the finest war-song i race of sailors of whom Nelson is

in the English language. It was the type, whose one watchword composed when a war with Russia is Duty' (Smith's History of seemed ready to break out. The England). Blake died within patriotic feeling that breathed sight of his native shores, 1657. throughout it and The Battle of | Nelson died in the hour of victory, the Baltic, procured for Campbell at Trafalgar, Oct. 21, 1805. a pension of £200 a year.

8 Balwarks, defences, fortifications. 2 Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell. 4 Steep, the precipitous cliffs that border

'Blake was the first of that noble 1. the shores.

THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE.
Stay, lady! stay, for mercy's sake,

And hear a helpless orphan's tale ;
Ah ! sure my looks must pity wake-

'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.
Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy ;
But in the Nile's proud fight1 he died,

And I am now an orphan boy.

Poor foolish child! how pleased was I,

When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

And see the lighted windows flame !
To force me home my mother sought ;

She could not bear to see my joy,
For with my father's life 'twas bought,

And made me a poor orphan boy.

The people's shouts were long and loud

My mother, shuddering, closed her ears ;
“Rejoice ! rejoice !' still cried the crowd-

My mother answered with her tears.
"Oh! why do tears steal down your cheek,'

Cried I, 'while others shout for joy ?'
She kissed me, and in accents weak,

She called me her poor orphan boy.

• What is an orphan boy ?' I said,

When suddenly she gasped for breath,
And her eyes closed; I shrieked for aid-

But ah ! her eyes were closed in death!
My hardships since I will not tell ;

But now no more a parent's joy-
Ah, lady! I have learnt too well

What 'tis to be an orphan boy!

Oh, were I by your bounty fed !

Nay, gentle lady ! do not chide ;
Trust me I mean to earn my bread

The sailor's orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep : what is 't you say ?

You 'll give me clothing, food, employ?
Look down, dear parents ! look and see
Your happy, happy orphan boy.

Mrs Opie.

1 The Nile's proud fight. The battle of

Aboukir Bay, fought on Aug. 1, 1 1798, where the British fleet under

Nelson entirely destroyed the
French fleet commanded by
Admiral Brueys.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.1

The breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast;
And the woods, against a stormy sky,

Their giant branches tossed ;
And the heavy night hung dark,

The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark

On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,

And the trumpet that sings of fame ;

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