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With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well bad borne their part-
Was that young faithful heart !
He who hath bent him o'er the dead,
L. E. LANDON. 'Twas the battle-field, and the cold pale moon
Look'd down on the dead and dying, And the wind pass'd o'er, with a dirge and a wail,
Where the young and the brave were lying.
With his father's sword in his red right hand,
And the hostile dead around him, Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground,
And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.
A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom,
Pass'd a soldier, his plunder seeking ; Careless he stepp'd where friend and foe
Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.
Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword,
The soldier paused beside it;
But the grasp of the dead defied it.
He loosed his bold, and his English heart
Took part with the dead before him, And he honour'd the brave who died sword in hand,
As with soften'd brow he leant o'er him.
“A soldier's death thou hast boldly died,
A soldier's grave won by it ; Before I would take that sword from thy hand,
My own life's blood should dye it.
" Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow,
Or the wolf to batten o'er thee;
Who in life had trembled before thee."
Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth
Where his warrior foe was sleeping;
With his sword in his own brave keeping.
A CHURCHYARD SCENE.
How sweet and solemn, all alone,
Such is the scene around me now:-
A place where all things mournful meet,
With what a pensive beauty fall Across the mossy mouldering wall That rose-tree's cluster'd arches! See The robin-redbreast, warily, Bright through the blossoms leave his nest : Sweet ingrate! through the winter blest At the firesides of men--but shy Through all the many summer hours,-He hides himself among the flowers In his own wild festivity. What lulling sound, and shadow cool, Hangs half the darkened churchyard o'er, From thy green depths, so beautiful, Thou gorgeous sycamore ! Oft hath the lowly wine and bread Been blest beneath thy murmuring tent; Where many a bright and hoary head Bowed at that awful sacrament. Now all beneath that turf are laid, On which they sat, and sang, and pray'd.. Above that consecrated tree Ascends the tapering spire, that seems To lift the soul up silently To heaven, with all its dreams While in the belfry, deep and low, From his heaved bosom's purple gleams The dove's continuous murmurs flow, A dirge-like song,--half bliss, half woe, The voice so lonely seems !
THE CONVICT SHIP.
Morn on the waters 1-and, purple and bright,
Night on the waves -and the moon is on high, Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky, Treading its depths in the power of her might, And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to
Look to the waters 1-asleep on their breast,