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.

Far away, far away!

Every night and every day

Kind and wise it were to pray,

God be with them far away!

THE ASSURANCE OF HORACE.

1 HAVE achieved a tower of fame

More durable than gold,

And loftier than the royal frame

Of Pyramids of old,—

Which none inclemencies of clime,

Nor fiercest winds that blow,

Nor endless change, nor lapse of time,
Shall ever overthrow !

I cannot perish utterly:
The brighter part of me

Must live-and live-and never die,

But baffle Death's decree!

For I shall always grow, and spread

My new-blown honors still,
Long as the priest and vestal tread
The Capitolian hill.

I shall be sung, where thy rough waves,
My native river, foam,—

And where old Daunus scantly laves

And rules his rustic home;

As chief and first I shall be sung,

Though lowly, great in might

To tune my country's heart and tongue,
And tune them both aright.

Thou then, my soul, assume thy state,

And take thine honors due :

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,
A 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?

Or who can tell if Fortune's hour
(Which once on all doth shine)
Be not within this morning's dower,
A prosperous morn of mine ?

Ah, cold Reality!-in spite
Of hopes, and endless chance,
That bitter postman, ruthless wight,
Has cheated poor Romance;
No letters! O the dreary phrase:
Another day forlorn :-

And thus I wend upon my ways

To watch another morn.

Cease, babbler!-let those doubtings cease:
What! should a son of heaven
With the pure manna of his Peace

Mix up his faithless leaven?
Not so!-for in the hands of God,
And in none earthly will,
Abide alike my staff, and rod,
My good, and seeming ill.

SOCIETY.

ALAS, we do but act; we are not free;
The presence of another is a chain

My trammeled spirit strives to break, in vain: How strangely different myself from me! Thoughtful in solitude, serenely blest, Crown'd and enthroned in mental majesty, Equal to all things great, and daring all,

I muse of mysteries, and am at rest; But, in the midst, some dull intruded guest Topples me from my heights, holding in thrall