Oft would he tell how, under Smith,
Upon the Egyptian strand,
Eager to beat the boastful French,
They joined the men on land,
And plied their deadly shots, entrenched
Behind their bags of sand.
And when he told, how, through the Sound,
With Nelson, in his might,
They passed the Cronberg batteries,
To quell the Dane in fight,
His voice with vigour filled again,
His veteran eye with light.
But chiefly of hot Trafalgar
The brave old man would speak; And, when he showed his oaken stump,
A glow suffused his cheek,
eye filled-for wound on wound
Had left him worn and weak.
Ten years, in vigorous old age,
Within that cot he dwelt;
Tranquil as falls the snow on snow,
Life's lot to him was dealt:
But came infirmity at length,
And slowly o'er him stealt.
We missed him in our seaward walk;
The children went no more
To listen to his evening talk,
Beside the cottage door;
Grim palsy held him to the bed,
Which health eschewed before.
'Twas harvest time; day after day
Beheld him weaker grow;
Day after day, his labouring pulse
Became more faint and slow;
For, in the chambers of his heart,
Life's fire was burning low.
Thus did he weaken, did he wane,
Till frail as frail could be:
But duly at the hour which brings
Homeward the bird and bee,
He made them prop him in his couch
To gaze upon the sea.
And now he watched the moving boat,
And now the moveless ships,
And now the western hills remote,
With gold upon their tips,
As ray by ray the mighty sun
Went down in calm eclipse.
THE SAILOR DYING AT HOME.
Welcome as homestead to the feet
Of pilgrim travel-tired,
Death to old Simon's dwelling came,
A thing to be desired;
And breathing peace to all around,
The man of war expired.
THE SAILOR DYING AT HOME.
HAPPY he sailed, and great the care she took,
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know,
Was her's to buy, to make, and to bestow:
For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told,
How he should guard against the climate's cold;
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood;
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood.
His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek,
And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain.
He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh
A lover's message-" Thomas, I must die:
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing go!-if not, this trifle take,
And say, till death I wore it for her sake:
Yes! I must die-blow on, sweet breeze, blow on,
Give me one look, before my life be gone,
Oh! give me that! and let me not despair,-
One last fond look!—and now repeat the prayer.”
He had his wish, had more; I will not paint
The lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint—
With tender fears, she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew : He tried to smile; and, half succeeding, said, "Yes! I must die"-and hope for ever fled.
Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts
Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she prayed, to him his Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head:
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart she sighed; alone, she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.
One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think,
Yet said not so- "Perhaps he will not sink."
A sudden brightness in his look appeared,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard ;-
THE UNKNOWN SAILOR'S GRAVE.
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seemed, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few,
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,
But she has treasured, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people-death has made them dear.
He named his friend, but then his hand she prest,
And fondly whispered, "Thou must go to rest.”
"I go," he said; but, as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound:
Then gazed affrighted; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love—and all was past!
THE UNKNOWN SAILOR'S GRAVE.
Composed on seeing the grave of a young sailor, who had been shipwrecked, and was unknown, in a churchyard close to the sea-shore.
"Tears for the weary ones who keep
Long watch beneath the sun;
But sorrow not for those that seep
Their heritage is won."-(FRANCES BROWN.)
PERHAPS a tender mother's mournful eye
Is oft-times fixed upon the deep blue wave,
Filled with dark tears of fond anxiety,
For him who sleeps within this foreign grave.
Perhaps perhaps each home returning sail
Brings light to eyes from weary watching dim,
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