The ocean plain, where Nelson bled, Fair commerce plies with peaceful oar; Duteous o'er Britain's clime to shed The gathered spoil of every shore: And eloquence, in rushing streams, The glowing bursts of glowing song: Bright science through each field of space Has urged her mist-dispelling car, Coy nature's hidden reign to trace, To weigh each wind, and count each star: Yet stay, thou proud philosophy, First stoop to bid mankind be free. And freedom has been long our own, To gild the lustre of the throne, And guard the labour of the plain : Ye heirs of ancient Runnymede! Your slaves-O! could it be?-are freed. Ah! for the tale the slave could speak, 'Neath Indian suns the burning day: Ye sounds of guilt-ye sights of goreAway! for slavery is no more. 'Mid the drear haunts of force and strife, The ministers of peace shall stand, And pour the welling words of life Around a parched and thirsty land; While, spread beneath the tamarind tree, Rise "happy homes and altars free." Ye isles, that court the tropic rays, In more than fable now-"the blest:" O England, empire's home and head, Mighty to rule the battle hour; EARL OF CARLISLE. THE SUNSHINE. I LOVE the sunshine everywhere— In wood, and field, and glen; I love it in the busy haunts Of town-imprisoned men. I love it, when it streameth in The humble cottage door, And casts the chequered casement shade I love it, where the children lie Deep in the clovery grass, To watch among the twining roots, I love it, on the breezy sea, To glance on sail and oar, While the great waves, like molten glass, I love it, on the mountain-tops, Upon the earth, upon the sea, 243 MARY HOWITT. COWSLIPS. O! FRAGRANT dwellers of the lea, What can the blessed spring restore Of thickets, breezes, birds, and flowers; Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours; O blessed, blessed do ye seem, For even now, I turned, With soul athirst for wood and stream, From streets that glared and burned. From the hot town, where mortal care And are ye here? and are ye here? I care not that your little life Will quickly have run through, And the sward with summer children rife Keep not a trace of you. For again, again, on dewy plain, I trust to see you rise, When spring renews the wild wood strain, And bluer gleam the skies. Again, again, when many springs Here shall you speak of vanished things To living hearts of mine. MARY HOWITT. SONG TO SPRING. SPRING! spring! beautiful spring! Hitherward cometh like hope on the wing- Song sweetly saluteth the morn; SWAIN. THE TOY OF THE GIANT'S CHILD. FROM THE GERMAN OF CHAMISSO. BURG NIEDECK is a mountain in Alsace, high and strong, Where once a noble castle stood-the giants held it long; |