They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth!—

Alas, for love! if thou wert all,
And naught beyond, O earth!

THE

CASABIANCA.

HE boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form!

The flames rolled on-he would not go
Without his father's word;-
That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud: 'Say, father, say
If yet my task is done!'-

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

'Speak, father!' once again he cried, 'If I may yet be gone!'

And but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death,

In still yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,

'My father! must I stay?'

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound,-
The boy!-oh, where was he?
Ask of the winds, that far around

With fragments strewed the sea,-
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing that perished there,
Was that young faithful heart!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Born 1777. Died 1844.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

E mariners of England!

YE

That 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 winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do 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 winds do blow, While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak

She quells the floods belowAs they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,

Till danger's troubled night depart
And the star of peace return.
Till 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.

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

F Nelson and the North

OF

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand

In a bold determined hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat

Lay their bulwarks on the brine,
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line;

It was ten of April morn by the chime;
As they drifted on their path,

There was silence deep as death,

And the boldest held his breath
For a time.

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between.—

'Hearts of oak!' our captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back ;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom :-
Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shattered sail,

Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hailed them o'er the wave; 'Ye are brothers! ye are men!

And we conquer but to save;

So peace instead of death let us bring:

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet

With the crews at England's feet,
And make submission meet

To our King.'