IN VERSE,

Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain waves:
Her home is on the deep!

With thunders from her native oak,

She quells the floods below-

As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow!

The meteor-flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

Thunder Storm among the Alps.

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Campbell

It is the hush of night; and all between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen-
Save darken'd Jura, whose capp'd heights appear
Precipitously steep; and drawing near,

There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar;
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more,

He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill!

At intervals, some bird, from out the brakes,
Starts into voice a moment-then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill-
But that is fancy, for the star-light dews
All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.

The sky is changed!---and such a change! O night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong!
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,

From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder!-not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue;
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

And this is in the night:-Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,-
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines!-a phosphoric sea!
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black,—and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,

That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted!
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,
Love was the very root of the fond rage

Which blighted their life's bloom, and then-departed!Itself expired, but leaving them an age

Of years—all winters!-war within themselves to wage!

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way.
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand!
For here, not one, but many, make their play,
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand,
Flashing and cast around! of all the band,

The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd
His lightnings, as if he did understand,
That in such gaps as desolation work'd,

There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd.

Byron.

Ode to Winter.

WHEN first the fiery-mantled sun
His heavenly race began to run,
Round the earth and ocean blue,
His children four, the Seasons, flew.
First, in green apparel dancing,

The young Spring smiled with angel-grace:
Rosy Summer, next advancing,

Rush'd into her sire's embrace

Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,

On India's citron-cover'd isles:

More remote and buxom-brown,

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;

A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone!

But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer-borne car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side,
Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale!
Round the hall where Runic Odin
Howls his war-song to the gale!
Save when adown the ravaged globe
He travels on his native storm,
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe,
And trampling on her faded form:-
Till light's returning lord assume

The shaft that drives him to his polar field,
Of
power to pierce his raven plume,
And crystal-cover'd shield.

O sire of storms.-whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy, with her blood-shot eye,
Implores thy dreadful deity—
Archangel! power of desolation!

Fast descending as thou art,

Say, hath mortal invocation

Spells to touch thy stony heart?

Then sullen winter, hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruin'd year;
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare,
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear;—
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed
Thy horror breathing agues cease to lend;
And gently on the orphan head
Of Innocence descend!-

But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!

The sailor on his airy shrouds;

When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
And spectres walk along the deep!
Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Pour on yonder tented shores,

Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
Or the dark brown Danube roars.

O winds of Winter! list ye there

To many a deep and dying groan;

Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own! Alas! even your unhallow'd breath

May spare the victim, fallen low— But man will ask no truce to death,No bounds to human wo.

Impressions of Boyhood.

Campbell

He who first met the Highlands' swelling blue,
Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue;
Hail in each craig a friend's familiar face,
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace!
Long have I roam'd thro' lands that are not mine,
Ador'd the Alps and lov'd the Apennine,
Rever'd Parnassus, and beheld the steep,
Jove's Ida, and Olympus crown the deep;
But 'twas not all long ages' love, nor all
Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall!
The infant rapture still survived the boy,
And Loch-na-gar, with Ida, looked on Troy;
Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount,
And highland linns with Castalia's clear fount'
Forgive me, Homer's universal shade,
Forgive me, Phoebus, that my fancy stray'd!
The north and Nature taught me to adore
Your scenes sublime, from those beloved before.

The Exile of Erin.

THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when, at twilight, repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill:

But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion;
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fervour of youth's warm emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of ERIN GO bragh!

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Sad is my fate!"-said the heart-broken stranger-
The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine and danger:
A home and a country remain not to me!
Never again, in the green sunny bowers,

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours: Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of ERIN GO BRAGH!

Erin! my country! though sad and forsaken,

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore!

But, alas! in a far-foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more! Oh! cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me!

They died to defend me!--or live to deplore!

"Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?
Ah! my sad soul, long abandon d by pleasure!
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure;
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall!
"Yet-all its fond recollections suppressing—
One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw:-
Erin!-an exile bequeathes thee-his blessing!
Land of my forefathers!-ERIN GO BRAGH!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean!
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
ERIN MAVOURNIN! ERIN GO BRAGH!" Campbell