My thoughts shall fondly turn to you,

Of you my love shall be the strain; And when we've bow'd the treach'rous foe,

Vindictive of our country's wrong, Returning home, my heart shall show

No fiction graced my artless song.



USING on the roaring ocean

Which divides my love and me;
Wearying Heaven in warm devotion

For his weal where'er he be;
Hope and fear's alternate billow,

Yielding late to nature's law;
Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow

Talk of him that's far awa'.

Ye, whom sorrow never wounded,

Ye, who never shed a tear,
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded,

Gaudy day to you is dear.
Gentle night, do thou befriend me;

Downy sleep, the curtain draw;
Spirits kind, again attend me,

Talk of him that's far awa'.



HE sea was bright, and the bark rode well,

And the breeze bore the sound of the

vesper bell;

'Twas a gallant bark, with a crew as bravo 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 neard the land wherein beauty smiles,
The sunny shore of the Grecian isles;
All thought of home, and that welcome dear,
That soon should greet each wand'rer's ear;
And in fancy join'd the social throng,
And the festive dance and the joyous song.

A white cloud flies through the azure sky,
What means that wild despairing cry?
Farewell the vision'd scenes of home!
The cry is help where no help can come;
For the white squall rides on the surging wave,
And the bark is gulph'd in an ocean grave.


H, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben

Sweet Alice, with hair so brown?
She wept with delight when you gave her

a smile,
And trembled with fear at your

In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt,

In a corner, obscure and alone,
They have fitted a slab of granite so gray,

And sweet Alice lies under the stone.

Oh, don't you remember the wood, Ben Bolt,

Near the green sunny slope of the hill; Where oft we have sung ’neath its wide-spreading

And kept time to the click of the mill ?
The mill has gone to decay, Ben Bolt,

And a quiet now reigns all around;
See the old rustic porch, with its roses so sweet,

Lies scatter'd and mould'ring on the ground.

Oh, don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,

And the master, so kind and so true,
And the little nook, by the clear running-brook,

Where we gather'd the flowers as they grew?
On the master's grave grows the grass, Ben Bolt,

And the once purling brook is now dry; Whilst of all the young throng who were schoolmates

then, There remains only you, Ben, and I.


Duet by M. P. King, in Arnold's “ Up all night.

HEN in the storm on Albion's coast
The night-watch guards his weary post,

From thoughts of danger free,

He marks some vessel's dusky form, And hears, amid the howling storm,

The minute gun at sea.

Swift on the shore a hardy few
The lifeboat man with gallant crew,

And dare the dangerous wave;
Through the wild surf they cleave their way,
Lost in the foam, nor know dismay,

For they go the crew to save.

But oh, what rapture fills each breast
Of the hopeless crew of the ship distress’d!
Then, landed safe, what joy to tell
Of all the dangers that befell!
Then is heard no more,
By the watch on the shore,

The minute gun at sea.



ON of the ocean isle, where sleep your

mighty dead? Show me what stately pile is rear'd o'er

Glory's bed ; 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'er

sway'd, With fearful power the noonday reigns, and the palm

tree 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!

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