With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,

That well had borne their part But the noblest thing that perished there

Was that young faithful heart !

DEATH.

BYRON.

He who hath bent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled ;
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress;
(Before Decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the line where beauty lingers,)
And mark'd the mild angelic air-
The rapture of repose that's there :-
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the pallid cheek,
And but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not-wins not-weeps not-now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Whose touch thrills with mortality,
And curdles to the gazer's heart,
As if to him it would impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ;-
Yes, but for these, and these alone,
Some moments-ay-one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power,
So fair-so calm-so softly seal'd
The first-last look-by death reveal'd!

THE SWORD.

L. E. LANDON.

'Twas the battle-field, and the cold pale moon

Look'd down on the dead and dying, And the wind pass'd o'er, with a dirge and a wail,

Where the young and the brave were lying.

With his father's sword in his red right hand,

And the hostile dead around him, Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground,

And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.

A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom,

Pass'd a soldier, his plunder seeking ; Careless he stepp'd where friend and foe

Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.

Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword,

The soldier paused beside it;
He wrench'd the hand with a giant's strength,

But the grasp of the dead defied it.

He loosed his hold, and his English heart

Took part with the dead before him, And he honour'd the brave who died sword in hand,

As with soften'd brow he leant o'er him.

“A soldier's death thou hast boldly died,

A soldier's grave won by it; Before I would take that sword from thy hand,

My own life's blood should dye it.

" Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow,

Ör the wolf to batten o'er thee;
Or the coward insult the gallant dead,

Who in life had trembled before thee."

Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth

Where his warrior foe was sleeping; And he laid him there in honour and rest,

With his sword in his own brave keeping.

A CHURCHYARD SCENE.

WILSON.

How sweet and solemn, all alone,
With reverent step, from stone to stone
In a small village churchyard lying,
O'er intervening flowers to move
And as we read the names unknown,
Of young and old, to judgment gone,
And hear, in the calm air above,
Time onwards softly flying,
To meditate in Christian love,
Upon the dead and dying!

Such is the scene around me now:-
A little churchyard on the brow
Of a green pastoral hill;
It sylvan village sleeps below,
And faintly, here, is heard the flow
Of Woodburn's summer rill;

A place where all things mournful meet,
And, yet, the sweetest of the sweet !-
The stillest of the still !

With what a pensive beauty fall Across the mossy mouldering wall That rose-tree's cluster'd arches! See The robin-redbreast, warily, Bright through the blossoms leave his nest : Sweet ingrate! through the winter blest At the firesides of men-but shy Through all the many summer hours, He hides himself among the flowers In his own wild festivity. What lulling sound, and shadow cool, Hangs half the darkened churchyard o'er, From thy green depths, so beautiful, Thou gorgeous sycamore ! Oft hath the lowly wine and bread Been blest beneath thy murmuring tent; Where many a bright and hoary head Bowed at that awful sacrament. Now all beneath that turf are laid, On which they sat, and sang, and pray'd.. Above that consecrated tree Ascends the tapering spire, that seems To lift the soul up silently To heaven, with all its dreams! While in the belfry, deep and low, From his heaved bosom's purple gleams The dove's continuous murmurs flow, A dirge-like song,-half bliss, half woe, The voice so lonely seems!

THE CONVICT SHIP.

HERVEY

MORN on the waters !-and, purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flashing of light ;
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See, the tall vessel goes gallantly on;
Full to the breeze sbe unbosoms her sail,
And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the

gale ;
The winds come around her, in murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice as they bear her along;
Seel she looks up to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds :
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters,-away, and away!
Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart !
Who -as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high-
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below!

Night on the waves !--and the moon is on high, Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky, Treading its depths in the power of her might, And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to

light! Look to the waters 1-asleep on their breast, Seems not the ship like an island of rest ?