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For Britannia, just Britannia,

Claims our chorus as before ; Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia !

Conqueror over sea and shore.

They may writhe, for we have galled them

With our guns in every clime,They may hate us, for we called them

Serfs and subjects in old time!
Boasting Gaul, we calmly scorn you

As old Æsop's bull the frogs;
Come and welcome! for, we warn you,

We shall fling you to our dogs!
For Britannia, our Britannia,

Thunders with a lion's roar; Rule Britannia! Rule, Britannia !

Conqueror over sea and shore.

See, upreard our holy standard !

Crowd around it, gallant hearts !
What! should Britain's fame be slandered

As by fault on our parts ?
Let the rabid Frenchman threaten,

Let the mad invader come,
We will hunt them out of Britain,

Or can die for hearth and home!
For Britannia, dear Britannia,

Wakes our chorus evermoreRule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia !

Conqueror over sea and shore.

Rise then, patriots! name endearing,

Flock from Scotland's moors and dales, From the green, glad fields of Erin,

From the mountain homes of Wales,RISE! for sister England calls you,

RISE! our common weal to serve, RISE! while now the song

enthralls you, Thrilling every vein and nerve,

Hail, Britannia ! hail, Britannia !

Conquer, as thou didst of yore!
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia !

Over every sea and shore.

THE EMIGRANT SHIP.

FOR MUSIC.

FAR
away,

far

away, The emigrant ship must sail to-day :

Cruel ship,—to look so gay Bearing the exiles far away.

Sad and sore, sad and sore, Many a fond heart bleeds at the core,

Cruel dread,—to meet no more, Bitter sorrow, sad and sore.

Many years, many years
At best will they battle with perils and fears ;

Cruel pilot,—for he steers
The exiles away for many years.

Long ago, long ago! For the days that are gone their tears shall flow :

Cruel hour,--to tear them so From all they cherished long ago.

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Be proud, as thy deserts are great,

To thine own praise be true!.
Thou too, celestial Muse, come down,

And with kind haste prepare
The laurel for a Delphic crown

To weave thy poet's hair.

THE ASSURANCE OF OVID.

Now have I done my work !--which not Jove's ire
Can make undone, nor sword, nor time, nor fire.
Whene'er that day, whose only powers extend
Against this body, my brief life shall end,
Still in my better portion evermore
Above the stars undying shall I soar !
My name shall never die: but through all time,
Wherever Rome shall reach a conquered clime,
There, in that people's tongue, shall this my page
Be read and glorified from age to age ;-
Yea, if the bodings of my spirit give
True note of inspiration, I shall live !

POST-LETTERS.

LOTTERY tickets every day,

And ever drawn a blank !
Yet none the less we pant and pray

For prizes in that bank :
Morn by morn, and week by week,

They cheat us, or amuse,
Whilst on we fondly hope, and seek

Some stirring daily news.

The heedless postman on his path

Is scattering joys and woes ;
He bears the seeds of life and death,

And drops them as he goes !
I never note him trudging near

Upon his common track,
But all my heart is hope, or fear,

With visions bright, or black !

I hope—what hope I not ?-vague things

Of wondrous possible good ; I dread—as vague imaginings,

very viper's brood : Fame's sunshine, fortune's golden dews

May now be hovering o'er,Or the pale shadow of ill news

Be cowering at my door !

O Mystery, master-key to life,

Thou spring of every hour,
I love to wrestle in thy strife,

And tempt thy perilous power ;
I love to know that none can know

What this day may bring forth,
What bliss for me, for me what woe

Is travailing in birth ! See, on my neighbour's threshold stands

Yon careless common man,
Bearing, perchance, in those coarse hands,

My Being's altered plan!
My germs of pleasure, or of pain,

Of trouble, or of peace,
May there lie thick as drops of rain

Distilled from Gideon's fleece !

Who knoweth ? may not loves be dead,

Or those we loved laid low,-Who knoweth ? may not wealth be fled,

And all the world my foe?

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