For Home and

Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,

Country

Said, "My chosen people, come!"
Then the drum,

Lo! was dumb,

For the great heart of the nation, throbbing,

answered,

"Lord, we come!"

BRET HARte.

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 winds do blow—
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirit 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 blowWhile the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

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 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 CAMPBELL.

For Home

and Country

t

For

Home

and

The Knight's Tomb

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? Country Where may the grave of that good man be?— By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,

Under the twigs of a young birch tree!

The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, and the birch in its stead is grown.-
The knight's bones are dust,

And his good sword rust;

His soul is with the saints, I trust.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

How Sleep the Brave!

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;

Room for a soldier! lay him in the clover;
He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;
Make his mound with hers who called him once
her lover:

Where the rain may rain upon it,
Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.

Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;
Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver

birches,

Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the oriole perches:

Make his mound with sunshine on it,

Where the bee will dine upon it,

Where the lamb hath lain upon it,

And the rain will rain upon it.

Busy as the bee was he, and his rest should be

the clover;

Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should

be his cover;

Where the lamb hath lain upon it,

And the bee will dine upon it.

Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full often

Out of those tender eyes which evermore did

soften:

He never could look cold till we saw him in his

66

coffin.

Make his mound with sunshine on it.

Plant the lordly pine upon it,

Where the moon may stream upon it,

And memory shall dream upon it.

Captain or Colonel," whatever invocation

Suit our hymn the best, no matter for thy sta

tion,

On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes
of a mighty nation!

Long as the sun doth shine upon it,
Shall glow the goodly pine upon it,
Long as the stars do gleam upon it,
Shall memory come to dream upon it.
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.