Their shots along the deep slowly boom;-
Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shattered sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom!

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hailed them o'er the wave,
"Ye are brothers! ye are men!
"And we conquer but to save!
"So peace, instead of death, let us bring:
"But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
"With the crews, at England's feet,
"And make submission meet
"To our king."

Then Denmark bless'd our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from the day;

While the sun look'd shining bright,

O'er a wide and woful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise!
For the tidings of the might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,

On the deck of fame that died ;

With the gallant good Riou:

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave.

Campbell.

63.

BANNOCKBURN;

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

Scors, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to the glorious victorie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour-
See the front o' battle lower;

See approach proud Edward's power-
Edward! chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?

Traitor! coward! turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa'?
Caledonian! on wi' me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By our sons in servile chains!

We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be-shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!

Liberty's in every blow!

Forward! let us do, or die!

Burns.

64.-ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF

CLAPHAM ACADEMY.

Ан me! those old familiar bounds!

That classic house, those classic grounds

My pensive thought recalls!

What tender urchins now confine,

What little captives now repine,
Within yon irksome walls?

Ay, that's the very house! I know
Its ugly windows, ten a-row!
Its chimneys in the rear!

And there's the iron rod so high,

That drew the thunder from the sky

And turn'd our table beer!

There I was birch'd! there I was bred!
There like a little Adam fed

From Learning's woful tree!
The weary tasks I used to con!
The hopeless leaves I wept upon!
Most fruitless leaves to me!

The summon'd class! the awful bow!
I wonder who is master now

And wholesome anguish sheds!

How

many ushers now employs,
How many maids to see the boys
Have nothing in their heads!
And Mrs S-? Doth she abet
(Like Pallas in the parlour) yet
Some favour'd two or three,-
The little Crichtons of the hour,
Her muffin-medals that devour,
And swill her prize—bohea?

Ay, there's the playground! there's the lime,
Beneath whose shade in summer's prime
So wildly I have read !

Who sits there now, and skims the cream
Of young Romance, and weaves a dream
Of Love and Cottage-bread ?

Who struts the Randall of the walk?
Who models tiny heads in chalk?

Who scoops the light canoe?
What early genius buds apace?

Where's Paynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase?
Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew ?

Alack! they're gone-a thousand ways!
And some are serving in "the Greys,"
And some have perish'd young !—

Jack Harris weds his second wife;
Hal Baylis drives the wane of life;

And blithe Carew-is hung!

Grave Bowers teaches ABC
To savages at Owhyee;

Poor Chase is with the worms!
All, all are gone-the olden breed!
New crops
of mushroom boys succeed,
"And push us from our forms! "

Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout, And leap, and skip and mob about,

At play where we have play'd!

Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine
Their crony arms; some in the shine,—
And some are in the shade!

Lo there what mix'd conditions run!
The orphan lad; the widow's son;
And Fortune's favour'd care-
The wealthy-born, for whom she hath
Mac-Adamised the future path-
The Nabob's pamper'd heir!

Some brightly starr'd—some evil born,—
For honour some, and some for scorn,-
For fair or foul renown!

Good, bad, indiff'rent-none may lack!
Look, here's a White, and there's a Black!
And there's a Creole brown!

Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, And wish their "frugal sires would keep "Their only sons at home;

Some tease the future tense and plan
The full-grown doings of the man,
And pant for years to come!

A foolish wish! There's one at hoop;
And four at fives! and five who stoop
The marble taw to speed!

And one that curvets in and out,
Reining his fellow Cob about,—
Would I were in his stead!

Yet he would gladly halt and drop
That boyish harness off, to swop

With this world's heavy van