My thoughts shall fondly turn to you, MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. BURNS. USING on the roaring ocean Which divides my love and me; Hope and fear's alternate billow, Ye, whom sorrow never wounded, Spirits kind, again attend me, Talk of him that's far awa'. THE WHITE SQUALL. RICHARD JOHNS. HE sea was bright, and the bark rode well, vesper bell; 'Twas a gallant bark, with a crew as brave As e'er was launch'd on the surging wave; She shone in the light of declining day, And each sail was set, and each heart was gay. She near'd the land wherein beauty smiles, A white cloud flies through the azure sky, BEN BOLT. H, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Sweet Alice, with hair so brown? She wept with delight when you gave her And trembled with fear at your frown: They have fitted a slab of granite so gray, Oh, don't you remember the wood, Ben Bolt, Where oft we have sung 'neath its wide-spreading shade, And kept time to the click of the mill? See the old rustic porch, with its roses so sweet, Oh, don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, Whilst of all the young throng who were schoolmates then, There remains only you, Ben, and I. THE MINUTE GUN. R. S. SHARPE. Duet by M. P. KING, in ARNOLD'S "Up all night." HEN in the storm on Albion's coast He marks some vessel's dusky form, And hears, amid the howling storm, Swift on the shore a hardy few And dare the dangerous wave; But oh, what rapture fills each breast Of all the dangers that befell! Then is heard no more, By the watch on the shore, The minute gun at sea. ENGLAND'S DEAD. BY MRS. HEMANS. ON of the ocean isle, where sleep your Show me what stately pile is rear'd o'er Stranger, go track the deep; free, free the white sail spread, Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sleep, where rest not England's dead. On Egypt's burning plains, by the pyramids o'ersway'd, With fearful power the noonday reigns, and the palmtree yields no shade, But let the angry sun from heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done; there slumber England's dead. On the frozen deeps repose-'tis a dark and fearful hour, When round the ship the ice-fields close to chain her with their power. But let the ice drift on, let the cold blue desert spread, Their course with mast and flag is done, there slumber England's dead! |