Clime of the unforgotten brave! That this is all remains of thee? LORD BYRON. 76. NAPOLEON AND THE YOUNG ENGLISH I1 SAILOR. LOVE contemplating-apart From all his homicidal glory— 'Twas when his banners at Boulogne They suffer'd him, I know not how, His eye, methinks, pursued the flight With envy they could reach the white Dear cliffs of Dover. A stormy midnight watch, he thought, To England nearer. At last, when care had banish'd sleep, He hid it in a cave, and wrought Oh dear me! 'twas a thing beyond For ploughing in the salt sea field, From neighbouring woods he interlaced A French guard caught him on the beach, Till tidings of him chanced to reach With folded arms Napoleon stood, Address'd the stranger. "Rash youth, that wouldst yon channel pass "I have no sweetheart," said the lad; "And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, He gave the tar a piece of gold, Our sailor oft could scantly shift CAMPBELL. 77. THERE'S A GARDEN OF ROSES. THERE'S a garden of roses by Bendamere's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream To sit 'midst the roses, and hear the birds' song. That garden of roses I ne'er can forget; But oft when alone in the spring of the year, I think "Is the nightingale singing there yet? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendamere?" No! the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gather'd while freshly they shone; And a dew was distill'd from the flowrets, that gave The fragrance of summer, when summer was gone. Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus sweet to my heart, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendamere. T. MOORE. 78. NOON-TIDE. P to the throne of God is borne UP The voice of praise at early morn; Nor will He turn his ear aside What though our burden be not light,- Blest are the moments, doubly blest, Look up to heaven! th' industrious sun Help with thy grace, through life's short day, And glorify for us the west, When we shall sink to final rest. WORDSWORTH. 79. THE DEATH OF MARMION. [From MARMION.] WITH fruitless labour, Clara bound, And strove to staunch, the gushing wound: The monk, with unavailing cares, Exhausted all the Church's prayers: Ever he said, that close and near A lady's voice was in his ear, And that the priest he could not hear, For that she ever sung, "In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, "Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!” So the notes rung; |