YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

YE mariners of England!

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 tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests 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 tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests 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 below,

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy tempests blow;

When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

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.

T. CAMPBELL.

BERNARDO AND ALPHONSO.

WITH Some good ten of his chosen men,
Bernardo hath appeared

Before them all in the palace hall,
The lying King to beard;
With cap in hand and eye on ground,

He came in reverend guise,
But ever and anon he frowned,
And flame broke from his eyes.

"A curse upon thee," cries the King,
"Who comest unbid to me;

But what from traitor's blood should spring,
Save traitors like to thee?

His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart;
Perchance our champion brave
May think it were a pious part
To share Don Sancho's grave."

"Whoever told this tale the King
Hath rashness to repeat,"
Cries Bernard, "here my gage I fling
Before the liar's feet.

No treason was in Sancho's blood,

No stain in mine doth lie:

Below the throne what knight will own
The coward calumny?

"The blood that I like water shed,
When Roland did advance,

By secret traitors hired and led,
To make us slaves of France;

The life of King Alphonso

I saved at Roncesval,

Your words, Lord King, are recompense
Abundant for it all.

"Your horse was down,-your hope was flown,— I saw the falchion shine,

That soon had drunk your royal blood,

Had I not ventured mine;

But memory soon of service done

Deserteth the ingrate;

You've thanked the son for life and crown

By the father's bloody fate.

"Ye swore upon your kingly faith,
To set Don Sancho free;

But, curse upon your paltering breath,
The light he ne'er did see;

He died in dungeon cold and dim,
By Alphonso's base decree,
And visage blind, and mangled limb,
Were all they gave to me.

"The king that swerveth from his word,
Hath stained his purple black:

No Spanish lord will draw the sword
Behind a liar's back;

But noble vengeance shall be mine,

An open hate I'll shew,—

The King hath injured Carpio's line,

And Bernard is his foe."

"Seize, seize him!" loud the King doth scream: "There are a thousand here!

Let his foul blood this instant stream:-
What! caitiffs, do ye fear?

Seize, seize the traitor!"--But not one
To move a finger dareth;
Bernardo standeth by the throne,

And calm his sword he bareth.

He drew the falchion from the sheath,
And held it up on high,

And all the hall was still as death:-
Cries Bernard, "Here am I,—

And here is the sword that owns no lord,
Excepting heaven and me;

Fain would I know who dares its point,-
King, Condé, or Grandee."

Then to his mouth the horn he drew
(It hung below his cloak);

His ten true men the signal knew,
And through the ring they broke;
With helm on head, and blade in hand,
The knights the circle brake,
And back the lordlings 'gan to stand,
And the false King to quake.

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"Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, What means this warlike guise? Ye know full well I jested,—

Ye know your worth I prize."
But Bernard turned upon his heel,
And smiling passed away :-
Long rued Alphonso and his realm
The jesting of that day.

J. G. LOCKHART.

VICTOR GALBRAITH.

UNDER the walls of Monterey
At daybreak the bugles began to play,
Victor Galbraith!

In the mist of the morning damp and gray,
These were the words they seemed to say:

Come forth to thy death,

Victor Galbraith!"

Forth he came, with a martial tread;
Firm was his step, erect his head;
Victor Galbraith!

He who so well the bugle played,
Could not mistake the words it said:
"Come forth to thy death,

Victor Galbraith!"

He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky,
He looked at the files of musketry,

Victor Galbraith!

And he said, with a steady voice and eye, "Take good aim; I am ready to die!" Thus challenges death

Victor Galbraith.

Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red,
Six leaden balls on their errand sped;

Victor Galbraith

Falls to the ground, but he is not dead;

His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, And they only scathe

Victor Galbraith.

Three balls are in his breast and brain,
But he rises out of the dust again,
Victor Galbraith!

The water he drinks has a bloody stain;

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"O kill me, and put me out of my pain!" In his agony prayeth

Victor Galbraith.

Forth dart once more those tongues of flame,
And the bugler has died a death of shame,

Victor Galbraith!

His soul has gone back to whence it came,
And no one answers to the name,

When the Sergeant saith,

"Victor Galbraith!"