THE NAME OF ENGLAND.

THE trumpet of the battle

Hath a high and thrilling tone;

And the first deep gun of an ocean fight

Dread music all its own.

But a mightier power, my England!

Is in that name of thine,

To strike the fire from every heart
Along the banner'd line.

Proudly it woke the spirits

Of yore, the brave and true,

When the bow was bent on Cressy's field,

And the yeoman's arrow flew.

T

And proudly hath it floated

Through the battles of the sea,

When the red-cross flag o'er smoke-wreaths play'd Like the lightning in its glee.

On rock, on wave, on bastion,

Its echoes have been known,

By a thousand streams the hearts lie low,

That have answered to its tone.

A thousand ancient mountains
Its pealing note hath stirr'd;
-Sound on, and on, for evermore,
O thou victorious word!

OLD NORWAY.

A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG.

"To a Norwegian the words Gamle Norgé (Old Norway) have a spell in them immediate and powerful; they cannot be resisted. Gamlé Norgé is heard, in an instant repeated by every voice; the glasses are filled, raised, and drained; not a drop is left; and then bursts forth the simultaneous chorus "For Norge!” the national song of Norway. Here, (at Christiansand) and in a hundred other instances in Norway, I have seen the character of a company entirely changed by the chance introduction of the expression Gamle Norge. The gravest discussion is instantly interrupted; and one might suppose for the moment, that the party was a party of patriots, assembled to commemorate some national anniversary of freedom."-Derwent Conway's Personal Narrative of a Journey through Norway and Sweden.

The following words were written to the national air, as contained in the work above cited.

OLD NORWAY.*

A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG.

ARISE! old Norway sends the word

Of battle on the blast;

Her voice the forest pines hath stirr'd,

As if a storm went past;

Her thousand hills the call have heard,
And forth their fire-flags cast.

* These words have been published, as arranged to the spirited national air of Norway, by Charles Graves, Esq.

OLD NORWAY.

Arm, arm, free hunters! for the chase,

The kingly chase of foes;

"Tis not the bear or wild wolf's race,

Whose trampling shakes the snows;

Arm, arm! 'tis on a nobler trace
The northern spearman goes.

Our hills have dark and strong defiles,

With many an icy bed;

Heap there the rocks for funeral piles,

Above the invader's head!

Or let the seas, that guard our Isles,

Give burial to his dead!

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