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LXVI

THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

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.

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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 our 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 waves no more!

LXVII

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!

COWPER.

Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

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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 winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do 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 winds do blow;

When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart
And the star of peace return.

Till 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.

LXVIII

MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.

The Moslem spears were gleaming
Round Damietta's towers,

Though a Christian banner from her wall
Waved free its lily-flowers.

Ay, proudly did the banner wave

As queen of earth and air,

But faint hearts throbbed beneath its folds

In anguish and despair.

Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon
Their kingly chieftain lay,
And low on many an Eastern field

Their knighthood's best array.

'Twas mournful, when at feast they met,
The wine-cup round to send;

For each that touched it silently
Then missed a gallant friend.

And mournful was their vigil
On the beleaguered wall,

And dark their slumber, dark with dreams

Of slow defeat and fall. Yet a few hearts of chivalry

Rose high to breast the storm, And one-of all the loftiest thereThrilled in a woman's form;

A woman, meekly bending

O'er the slumber of her child;
With her soft sad eyes of weeping love
As the Virgin Mother's mild.
Oh! roughly cradled was thy babe

Midst the crash of spear and lance,

And a strange wild bower was thine, young queen!
Fair Marguerite of France !

A dark and vaulted chamber
Like a scene for wizard-spell,

Deep in the Saracenic gloom

Of the warrior citadel;

And there midst arms the couch was spread,

And with banners curtained o'er

For the daughter of the minstrel-land,

The gay Provençal shore

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