THE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

YE mariners of England!

Who 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 the battle rages long and loud,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirits 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 long and loud, And the stormy tempests 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 tempests blow; When the battle rages long and loud, 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

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.

A PATH, A FLOWER, A STREAM,

A THREAD, A RACE.

Then, climbing many a rugged height,

Over strange hills, it goes from sight.

Life is a brittle flower,

Put forth in early spring,

Within the sheltering bower,

In beauty blossoming;

Ere long, some blight across it flies,

Or, in the winter storm, it dies.

Life is a sparkling stream, Through pleasant pastures led; But when the summer's beam Falls hotly on its bed, Perchance, before it gains the sea, It dries away, all suddenly.

Life is a slender thread,

Like filmy gossamer,
That, floating overhead,

The slightest breath may stir;

The waving bough,—the autumn wind
But moves, and who the thread shall find ?

Life is a race to run,

And heaven the distant prize;

By few the crown is won;

For few are truly wise;

The things of this short life they choose;

The endless life of heaven-refuse !

J. TAYLOR.

THE MILLENNIAL SABBATH.

YES! Salem! thou shalt rise: thy Father's aid
Shall heal the wound his chastening hand has made ;
Shall judge the proud oppressor's ruthless sway,
And burst his brazen bonds, and cast his cords away.
Then on your tops shall deathless verdure spring;
Break forth, ye mountains, and, ye valleys, sing!
No more your thirsty rocks shall frown forlorn,
The unbeliever's jest, the heathen's scorn;

E

The sultry sand shall tenfold harvests yield,
And a new Eden deck the thorny field.

E'en now, perhaps, wide waving o'er the land,
The mighty angel lifts his golden wand ;
Courts the bright vision of descending power,
Tells every gate, and measures every tower;
And chides the tardy seals that yet detain
Thy Lion, Judah, from his destin'd reign.

And who is He, the vast, the awful form,
Girt with the whirlwind, sandal'd with the storm?
A western cloud around his limbs is spread,
His crown a rainbow, and a sun his head.
To highest heaven he lifts his kingly hand,
And treads at once the ocean and the land.
And, hark! his voice amid the thunders' roar,
His dreadful voice-that Time shall be no more.
Lo! cherub-hands the golden courts prepare.
Lo! thrones are set, and every saint is there;
Earth's utmost bounds confess their awful sway;
The mountains worship, and the isles obey:
Nor sun nor moon they need-nor day nor night;
God is their temple, and the Lamb their light.
And shall not Israel's sons exulting come,

Hail the glad beam, and claim their ancient home?
On David's throne shall David's offspring reign,
And the dry bones be warm with life again.
Hark! white-rob'd crowds their deep hosannas raise,
And the hoarse flood repeats the sound of praise;
Ten thousand harps attune the mystic song,
Ten thousand thousand saints the strain prolong:
"Worthy the Lamb! omnipotent to save,

Who died, who lives, triumphant o'er the grave!"

HEBER.

THE DESTROYING ANGEL.

"To your homes," said the leader of Israel's host, "And slaughter a sacrifice :

Let the life-blood be sprinkled on each door-post,

Nor știr till the morn arise;

And the Angel of Vengeance shall pass you by,
He shall see the red stain, and shall not come nigh
Where the hope of your household lies."

The people hear, and they bow them low-
Each to his house hath flown;

The lamb is slain, and with blood they go,
And sprinkle the lintel-stone;

And the doors they close when the sun hath set,
But few in oblivious sleep forget

The judgment to be done.

'Tis midnight-yet they hear no sound

Along the lone still street:

No blast of a pestilence sweeps the ground,

No tramp of unearthly feet,

Nor rush as of harpy-wing goes by,

But the calm moon floats in the cloudless sky,

'Mid her wan light clear and sweet.

Once only, shot like an arrowy ray,
A pale-blue flash was seen;

It pass'd so swift, the eye scarce could say

That such a thing had been:

Yet the beat of every heart was still,

And the flesh crawl'd fearfully and chill,

And back flow'd every vein.