ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE THE THIRD. 93

The time-since he walked in his glory thus,
To the grave till I saw him carried-
Was an age of the mightiest change to us,
But to him a night unvaried.

A daughter beloved, a queen, a son,
And a son's sole child, have perished;
And sad was each heart, save only the one
By which they were fondest cherished:

For his eyes were sealed, and his mind was dark,
And he sat in his age's lateness--

Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark
Of the frailty of human greatness:

His silver beard o'er a bosom spread
Unvexed by life's commotion,
Like a yearly lengthening snow-drift shed
On the calm of a frozen ocean.

Still o'er him oblivion's waters lay,

Though the stream of life kept flowing;
When they spoke of our king, 'twas but to say:
The old man's strength is going.

At intervals thus the waves disgorge,
By weakness rent asunder,

A piece of the wreck of the Royal George,
To the people's pity and wonder.

He is gone at length-he is laid in the dust,
Death's hand his slumbers breaking;-
For the coffined sleep of the good and just
Is a sure and blissful waking.

His people's heart is his funeral urn;

And should sculptured stone be denied him,
There will his name be found, when in turn
We lay our heads besice 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,
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.

II.

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.

-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.

95

IV.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,

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

THOMAS CAMPBELI.

The Two Voices.

'WO voices are there; one is of the sea,

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;
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs, heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left-
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful voice be heard by thee?

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

An Ode.

HAT constitutes a State?

WHAT

Not high raised battlement or labored mound,

Thick wall or moated gate;

Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned;
Not bays and broad-armed ports,

Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;
Not starred and spangled courts,

Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride.
No:-Men, high-minded men,

With powers as far above dull brutes endued
In forest, brake, or den,

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude

Men who their duties know,

But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain,
Prevent the long-aimed blow,

And crush the tyrant while they rend the cha'n:-
These constitute a State;

And sovereign Law, that State's collected will,
O'er thrones and globes elate,

Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill.

Smit by her sacred frown,

The fiend Dissension like a vapor sinks;

And e'en the all-dazzling Crown

Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.
Such was this Heaven-loved isle,

Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore !

No more shall freedom smile?

Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?

Since all must life resign,

Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave

'Tis folly to decline,

And steal inglorious to the silent grave!

SIR WILLIAM JONES

WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.

97

WHI

While History's Muse.

HILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping Of all that the dark hand of destiny weaves, Beside her the genius of Erin stood weeping,

For hers was the story that blotted the leaves. But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame, She saw History write,

With a pencil of light

That illumed all the volume, her Wellington's name.

Hail, star of my isle !" said the Spirit, all sparkling With tears, such as break from her own dewy skies— "Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,

I've watched for some glory like thine to arise.

For, though heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot, And unhallowed they sleep in the crossways of Fame ;But oh! there is not

One dishonoring blot

On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name,

"Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,
The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known;
Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,
Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.
At the foot of that throne for whose weal thou hast stood,
Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame,
And, bright o'er the flood

Of her tears and her blood,

Let the Rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!"

THOMAS MOORE,