Page images


As now the shades of eve imbrown

The scene where pensive poets rove;
From care remote, from envy's frown,
The joys of inward calm I prove.
What holy strains around me swell,
No wildly rude tumultuous sound;
They fix the soul in magic spell,

Soft let me tread this favour'd ground.
Sweet is the gale that breathes the spring,
Sweet through the vale yon winding stream,
Sweet are the notes love's warblers sing,
But sweeter, friendship's solemn theme.


As o'er the varied meads I stray,

Or trace through winding woods my way,
While opening flowers their sweets exhale,
And odours breathe in every gale:

Where sage contentment builds her seat,
And peace attends the calm retreat;
My soul responsive hails the scene,
Attun'd to joy and peace within.
But musing on the liberal Hand
That scatters blessings o'er the land;
That gives for man, with power divine,
The earth to teem, the sun to shine;
My grateful heart with rapture burns,
And pleasure to devotion turns.



'BLow, warder, blow thy sounding horn, ' And thy banner wave on high;

For the Christians have fought in the holy land, "And have won the victory.'

Loud the warder blew his horn,

And his banner wav'd on high;

Let the mass be sung, and the bells be rung,
And the feast eat merrily.

The warder look'd from the tower on high,
As far as he could see,-

'I see a bold knight, and by his red cross,
'He comes from the east country.'

Then loud the warder blew his horn,
And call'd till he was hoarse,

'I see a bold knight, and on his shield bright
'He beareth a flaming cross.'

Then down the lord of the castle came,

The red cross knight to meet,

And when the red cross knight he espied,

Right loving did him greet.

'Thou'rt welcome here, dear red cross knight,

'For thy fame's well known to me,

' And the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be

[blocks in formation]

'Oh, I am come from the holy land,
'Where Saints did live and die ;
'Behold the device I bear on my shield,
'The red cross knight am I :

[ocr errors]

And we have fought, in the holy land,

' And we've won the victory,

For with valiant might, did the Christians fight,
And made the proud pagans fly.'

• Thou'rt welcome here, dear red cross knight, 'Come lay thy armour by;

And for the tidings thou dost bring,

'We'll feast us merrily.

'For all in my castle shall rejoice,

'That we've won the victory ;

' And the mass shall be sung, and the bells shall be rung, And the feast eat merrily.



WHEN 'tis night, and the mid-watch is come,
And chilling mists hang o'er the dark'ned main :
Then sailors think of their far-distant home,
And of those friends they ne'er may see again;
But when the fight's begun,

Each serving at his gun,

Should any thought of them come o'er your mind:
Think only should the day be won,

How 'twill cheer,

Their hearts to hear,

That their old companion he was one.

Or, my lad, if you a mistress kind

Have left on shore, some pretty girl and true, Who many a night doth listen to the wind, And sighs, to think how it may fare with you : O when the fight's begun,

You serving at your gun,

Should any thought of her come o'er your

Think only should the day be won,

How 'twill cheer,

Her heart to hear

That her own true sailor he was one.



WHEN Britain, on her sea-girt shore,
Her ancient druids first addrest;
'What aid (she cried) shall I implore?

[ocr errors]

'What best defence, by numbers prest ?'Though hostile nations round thee rise,

(The mystic oracles replied)

'And view thine Isle with envious eyes,

'Their threats defy, their rage deride;

'Nor fear invasion from those adverse Gauls,

‹ Britain's best bulwarks are-her wooden walls.

'Thine oaks descending to the main,

'With floating force shall stem the tides,

Asserting Britain's liquid reign,

'Where'er thy thund'ring navy rides.

[ocr errors]

Nor less to peaceful arts inclin'd, 'Where commerce opens all her stores, In social bands shall league mankind, 'And join the sea-divided shores : 'Spread then thy sails where naval glory calls, 'Britain's best bulwarks are-her wooden walls.'

Hail, happy Isle ! what though thy vales
No vine-empurpled tribute yield,
Nor fan'd with odour-breathing gales,
Nor crops spontaneous glad the field;
Yet liberty rewards the toil

Of industry, to labour prone,
Who jocund ploughs the grateful soil,
And reaps the harvest she has sown :

While other realms tyrannic sway enthrals,
Britain's best bulwarks are-her wooden walls.

« EelmineJätka »