Oh! why amid this hallowed scene. Should signs of mortal feud be found; Why seek with such vain gauds to wean Our thoughts from holier relics 'round? More fitting emblems here abound Of glory's bright, unfading wreath;— Conquests, with purer triumphs crowned;— Proud victories over Sin and Death! Of these how many records rise Before my chastened spirit now; Memorials, pointing to the skies, Of Christian battles fought below. What need of yon stern things to shew That darker deeds have oft been done?— Is't not enough for Man to know He lives but through the blood of ONE! And thou, mild delegate of God, Whose words of balm, and guiding light. Would lead us, from earth's drear abode, To worlds with bliss for ever bright,— What have the spoils of mortal fight To do with themes 'tis thine to teach? Faith's saving grace—each sacred rite Thou know'st to practice as to preach! The blessings of the contrite heart, Thy bloodless conquests best proclaim; The tears from sinners' eyes that start, Are meetest records of thy fame. The glory that may grace thy name From loftier triumphs sure must spring;— The grateful thoughts thy worth may claim, Trophies like these can never bring! Then, wherefore on this sainted spot, With peace and love, and hope imbued,— Some vision calm of bliss to blot, And turn our thoughts on deeds of blood,— Should signs of battle-fields intrude:— Man wants no trophies here of strife; His Oriflamme—Faith unsubdued;— His Panoply—a spotless life!

THE BRITISH SAILOR'S SONG

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM

Away with bayonet and with lance, With corslet, casque and sword; Our island king no war-horse needs, For on the sea he's lord. His throne's the war-ship's lofty deck, His sceptre is the mast; His kingdom is the rolling wave, His servant is the blast. His anchor's up, fair Freedom's flag Proud to the mast he nails; Tyrants and conquerors bow your heads, For there your terror sails. I saw fierce Prussia's chargers stand, Her children's sharp swords out;— Proud Austria's bright spurs streaming red, When rose the closing shout. But soon the steeds rushed masterless, By tower and town and wood; For lordly France her fiery youth Poured o'er them like a flood. Go, hew the gold spurs from your heels, And let your steeds run free; Then come to our unconquered decks, And learn to reign at sea. Behold you black and battered hulk That slumbers on the tide, There is no sound from stem to stern, For peace has plucked her pride. The masts are down, the cannon mute, She shews nor sheet nor sail; Nor starts forth with the seaward breeze, Nor answers shout nor hail. Her merry men with all their mirth, Have sought some other shore; And she with all her glory on, Shall rule the sea no more. So landsmen speak.—Lo! her top-masts Are quivering in the sky Her sails are spread, her anchor's raised, There sweeps she gallant by. A thousand warriors fill her decks; Within her painted side The thunder sleeps—man's might has nought Can match or mar her pride. In victor glory goes she forth, Her stainless flag flies free, Kings of the earth come and behold How Britain reigns on sea! When on your necks the armed foot Of fierce Napoleon trod; And all was his save the wide sea, Where we triumphant rode: He launched his terror and his strength, Our sea-born pride to tame; They came—they got the Nelson-touch, And vanished as they came. Go, hang your bridles in your halls, And set your war-steels free: The world has one unconquer'd king, And he reigns on the sea!

Mr. Watts, the editor, besides the stanzas we have quoted, has contributed indeed less than other editors, in similar works, and much less than we could wish, for we are sincere admirers of his plaintive muse. His preface should be read with due attention, for it is calculated to set the public right on the fate and merit of numberless works.

THE FORGET ME NOT

The avant-courier of the "Annuals" is of equal literary merit with its precursors; but not quite equal in its engravings—The Sisters' Dream, by Davenport, from a drawing by Corbould, is, however, placidly interesting; the Bridal Morning, by Finden, is also a pleasing scene; and the Seventh Plague of Egypt, by Le Keux, from a design by Martin, though in miniature, is terrific and sublime. In the literary department we especially notice the Sun-Dial, a pensive tale, by Delta, but too long for extract; and the Sky-Lark by the Ettrick Shepherd, soaring with all the freshness and fancy of that extraordinary genius. The Sword, a beautiful picture of martial woe, by Miss Landon, is subjoined:—

'Twas the battle field, and the cold pale moon Look'd down on the dead and dying, And the wind pass'd o'er with a dirge and a wail, Where the young and the brave were lying. With his father's sword in his red right hand. And the hostile dead around him, Lay a youthful chief: but his bed was the ground, And the grave's icy sleep had bound him. A reckless Rover, 'mid death and doom, Pass'd a soldier, his plunder seeking: Careless he stept where friend and foe Lay alike in their life-blood reeking. Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword, The soldier paused beside it: He wrench'd the hand with a giant's strength, But the grasp of the dead defied it. He loosed his hold, and his English heart Took part with the dead before him, And he honour'd the brave who died sword in hand, As with soften'd brow he leant o'er him. "A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, A soldier's grave won by it: Before I would take that sword from thine hand, My own life's blood should dye it. "Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow, Or the wolf to batten o'er thee: Or the coward insult the gallant dead, Who in life had trembled before thee." Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth Where his warrior foe was sleeping, And he laid him there in honour and rest, With his sword in his own brave keeping.

As a relief, we quote the following characteristic sketch by Miss Mitford:—

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 288, Supplementary Number

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STANZAS

Written on seeing Flags and other Ensigns of War, hanging in a Country Church

BY ALARIC A. WATTS

THE BRITISH SAILOR'S SONG

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM

THE FORGET ME NOT

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