Through dreary days, and darker nights, To see, in one short hour, decayed To feel how vain a father's prayers, To think the cold grave now must close Of all the treasured joys of earth;— Yet when the first wild throb is past To lift the eye of faith to heaven, DALE. THE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. YE mariners of England! Who guard our native seas, Whose flag has braved a thousand years And sweep through the deep While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages long and loud, And the stormy tempests blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, No towers along the steep; When the stormy tempests blow; The meteor-flag of England Till danger's troubled night depart, When the storm has ceased to blow; And the storm has ceased to blow. CAMPBELL. THE FLAG OF ENGLAND. OH, the gallant flag of England rides bravely in the breeze, O'er many a tall and goodly ship-the Monarch of the Seas! Full twice five hundred years ago 'mid warring States it rose; And like a comet in the sky-blazed fiercely o'er our foes: In battles hot, and tempests loud, it streamed above the wave, And taught the wondering world to fear the Island of the Brave! What hallowed names bestud thee, like gems of priceless cost! What deeds of strife, what wreck of life, are on thy folds embossed! The hearts of oak that broke the waves were not more firm and true Than those brave hearts that trod the deck-a bold and fearless crew. In every thread the memory lives of some devoted tar, Whose lofty deeds have made our flag Old England's brightest star. In every sea, from pole to pole, the Red-cross Flag is seen, The herald of Old England's name, wide ocean's peerless queen: From China's walls to old Cape Horn she holds resistless sway; And sweeps along the Western sea to Baffin's icy bay. But though it leads our thunder forth to earth's remotest line, Unsullied honour is the light that makes its glory shine. Oh, the gallant flag of England, where valour, justice, right, Combine to cheer the drooping world with Freedom's holy light! The swarthy tribes of burning climes-the weak, the poor, the slave Have heard her voice, like thunder, boom along the trembling wave: It rived in twain the galling chain, and bade each tyrant know, Who tramples down the rights of man, Old England is his foe. MULLEN. JOY AT A FATHER'S RETURN. SLOWLY the melancholy day In cloud and storm passed o'er; Fearful and wild the tall ships lay Off the rude Northumbrian shore, 'Mid the thunder's crash, and the lightning's ray, And the dashing ocean's roar. And many a father's heart beat high With an aching fear of woe, As he gazed upon the ghastly sky, Or watched, with sad and anxious eye, Oh! many a mournful mother wept, The babe that soft and sweetly slept Upon her troubled breast; While every hour that lingering crept And one upon the couch was laid, In deep and helpless pain; Two children sought her side, and played, And strove to cheer-in vain, Till breathlessly, and half afraid, They listened to the rain. ""Tis a rough sea your father braves!" The afflicted mother said; 'Pray that the Holy Arm that saves May guard his precious head! May shield him from the wrecking waves, Then low the children bended there, With clasped hands, to implore That God would save them from despair, And the heavens heard that quiet prayer 'Twas eve-and cloudlessly at last The painted pennon streamed; Swift to the desolated beach The fisher's children hied; But, far as human sight could reach, Still on they watched—and with sweet speech Long, long they sat-when, lo! a light And distant speck was seen, Small as the smallest star of night, When night is most serene! But to the fisher's boy that sight A sight of bliss had been! "It comes!" he cried; our father's boat! See, sister!-by yon stone! Not there-not there-still more remote- Look!-look again !-they nearer float! Four happy, grateful hearts, were those The mother half forgot her woes, And kissed and blessed them all! "Praised, praised," she said, "be He who shows Sweet mercy when we call !" C. SWAIN. |