Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath, For a time. III. But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. 'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.— IV. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back ; - Their shots along the deep slowly boom : Then ceased-and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom.— V. Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave; 'Ye are brothers! ye are men! And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As death withdrew his shades from the day. While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Now joy, old England, raise! Whilst the wine cup shines in light; Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, VIII. Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant good Riou: Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave! And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave ! 6.5 70 A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY THE NEW YEAR. [THE RIVER OF LIFE.] The more we live, more brief appear Our life's succeeding stages: A day to childhood seems a year, And years like passing ages. The gladsome current of our youth, Ere passion yet disorders, Steals, lingering like a river smooth Along its grassy borders. But, as the care-worn cheek grows wan, Ye stars, that measure life to man, Why seem your courses quicker? When joys have lost their bloom and breath, And life itself is vapid, Why, as we reach the Falls of death, Feel we its tide more rapid? It may be strange-yet who would change Time's course to slower speeding; When one by one our friends have gone, And left our bosoms bleeding? Heaven gives our years of fading strength Indemnifying fleetness; And those of youth, a seeming length, Proportioned to their sweetness. 5 10 15 20 LONGFELLOW. A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal; Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Funeral marches to the grave. |