PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY.

"The land shall never rue,

So England to herself do prove but true.'

"

SHAKSPEARE.

THROUGH evening's bright repose
A voice of prayer arose,

When the sea-fight was done :
The sons of England knelt,

With hearts that now could melt,
For on the wave her battle had been won.

Round their tall ship, the main
Heaved with a dark red stain,
Caught not from sunset's cloud;
While with the tide swept past
Pennon and shiver'd mast,

Which to the Ocean Queen that day had bow'd.

But free and fair on high,

A native of the sky,

Her streamer met the breeze;

It flow'd o'er fearless men,

Though hush'd and child-like then,

Before their God they gather'd on the seas.

Oh! did not thoughts of home

O'er each bold spirit come

As, from the land, sweet gales?

In every word of prayer

Had not some hearth a share,

Some bower, inviolate 'midst England's vales?

Yes! bright green spots that lay
In beauty far away,

Hearing no billows roar;

Safer from touch of spoil,

For that day's fiery toil,

Rose on high hearts, that now with love gush'd o'er.

A solemn scene and dread!

The victors and the dead,

The breathless burning sky!

And, passing with the race
Of waves that keep no trace,
The wild, brief signs of human victory!

A stern, yet holy scene!

Billows, where strife hath been,
Sinking to awful sleep;

And words, that breathe the sense
Of God's omnipotence,

Making a minster of that silent deep.

Borne through such hours afar,

Thy flag hath been a star,

Where eagle's wing ne'er flew ;

England! the unprofaned,

Thou of the hearths unstain'd,

Oh! to the banner and the shrine be true!

EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY.

FATHER of heaven and earth!

I bless thee for the night,
The soft, still night!

The holy pause of care and mirth,
Of sound and light!

Now, far in glade and dell,
Flower-cup, and bud, and bell,

Have shut around the sleeping woodlark's nest―
The bee's long murmuring toils are done,
And I, the o'erwearied one,
O'erwearied and o'erwrought,

Bless thee, O God! O Father of the oppress'd,
With my last waking thought,
In the still night!

Yes, e'er I sink to rest,

By the fire's dying light,

Thou Lord of earth and heaven!

I bless thee, who hast given

Unto life's fainting travellers, the night,
The soft, still, holy night!

THE DAY OF FLOWERS.

A MOTHER'S WALK WITH HER CHILD.

"One spirit-His

Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows,
Rules universal nature.-Not a flower

But shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires

Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues,
And bathes their eyes with nectar.
Happy who walks with him!"

Cowper.

COME to the woods, my boy!

Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth,
My happy child! The spirit of bright hours
Woos us in every wind; fresh wild-leaf scents
From thickets where the lonely stock-dove broods,
Enter our lattice; fitful songs of joy

Float in with each soft current of the air;

And we will hear their summons; we will give
One day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad thoughts,
And thou shalt revel 'midst free nature's wealth,
And for thy mother twine wild wreaths; while she
From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart
The vernal extasy of childhood back:
Come to the woods, my boy!

What! wouldst thou lead already to the path
Along the copsewood brook? Come, then! in truth
Meet playmate for a child, a blessed child,
Is a glad singing stream, heard or unheard,
Singing its melody of happiness

Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace

To that sweet chime. With what a sparkling life
It fills the shadowy dingle !-now the wing
Of some low skimming swallow shakes bright spray
Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave;
Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep,
The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam
And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings
Of mazy insects o'er the shallow tide

Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light
From burnish'd films! And mark yon silvery line
Of gossamer, so tremulously hung

Across the narrow current, from the tuft
Of hazels to the hoary poplar's bough!
See, in the air's transparence, how it waves,
Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale,
Yet breaking not—a bridge for fairy shapes,
How delicate, how wondrous!

Yes, my boy!

Well may we make the stream's bright winding vein Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness,

For ever deepening.

Oh, forget him not,

Dear child! that airy gladness which thou feel'st
Wafting thee after bird and butterfly,

As 'twere a breeze within thee, is not less
His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours,
Than this rich outward sunshine, mantling all
The leaves, and grass, and mossy tinted stones
With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step,
My merry wanderer! let us rest a while

By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung
From alder boughs and osiers o'er its breast,