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“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 which perished there

Was that young faithful heart !

The Sun


HOU art no lingerer in monarch's hallA joy thou art, and a wealth to all ! A bearer of hope unto land and seaSunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee ?

Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles ; Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles; Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam, And gladdened the sailor like words from home.

To the solemn depths of the forest shades,
Thou art streaming on through their green

arcades; And the quivering leaves that have caught thy

Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.
I looked on the mountains—a vapour lay
Folding their heights in its dark array:
Thou breakest forth, and the mist became
A crown and a mantle of living flame.

I looked on the peasant's lowly cot-
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot ;
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell,
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell.


To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart;
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed
A tender smile on the ruin's head.

Thou takest through the dim church-aisle thy

way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold.

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave ; Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.

Sunbeam of Summer! oh, what is like thee?
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea !
One thing is like thee, to mortals given-
The faith touching all things with hues of Heaven!

Harvest Humn


dow autumn strews on every plain,
His mellow fruits and fertile grain ;
And laughing plenty, crown'd with sheaves,
With purple grapes, and spreading leaves,

In rich profusion pours around
Her flowing treasures on the ground.
Oh ! mark the great, the liberal hand,
That scatters blessings o'er the land ;
And to the God of nature raise
The grateful song, the hymn of praise.

The infant corn, in vernal hours,
He nurtured with his gentle showers,
And bade the summer clouds diffuse
Their balmy store of genial dews.
He mark’d the tender stem arise,
Till ripen'd by the glowing skies,
And now, matured, his work behold,
The cheering harvest waves in gold.
To nature's God with joy we raise
The grateful song, the hymn of praise.

The valleys echo to the strains
Of blooming maids and village swains-
To him they tune the lay sincere,
Whose bounty crowns the smiling year.
The sounds from every woodland borne,
The sighing winds that bend the corn,
The yellow fields around proclaim
His mighty, everlasting name.
To nature's God united raise
The grateful song, the hymn of praise.

The Home of England

. .

HE stately homes of England !

How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O’er all the pleasant land !
The deer across their greensward bound

Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound

Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England !

Around their hearths by night
What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song,

Or childhood's tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along

Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England !

How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours ! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime

Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds, in that still time,

Of breeze and leaf are born.

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