"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hairA tress o' golden hair— O' drowned maiden's hair- Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea; But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands o' Dee! CHARLES KINGSLEY. On the Death of George the Third. I WRITTEN UNDER WINDSOR TERRACE. SAW him last on this terrace proud, Walking in health and gladness, Begirt with his court; and in all the crowd Bright was the sun, the leaves were green- The cymbals replied to the tambourine, I have stood with the crowd beside his bier, When every eye was dim with a tear, I have heard the earth on his coffin pour ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE THE THIRD. 83 The time-since ne walked in his glory thus, To the grave till I saw him carried— A daughter beloved, a queen, a son, For his eyes were sealed and his mind was dark, Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark His silver beard o'er a bosom spread Still o'er him oblivion's waters lay, Though the stream of life kept flowing; At intervals thus the waves disgorge, A piece of the wreck of the Royal George, He is gone at length-he is laid in the dust, His people's heart is his funeral urn; And should sculptured stone be denied him, HORACE SMITH. Ye Mariners of England. I. 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, And sweep through the deep While the stormy winds do blow While the battle rages loud and long, II. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell While the stormy winds do blow- And the stormy winds do blow. III. Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain-wave, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As 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 TWO VOICES. IV. The meteor flag of England Till danger's troubled night depart, When the storm has ceased to blow- 85 THOMAS CAMPBELL. The Two Voices. 'WO voices are there; one is of the sea, Two One of the mountains-each a mighty voice: In both from age to age thou didst rejoice; They were thy chosen music, Liberty! There came a tyrant, and with holy glee Thou fought'st against him-but hast vainly striven; WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. An Ode. HAT constitutes a State? WHAT Not high raised battlement or labored mound, Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned; Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. With powers as far above dull brutes endued As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude Men who their duties know, But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain:— And sovereign Law, that State's collected will, Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks; And e'en the all-dazzling Crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! No more shall freedom smile? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave! SIR WILLIAM JONES. |