Or, how the Royal Bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of heaven's avenging ire;
Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry:
Or, rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire;

Or other holy seers that tuned the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay his head: How his first followers and servants sped, The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; How he, who lone in Patmos banished,

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;

And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.

Then, kneeling down to heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays,

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear;

While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.

BURNS.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

YE mariners of England,

That 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 battle rages loud and long, And stormy tempests blow.

The spirit 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 loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. Britannia needs no bulwark,

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 loud and long, 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

E

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.

THE ACORN.

BEAUTIFUL germ! I have set thee low
In the dewy earth; strike, spring, and grow.
Oh! cleave to the soil, and thou may'st be
The king of the woods, a brave, rare tree.
Acorn of England! thou mayest bear
Thy green head high in the mountain air;
Another age, and thy mighty form

May scowl at the sun, and mock at the storm.
A hundred years, and the woodman's stroke
May fiercely fall on thy heart of oak.
Let time roll on, and thy planks may ride
In glorious state o'er the fathomless tide;
Thou may'st baffle the waters, and firmly take
The winds that sweep, and waves that break;
And thy vaunted strength shall as nobly stand
The rage of the sea, as the storm on the land.

A hundred years, and in some fair hall
Thou may'st shine as the polish'd wainscot wall;
And ring with the laugh, and echo the jest,
Of the happy host and the feasting guest.
Acorn of England! deep in the earth
May'st thou live, and burst in flourishing birth :
May thy root be firm, and thy broad arms wave,
When the hand that plants thee is cold in the grave.
ELIZA COOK.

HURRAH! FOR "OLD ENGLAND!"

HURRAH! for "Old England!" Hurrah!
Hurrah! for the land of the free!

To the nations afar, she's a bright polar star,
And first brilliant gem of the sea.
Her law is for rich and for poor,

And right is the might of her sway;

The slave's shackles fall, as he touches her shore, All melted by liberty's ray.

Hurrah! for the land of the brave!

Hurrah! for the flag of the free!

Oh! it floats ever gaily and bright o'er the wave, And homage still claims from the sea!

That flag is unfurl'd to extend

The empire of truth and of mind;

Where its red cross is seen, it shows England the friend,

The unflinching friend of mankind.

We will cling to the land of our birth,

We will cling to the land of our sires;

For our own fatherland is the best spot on earth, And is all that a Briton desires.

Our hearths and our altars are dear,

Our Nobles, our Commons, our King,

We'll defend them afar, and uphold them when near,

And round them still rally, and sing

Hurrah! for "Old England!" Hurrah!
W. MARTIN.

THE LAND OF MY BIRTH.

THERE's a magical tie to the land of our home, Which the heart cannot break, though the footsteps may roam:

Be that land where it may, at the line or the pole,
It still holds the magnet that draws back the soul.
'Tis loved by the freeman, 'tis loved by the slave,
"Tis dear to the coward, more dear to the brave!
Ask of any the spot they like best on the earth,
And they'll answer, with pride, ""Tis the land of
my birth!"

Oh! England! thy white cliffs are dearer to me
Than all the famed coasts of a far foreign sea;
What em'rald can peer, or what sapphire can vie,
With the grass of thy fields, or thy summer-day sky?
They tell me of regions where flowers are found,
Whose perfume and tints spread a paradise round;
But brighter, to me, cannot garland the earth,
Than those that spring forth in the land of my birth!
Did I breathe in a clime where the bulbul is heard,
Where the citron-tree nestles the soft humming-bird,
Oh! I'd covet the notes of thy nightingale still,
And remember the robin that feeds at my sill.
Did my soul find a feast in the gay "land of song,"
In the gondolier's chaunt, or the carnival's throng,
Could I ever forget, 'mid their music and mirth,
The national strain of the land of my birth?

My country, I love thee!-though freely I'd rove Through the western savannah, or sweet orange grove;

Yet warmly my bosom would welcome the gale That bore me away with a homeward-bound sail.