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The hurricane hath might

Along the Indian shore,

And far, by Gunga's banks at night,
Is heard the tiger's roar;

But let the sound roll on!

It hath no tone of dread

For those that from their toils are gone!There slumber England's Dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods

The western wilds among,

And free, in green Columbia's woods,
The hunter's bow is strung;

But let the floods rush on!

Let the arrow's flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done?There slumber England's Dead.

The mountain-storms rise high

In the snowy Pyrenees,

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And toss the pine-boughs through the sky, Like rose-leaves on the breeze:

But let the storm rage on!

Let the forest-wreaths be shed! For the Roncesvalles' field is won,There slumber England's Dead.

On the frozen deep's repose

"T is a dark and dreadful hour, When round the ship the ice-fields close, To chain her with their power;

But let the ice drift on!

Let the cold blue desert spread!

Their course with mast and flag is doneThere slumber England's Dead.

The warlike of the isles!

The men of field and wave!

Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep,

Free, free the white sail spread!
Wind may not rove, nor billow sweep,
Where rest not England's Dead.

MRS. HEMANS.

EVENING.

T' OUR tale.-The feast was over, the slaves gone,
The dwarfs and dancing-girls had all retired;
The Arab lore and poet's song were done,
And every sound of revelry expired;

The lady and her lover left alone,

The rosy flood of twilight's sky admired;

Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea,

That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee!

Ave Maria! blessed be the hour!

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer.

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer!

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love!

Ave Maria! may our spirits dare

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above!

Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty doveWhat though 'tis but a pictured image strikeThat painting is no idol, 't is too like.

Sweet hour of twilight!-in the solitude
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er,
To where the last Cesarean fortress stood,
Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me,
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along: The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng, Which learn'd from this example not to fly From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye.

Ob Hesperus! thou bringest all good things-
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,
The welcome stall to the o'er-labour'd steer;
Whate'er of peace about our hearth-stone clings,
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest;
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.

Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns!

BYRON.

FROM CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE

HE that has sail'd upon the dark-blue sea,
Has view'd at times, 1 ween, a full fair sight;
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight;
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow,
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now,

So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.

And oh, the little warlike world within!
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,
The hoarse command, the busy humming din,
When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high:
Hark to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry!
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides;
Or school-boy Midshipman that standing by,
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides,

And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.

White is the glassy deck, without a stain,
Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks;
Look on that part which sacred doth remain
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks,
Silent and fear'd by all-not oft he talks
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve
That strict restraint, which broken ever balks
Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve
From Law, however stern, which tends their
strength to nerve.

Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale!
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray;
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail,
That lagging barks may make their lazy way.
Ah, grievance sore! and listless dull delay,
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze!
What leagues are lost before the dawn of day,

Thus loitering-pensive on the willing seas,

The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like these!

The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;
Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe:
Such be our fate when we return to land!
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;
A circle there of merry listeners stand,

Or to some well-known measure featly move,
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to

rove.

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore,
Europe and Afric on each other gaze!
Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor,
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze:
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays,
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown,
Distinct though darkening with her waning phase,
But Mauritania's giant shadows frown,

From mountain cliff to coast descending sombre down.

"Tis night, when meditation bids us feel
We once have loved, though love is at an end:
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,

Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend.
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend,
When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy?
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend,

Death hath but little left him to destroy!

Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy?

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side,
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere;
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride,
And flies unconscious o'er each backward year:

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