CAMPBELL. From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; Their shots along the deep slowly boom: Then ceas'd-and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave: "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save :— So peace instead of death let us bring: And make submission meet To our King." Then Denmark blest our chief That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As Death withdrew his shades from the day; While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Now joy, Old England, raise! BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; By thy wild and stormy steep, Brave hearts to Britain's pride Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave! YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND, YE Mariners of England! 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. 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, YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. Britannia needs no bulwarks, Her march is on 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 winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The meteor flag of England Till danger's troubled night depart, Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow When the storm has ceased to blow; JAMES MONTGOMERY. THE DEATH OF ADAM. THE sun, in summer majesty on high, His orb expanded through a dreary haze, He look'd in sickly horror from his throne: When higher noon had shrunk the lessening shade, And stretch'd him, pillow'd with his latest sheaves, On a fresh couch of green and fragrant leaves. Here, though his sufferings through the glen were known, We chose to watch his dying-bed alone, Eve, Seth, and I.-In vain he sigh'd for rest, And oft his meek complainings thus express'd: "Blow on me, Wind! I faint with heat! O bring Ye Cedars! wash me cold with midnight dews; These sorrowing faces fill my soul with gloom This silence is the silence of the tomb.” The sun went down, amidst an angry glare Of flushing clouds, that crimson'd all the air; The winds brake loose; the forest-boughs were torn, |