"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hairA tress o' golden hair—

O' drowned maiden's hair-

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel, crawling foam,

The cruel, hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea;

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands o' Dee!

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

On the Death of George the Third.

I

WRITTEN UNDER WINDSOR TERRACE.

SAW him last on this terrace proud,

Walking in health and gladness,

Begirt with his court; and in all the crowd
Not a single look of sadness.

Bright was the sun, the leaves were green-
Blithely the birds were singing;

The cymbals replied to the tambourine,
And the bells were merrily ringing.

I have stood with the crowd beside his bier,
When not a word was spoken-

When every eye was dim with a tear,
And the silence by sobs was broken.

I have heard the earth on his coffin pour
To the muffled drum's deep rolling,
While the minute-gun, with its solemn roar,
Drowned the death-bells' tolling.

ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE THE THIRD. 83

The time-since ne walked in his glory thus,

To the grave till I saw him carried—
Was an age of the mightiest change to us,
But to him a night unvaried.

A daughter beloved, a queen, a son,
And a son's sole child, have perished;
And sad was each heart, save only the one
By which they were fondest cherished:

For his eyes were sealed and his mind was dark,
And he sat in his age's lateness-

Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark
Of the frailty of human greatness;

His silver beard o'er a bosom spread
Unvexed by life's commotion,
Like a yearly lengthening snow-drift shed
On the calm of a frozen ocean.

Still o'er him oblivion's waters lay,

Though the stream of life kept flowing;
When they spoke of our king, 't was but to say
The old man's strength was going.

At intervals thus the waves disgorge,
By weakness rent asunder,

A piece of the wreck of the Royal George,
To the people's pity and wonder.

He is gone at length-he is laid in the dust,
Death's hand his slumbers breaking ;—
For the coffined sleep of the good and just
Is a sure and blissful waking.

His people's heart is his funeral urn;

And should sculptured stone be denied him,
There will his name be found, when in turn
We lay our heads beside him.

HORACE SMITH.

Ye Mariners of England.

I.

E Mariners of England!

YE

That 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 winds do blow

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

II.

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 winds do blow-
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

III.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-wave,

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 TWO VOICES.

IV.

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.

85

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

The Two Voices.

'WO voices are there; one is of the sea,

Two

One of the mountains-each a mighty voice:

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice;

They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee

Thou fought'st against him-but hast vainly striven;
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs, heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left—
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful voice be heard by thee?

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

An Ode.

HAT constitutes a State?

WHAT

Not high raised battlement or labored mound,
Thick wall or moated gate;

Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned;
Not bays and broad-armed ports,

Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;
Not starred and spangled courts,

Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride.
No:-Men, high-minded men,

With powers as far above dull brutes endued
In forest, brake, or den,

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude

Men who their duties know,

But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain,
Prevent the long-aimed blow,

And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain:—
These constitute a State;

And sovereign Law, that State's collected will,
O'er thrones and globes elate,

Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill.
Smit by her sacred frown,

The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks;

And e'en the all-dazzling Crown

Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.
Such was this Heaven-loved isle,

Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore !

No more shall freedom smile?

Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?
Since all must life resign,

Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave

'Tis folly to decline,

And steal inglorious to the silent grave!

SIR WILLIAM JONES.