But thy grave must be made in the breast of the billow, And thine head be laid low 'neath the deep swelling

surge,

Where the weeds of the ocean are spread for thy pillow, And the sea-bird's harsh cry sounds-afar for thy dirge. Not whelm'd by the flood, 'midst the tempest's harsh thunder,

Nor rent-in-the-strife by the hands of the foe, But in-silence-and-peace was thy thread snapt asunder: Unseen came the spoiler, and still was the blow; While the winds on-the-face-of-the-waters were sleeping, And the wave lay unwrinkled and calm at our prow, And the stars in-yon-space their bright watches were keeping,

And the sky was as cloudless and azure as now. And was it for-this that the death-shot flew by thee ; And above-thee the tempest-cloud harmlessly past; That when-the-fair-shores-of-thy-country-drew-nigh-thee The Conq'ror-of-nations should find thee at last? Yet, though pass'd from our sight, though thy labours are finish'd,

And thou restest in peace where thy battles were won, Exalted with praise, and with fame undiminish'd,

Thou shalt live in the tale of the deeds thou hast done: Thou art gone-but, unhurt by the lapse of long ages, Thy laurels shall flourish, still blooming and fair; Thou sleepest--but oft, when the loud conflict rages, The sound of thy name shall be still with us there. Proud nations shall fall, but thy name shall decay not, And realms shall depart, but thy glories shall shine; While he whose-cold-grasp-is-on-all-things shall prey not On the fresh budding wreath which shall ever be thine.

Home.

James Montgomery •

THERE is a land, of-every-land the pride,
Beloved-by-heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter-suns disperse serener light,
And milder-moons emparadise the night:
A land of beauty virtue valour - truth -
Time-tutor'd age and love-exalted youth.
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles - the most-enchanting shores,
Views-not a realm so beautiful and fair,

Nor breathes the spirit of a

purer air;

In every clime, the magnet-of-his-soul,

Touch'd by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land-of-heaven's-peculiar-grace,
The heritage of Nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer- sweeter-spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre pageantry and pride,
While in-his-soften'd-looks benignly blend

The sire the son - the husband brother - friend ;-
Here, woman reigns; the mother daughter wife
Strew with-fresh-flowers the narrow way of life!
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of-loves-and-graces vie;
Around-her-knees domestic-duties meet,
And fireside-pleasures gambol at her feet:
Where shall that land that spot-of-earth be found?
Art thou a man? a patriot ?—look around;

O thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That-land THY COUNTRY, and that-spot THY HOME!

H

England's Oak.

Bernard Barton.

LET India boast its spicy trees

Whose fruit and gorgeous bloom
Give to each faint and languid breeze'
Its rich and rare perfume:

Let Portugal and haughty Spain
Display their orange-groves;
And France exult her vines to train
Around her trim alcoves.

Old England has a tree as strong

As stately as them all,

As worthy of a minstrel's song

In cottage and in hall.

'T is not the yew-tree, though it lends

Its greenness to the

grave;

Nor willow, though it fondly bends

Its branches o'er the wave:

Nor birch, although its slender tress

Be beautifully fair Asgraceful in its loveliness

As maiden's flowing hair.

"T is not the poplar, though its height

May from-afar be seen;

Nor beech, although its boughs be dight

With leaves of glossy green.

All these are fair, but they may fling
Their shade unsung by me:

My favourite, and the forest's king,

The British Oak shall be !

Its stem, though rough, is stout and sound,
Its giant branches throw

Their arms in shady blessings round
O'er man and beast below:

Its leaf, though late in spring it shares
The zephyr's gentle sigh,

As late and long in autumn wears

A deeper richer dye.

Type of an honest English heart,
It opes not at a breath,

But having open'd plays its part
Until it sinks in death.

Its acorns, graceful to the sight,
Are toys to childhood dear;
Its mistletoe, with berries white,

Adds mirth to Christmas cheer.
And when we reach life's closing stage,
Worn out with care or ill,

For childhood youth or hoary age,
Its arms are open still.

But prouder yet its glories shine,
When, in a nobler form,
Its floats upon the heaving brine,

And braves the bursting storm;

Or when, to aid the work of love,
To some benighted clime
It bears glad tidings from above,
Of Gospel-truths sublime:

Oh! then triumphant in its might,
O'er waters dim and dark,

It seems, in heaven's approving sight,
A second glorious ARK.

On earth the forest's honour'd king!
Man's castle on the sea!
Who-will another tree may sing,-
Old England's Oak for me!

Dangers of the Deep.

Southey.

"T IS pleasant by-the-cheerful-hearth to hear
Of tempests and the dangers of the deep,
And pause at times, and feel that we are safe;
Then listen to the perilous tale again,
And, with an eager and suspended soul,
Woo terror to delight us. But to hear
The roaring of the raging elements,-
To know all human skill, all human strength,
Avail not,―to look around, and only see
The mountain-wave incumbent, with its weight
Of bursting waters, o'er the reeling bark,-
Ah me! this is indeed a dreadful thing;
And he, who hath endured the horror once
Of such an hour, doth never hear the storm.
Howl round his home but he remembers it
And thinks upon the suffering mariner.