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Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead!
Imperishable type of evanescence!

Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed,
And standest undecay'd within our presence,
Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment-morning,
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning.
Why should this worthless tegument endure,
If its undying guest be lost for ever?

O let us keep the soul embalm'd and pure
In living virtue, that, when both must sever,
Although corruption may our frame consume,
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.

HORACE SMITH.

VIII.-Ye Mariners of England.

YE mariners of England,

That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has brav'd, 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 loud and long,
And the 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 wave,
Her home is on the deep:

With thunder from her native oak,

She quells the floods below,

As they roar on the shore,

While the stormy tempests blow;
While 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
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceas'd to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceas'd to blow.

CAMPBELL.

IX.-Extracts from Burns.

The Daisy.-Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour',

For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem ;

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

Thou bonnie gem.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy bosom, sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise ;

But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv❜n,

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n
By human pride or cunning driv'n,

To mis'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of every stay but Heav'n,

He ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate

That fate is thine-no distant date;

Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

Pleasures. But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow-fails in the river,

A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.

ABard's Epitaph.-Is there a man, whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer,

Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave;

Here, pause-and, thro' the starting tear,

Survey this grave.

The

poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame.
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole

In low pursuit ;

Know, prudent, cautious, self-control,

Is wisdom's root.

X.-Hannibal on the Alps.

He has toil'd to the Alpine brow,

Still red from Saguntum's woe;
He stands where no foot of man till now
Hath sullied the virgin snow.

Beneath is the eagle's nest,

And clouds in dim wreaths curl'd;

And his glances dart south, and east, and west,
Over the subject world;

But life's flood in his bounding heart beats high,
As he looks on the plains of Italy.

From the sands of the burning south
He revell'd in sunny Spain;
He saw the cool Ebro's waters rush,
And he gazed on the Western main.
He traversed the realm of Gaul;
And now, from the midway air,

How worthless with him is the thought of all,
To the empire before him there;
For the Queen of Nations beneath him lies,
The crown of a hundred victories'

His warriors trail dark and slow,

Up the peak where their leader stands; By defile and torrent they wind below,— Those daring heroic bands!

They shall that fair land see,

Where, marching o'er hill and plain, They will shout in delirium of victory, For Trebia and Thrasymene;

And the conqueror conquering, in vengeful hour,

Their country's wrath on the Roman pour.

XI.-The Alps.

C. REDDING.

WHO first beholds the Alps-that mighty chain
Of mountains stretching on from east to west,
So massive, yet so shadowy, so ethereal,
As to belong rather to heaven than earth-
But instantly receives into his soul

A sense, a feeling that he loses not,

A something that informs him 'tis a moment
Whence he may date henceforward and forever?
To me they seem'd the barriers of a world,
Saying, Thus far, no farther! and as o'er
The level plain I travell'd silently,

Nearing them more and more, day after day,
My wandering thoughts my only company,
And they before me still, oft as I look'd,

A strange delight, mingled with fear, came o'er me,
A wonder as at things I had not heard of!
Oft as I look'd, I felt as though it were

For the first time!

Great was the tumult there,

Deafening the din, when in barbaric pomp
The Carthaginian on his march to ROME
Enter'd their fastnesses. Trampling the snows,
The war-horse rear'd; and the tower'd elephant
Upturn'd his trunk into the murky sky,

Then tumbled headlong, swallow'd up and lost,
He and his rider.

ROGERS.

Above me are the Alps,

The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned Eternity in icy halls

Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche-the thunderbolt of snow!
All that expands the spirit, yet appals,
Gather around these summits, as to show
How earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man
below.

Alps and other Mountains.—Once more upon the woody Apennine,

The infant Alps, which-had I not before

Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar

The thundering lauwine-might be worshipp'd more;
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar
Glaciers of bleak Mont-Blanc both far and near,
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear,

Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name;
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly
Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame,
For still they soar'd unutterably high:
I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye;
Athos, Olympus, Etna, Atlas, made
These hills seem things of lesser dignity,
All, save the lone Soracte's heights display'd
And now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid.

BYRON.

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