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Here never could the spearman pass,

Or forester, unmov'd ;
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass

Llewellyn's sorrow prov'd.

And here he hung his horn and spear ;

And oft, as ev'ning fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell!

SPENCER.

WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR?

Thy neighbour ? it is he whom thou

Hast power to aid and bless,
Whose aching heart or burning brow

Thy soothing hand may press.
Thy neighbour ? — 'tis the fainting poor,

Whose eye with want is dim,
Whom hunger sends from door to door-

Go thou, and succour him.

Thy neighbour? — 'tis that weary man,

Whose years are at their brim,
Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain

Go thou, and comfort him.

Thy neighbour ? —'tis the heart bereft

Of every earthly gem;
Widow and orphan, helpless left —

Go thou, and shelter them.

Thy neighbour ? — yonder toiling slave,

Fetter'd in thought and limb,
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave

Go thou, and ransom him.

Where'er thou meet'st a human form

Less favour'd than thine own,
Remember 'tis thy neighbour worm,

Thy brother or thy son.

Oh! pass not, pass not heedless by,

Perhaps thou canst redeem
The breaking heart from misery -

Go, share thy lot with him.

CASABIANCA. *

The boy stood on the burning deck,

Whence all but he had fled ;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck

Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

As born to rule the storm ; A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though childlike form.

The flames rollid on he would not go,

Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.

He call'd aloud : Say, father, say,

If yet my task is done ? »
He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.

• A boy about thirteen years old, son to the captain of the Orient, remained at his post, in the battle of the Nile, after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned. He perished in the explosion of the vessel when the flames had reached the powder.

“ Speak, father!” once again he cried,

“ If I may yet be gone! And” — but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames rollid on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in the waving hair,
And look'd from that lone post of death,

In still yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,

“ My father! must I stay? ”
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapp'd the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,
And stream'd above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder-sound,

The boy,– oh! where was he ? Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strew'd the sea !

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,

That well had borne their part,-
But the noblest thing which perish'd there,
Was that young and faithful heart.

Mrs. HEMANS,

THE DYING INFANT TO ITS MOTHER.

CEASE here longer to detain me,

Fondest mother, drown'd in woe; Now thy fond caresses pain me,

Morn advances — let me go.

D

See yon orient streak appearing,

Harbinger of endless day-
Hark! a voice, the darkness cheering,

Calls my new-born soul away.

Lately launch’d, a trembling stranger,

On the world's wild boisterous flood, Pierc'd with sorrows, toss'd with danger,

Gladly I return to God.

*

There, my mother, pleasures centre;

Weeping, parting, care, or woe, Ne'er our Father's house shall enter.

Morn advances

let me go

As through this calm, holy dawning,

Silent glides my parting breath, To an everlasting morning,

Gently close mine eyes in death. Blessings endless, richest blessings,

Pour their streams upon thy heart ! Though no language yet possessing

Breathes my spirit ere we part.

Yet, to leave thee sorrowing rends me,

Though again His voice I hear: Rise ! may every grace attend thee; Rise! and seek to meet me there.

CECIL.

ENGLAND'S OAK.

LET India boast its spicy trees,

Whose fruit and gorgeous bloom
Give to each faint and languid breeze

Its rich and rare perfume.
Let Portugal and haughty Spain

Display their orange-groves ;
And France exult her vines to train

Around her trim alcoves.

Old England has a tree as strong,

As stately as them all,
As worthy of a minstrel's song

In cottage and in hall.
'Tis not the yew-tree, though it lends

Its greenness to the grave;
Nor willow, though it fondly bends

Its branches o'er the wave.

Nor birch, although its slender tress

Be beautifully fair,
As graceful in its loveliness

As maiden's flowing hair.
'Tis not the poplar, though its height

May from afar be seen;
Nor beech, although its boughs be dight

With leaves of glossy green.
All these are fair, but they may fling

Their shade unsung by me;
My favourite, and the forest's king,

The British Oak shall be!
Its stem, though rough, is stout and sound,

Its giant branches throw
Their arms in shady blessings round
O'er man and beast below.

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