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Toll for the brave;
The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave
Fast by. their native shore!
Eight hundred of the brave
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel
And laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds
And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock,
She sprang no fatal leek,
She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up
Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with the cup
The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again

Full charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main:
But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er;
And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.


HEARTS good and true,

Have wishes few,
In narrow circles bounded;

And hope that lives,

On what God gives,
Is Christian hope well founded.

Small things are best,

Grief and un-rest,
With wealth and rank are given,

But little things,

On little wings,
Bear little souls to heaven.



OR BOLTON PRIORY. “ What is good for a bootless bene ? " With these dark words begins my tale; And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring When Prayer is of no avail ? “What is good for a bootless bene ?" The Falconer to the Lady said ;

And she made answer “endless sorrow !"
For she knew her son was dead.
She knew it by the Falconer's words,
And from the look of the Falconer's eye;
And from the love which was in her soul
For her youthful Romilly.
Young Romilly through Barden woods
Is ranging high and low;
And holds a greyhound in a leash,
To let slip upon buck or doe.
The pair have reached that fearful chasm,
How tempting to bestride!
For lordly Wharf is there pent in
With rocks on either side.
The striding-place is called The Strid,
A name which it took of yore:
A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.
And hither is young Romilly come,
And what may now forbid
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall bound across The Strid ?
He sprang in glee,-for what cared he
That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?
But the greyhound in the leash hung back,
And checked him in his leap.
The boy is in the arms of Wharf,
And strangled by a merciless force;
For never more was young Romilly seen
Till he rose a lifeless corse.
Now there is stillness in the vale,
And long, unspeaking sorrow:

Wharf shall be to pitying hearts
A name more sad than Yarrow.
If for a lover the lady wept,
A solace she might borrow
From death and from the passion of death:-
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.
She weeps not for the wedding day
Which was to be to-morrow;
Her hope was a further looking hope,
And her's is a mother's sorrow,
He was a tree that stood alone,
And proudly did its branches wave;
And the root of this delightful tree
Was in her husband's grave!
Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first words were, “ Let there be
“In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
“A stately Priory!”
The stately Priory was reared; .
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at evensong.
And the lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief!
But slowly did her succour come,
And a patience to her grief.
Oh! there is never sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn, and ask
Of Him to be our friend!


On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lar the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery!

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
hach horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven!
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven !
And, londer than the bolts of heaven,

Far flash'd the red artillery!

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier vet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly!

"Tis morn, --but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurons canopy!

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry !

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