That small white church in his own land,

The lime-trees almost hide,

Bears on the walls the names of those
Who for their country died.

His name is written on those walls,

His mother read it there,

With pride,-oh! no, there could not not be
Pride in the widow's prayer.

And

many a stranger, who shall mark
That peasant-roll of fame,

Will think on prouder ones, yet say
"This was a hero's name."

The Soldier's Funeral.

L. E. L.

AND the muffled drum roll'd on the air,
Warriors with stately steps were there;
On every arm was the black crape bound,
Every carbine was turn'd to the ground :
Solemn the sound of their measured tread,
As silent and slow they follow'd the dead.
The riderless horse was led in the rear,
There were white plumes waving over the bier
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall,
For it was a soldier's funeral.

That soldier had stood on the battle-plain,

Where every step was over the slain;

But the brand and the ball had pass'd him by, And he came to his native land to die.

"T was hard to come to that native land, And not clasp one familiar hand!

'T was hard to be number'd among the dead
Or ere he could hear his welcome said!

But 't was something to see its cliffs once more,
And to lay his bones on his own loved shore;
To think that the friends of his youth might weep
O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep!

The bugles ceased their wailing sound
As the coffin was lower'd into the ground;
A volley was fired, a blessing said,
One moment's pause-and they left the dead!

I saw a poor and aged man,

His step was feeble, his lip was wan;

He knelt him down on the new-raised mound,
His face was bow'd on the cold damp ground,
He raised his head, his tears were done,

The father had pray'd o'er an only son!

Time.

ON! on our moments hurry by

Like shadows of a passing cloud, Till general darkness wraps the sky

Bowring.

And man sleeps senseless on his shroud.

He sports, he trifles time away,

Till time is his to waste no more; Heedless he hears the surges play,

And then is dash'd upon the shore.

He has no thoughts of coming days,
Tho' they alone deserve his thought,
And so the heedless wand'rer strays,

And treasures nought and gathers nought.

Tho' wisdom speak-his ear is dull;

Tho' virtue smile-he sees her not:

His cup of vanity is full,

And all besides

-forgot.

The Wreck.

Mrs. Hemans.

"ALL night the booming minute-gun

Had peal'd along the deep, And mournfully the rising sun

Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep. A bark from India's coral strand, Before the rushing blast,

Had veil'd her topsails to the sand,

And bow'd her noble mast.

The queenly ship!-brave hearts had striv'n
And true ones died with her!

We saw her mighty cable riv'n,
Like floating gossamer!

We saw her proud flag struck that morn,

A star once o'er the seas,

Her helm beat down, her deck uptorn,-
And sadder things than these!

We saw her treasures cast away;
The rocks with pearls were sown;
And, strangely sad, the ruby ray
Flash'd out o'er fretted stone;
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er,
Like ashes by a breeze,

And gorgeous robes,-but oh! that shore
Had sadder sights than these!

We

e saw the strong man, still and low,
A crush'd reed thrown aside!

Yet, by that rigid lip and brow,

Not without strife he died!
And near him on the sea-weed lay,
Till then we had not wept,
But well our gushing hearts might say
That there a mother slept;

In her pale arms a babe had press'd
With such a wreathing grasp

Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast

Yet not undone the clasp!

Her

very tresses had been flung

To wrap the fair child's form,

Where still the wet long streamers clung

All tangled by the storm.

And beautiful, midst that wild scene,
Gleam'd up the boy's dead face
Like slumbers trustingly serene,
In melancholy grace.

Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet eye;

He had known little of her dread,
Nought of her agony!

Oh, human love! whose yearning heart,
. Through all things vainly true,
So stamps upon thy mortal part
Its passionate adieu !

Surely thou hast another lot,

There is some home for thee
Where thou shall rest, remembering not
The moaning of the sea!"

Song of Mina's Soldiers.

(From the First Number of the Peninsular Melodies.)

Mrs. Hemans.

WE heard thy name, O Mina!
Far through our hills it rang;
A sound more strong than tempest,
More deep than armour's clang:
The peasant left his vineyard,
The shepherd grasp'd his spear;
We heard thy name, O mina!

The mountain bands are here.