With spreading wing, untired and strong, The admiration of the earth, In grand simplicity she stands; Like thee, the storms beheld her birth, And she was nursed by rugged hands; But, past the fierce and furious war, Her rising fame new glory brings, For kings and nobles come from far To seek the shelter of her wings. And like thee, rider of the cloud, She mounts the heavens, serene and proud, Great in a pure and noble fame, Great in her spotless champion's name, And destined in her day to be Mighty as Rome-more nobly free. My native land! my native land! To whom my thoughts will fondly turn; For her the warmest hopes expand, For her the heart with fears will yearn. Oh! may she keep her eye, like thee, Proud eagle of the rocky wild, Fix'd on the sun of liberty, By rank, by faction unbeguiled; Remembering still the rugged road Our venerable fathers trod, When they through toil and danger press'd, To gain their glorious bequest, And from each lip the caution fell To those who follow'd, "Guard it well." TO THE AUTHOR OF "POETICAL SKETCHES." BY MISS LANDON. THERE is a dear and lovely power That power is dwelling. Now need I And, graceful Bard, it has breathed on thee Living or lasting offerings: Others may praise thy harp,-for me To praise, were only mockery; The tribute I offer is such a one, As the young bird would pour if the sun Or the air were pleasant: thanks, not praise,Oh, not to laud, but to feel thy lays! THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. BY THE REV. C. WOLFE. NOT a drum was heard,-not a funeral note, O'er the grave where our hero was buried! We buried him darkly, at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 60 BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock told the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun Of the enemy sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. BY THOMAS MACAULEY. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre ! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre. Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land! And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; And, as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, ‘God save our Lord the King.' 'An if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre.' |