Through dreary days, and darker nights,

To trace the march of Death ;
To hear the faint and frequent sigh,

The quick and shortened breath;
To watch the last dread strife draw near,

And pray that struggle brief, Though all is ended with its close ;

This is a mother's grief!

To see, in one short hour, decayed

The hope of future years;
To feel how vain a father's prayers,

How vain a mother's tears ;
To think the cold grave now must close

O’er what was once the chief
Of all the treasured joys of earth ;-

This is a mother's grief !

Yet when the first wild throb is past

Of anguish and despair,
To lift the eye of faith to heaven,

And think, “My child is there!”—
This best can dry the gushing tears,

This yields the heart relief; Until the Christian's pious hope

O’ercomes a mother's grief.

DALE.

THE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. YE mariners of England!

Who 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 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,

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 long and loud,

And the stormy tempests blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,

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 long and loud,

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.

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 bright

est 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 clirnes—the weak, the poor,

the slaveHave heard her voice, like thunder, boom along the trem

bling 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.

MOLLEN.

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,

And heard the tempest blow;
Or watched, with sad and anxious eye,

The warring waves below.

Oh! many a mournful mother wept,

And closer, fonder prest,
The babe that soft and sweetly slept

Upon her troubled breast;
While every hour that lingering crept

Her agonies confest!

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,

To aid you—when I'm dead !”

Then low the children bended there,

With clasped hands, to implore

That God would save them from despair,

And their loved sire restore :-
And the heavens heard that quiet prayer

'Mid all the tempest's roar!

'Twas eve—and cloudlessly at last

The sky in beauty gleamed !
O’er snowy sail and lofty mast

The painted pennon streamed ;
The danger and the gloom had passed,

Like horrors-only dreamed !

Swift to the desolated beach

The fisher's children hied ;
But, far as human sight could reach,

No boat swept o'er the tide !
Still on they watched and with sweet speech

To banish grief they tried.

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!

Four happy, grateful hearts, were those

That met at even-fall ;-
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.