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The jessamine clambers in flowers o'er the thatch, And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall,

All trembling with transport he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight;

His cheek is bedewed with a mother's warm tear; And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast, Joy quickens his pulse, all his hardships seem o'er, And a murmur of happiness steals through his

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Oh, God! thou has blest me, I ask for no more!

Ah! whence is the flame that now glares on his eye?

Ah! what is the sound that now bursts on his

ears ?

'T is the lightning's red gleam painting hell on the

sky!

'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the spheres !

He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck Amazement confronts him with images direWild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a-wreck; The masts fly in splinters-the shrouds are on fire!

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell; In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave!

Oh sailor-boy! woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss ; Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss?

Oh! sailor boy! sailor boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay; Unblessed, and unhonoured down deep in the main Full many a fathom thy frame shall decay.

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem thy lost form from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy windingsheet be,

And winds in the winter of midnight thy dirge;

On a bed of sea-flowers thy pale limbs shall be laid, Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow; Cf thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, And each tribe of the deep haunt thy mansion

below.

F

Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away, And still the dark waters above thee shall roll ; Frail, short-sighted mortals their doom must obey ; Oh! sailor boy! sailor boy-peace to thy soul!

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

BY THOMAS MOORE.

FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,

Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim

We sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?

There is not a breath the blue wave to curl !
But when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

Ottewas' tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.

Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers,
Oh! grant us cool heavens, and favouring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Huguenos

BATTLE HYMN OF THE LEAGUE.

BY T. MACAULEY.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all
glories are!

And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of
Navarre !

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of

dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

O! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day,

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand :

And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's impurpled blood;

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his

blood;

And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,

To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour

dressed,

And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern

and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our lord the King!"

And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,

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