And nodding blue-bells clothe the steep hill's bosom, And fearless blackbirds sing.

And thou hast Sabbath-bells in old church towers,

Whose music thrills the air;

And the sweet calm of Sabbath sunset hours,

When every thought is prayer.

And thou hast grassy graves set side by side,-
The high-born and the lowly,

By common griefs, by common death allied,
In ground that tears make holy.

Graves, Sabbath worship, village homes, and men,

Old England, these are thine;

And spots made famous by the sword and pen,
Till each one is a shrine;

And cities of old feudal date and pride;

And halls of dark renown,

Where kings and kingly prelates lived and died;
And many a modern town.

O glory-crowned England! thou hast these,
Hast these, and still hast more,—

The empire of the tributary seas,

That lave thine island shore.

And wherefore is the tributary sea
As a liege subject given ?-

To bear forth knowledge, truth, and liberty
To each land under heaven;—

To knit thee to all people; everywhere

To make thy knowledge known;

To make thine influence, like God's common air,
Extend from zone to zone!

MARY HOWITT.

THE GLORY OF GREAT BRITAIN.
HAPPY Britannia! where the Queen of Arts,
Inspiring vigour, Liberty abroad

Walks, unconfined, even to thy furthest cots,
And scatters plenty with unsparing hand.

Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime;
Thy streams unfailing in the summer's drought;
Unmatched thy guardian oaks; thy valleys float
With golden waves; and on thy mountains flocks
Bleat numberless; while, roving round their sides,
Bellow the blackening herds in lusty droves.
Beneath, thy meadows glow, and rise unequalled
Against the mower's scythe. On every hand
Thy villas shine. Thy country teems with wealth;
And property assures it to the swain,
Pleased and unwearied in his guarded toil.

Full are thy cities with the sons of art;
And trade and joy, in every busy street,
Mingling are heard: even Drudgery himself,
As at the car he sweats, or dusty hews

The palace stone, looks gay. Thy crowded ports,
Where rising masts an endless prospect yield,
With labour burn, and echo to the shouts
Of hurried sailor, as he hearty waves
His last adieu, and, loosening every sheet,
Resigns the spreading vessel to the wind.

Bold, firm, and graceful, are thy generous youth,
By hardship sinewed, and by danger fired,
Scattering the nations where they go; and first
Or on the listed plain, or stormy seas.
Mild are thy glories, too, as o'er the plans
Of thriving peace thy thoughtful sires preside;
In genius and substantial learning high;
For every virtue, every worth, renowned;
Sincere, plain-hearted, hospitable, kind;

Yet, like the mustering thunder, when provoked,
The dread of tyrants, and the sole resource
Of those that under grim oppression groan.
Thy Sons of Glory many! Alfred thine,
In whom the splendour of heroic war,
And more heroic peace, when governed well,
Combine; whose hallowed name the Virtues saint,
And his own Muses love; the best of kings!
With him thy Edwards and thy Henrys shine,
Names dear to Fame; the first who deep impressed
On haughty Gaul the terror of thy arms,
That awes her genius still. In Statesmen thou,
And Patriots, fertile. Thine a steady More,
Who, with a generous though mistaken zeal,
Withstood a brutal tyrant's useful rage;
Like Cato firm, like Aristides just,
Like rigid Cincinnatus nobly poor,-
A dauntless soul erect, who smiled on death.
Frugal, and wise, a Walsingham is thine;
A Drake, who made thee mistress of the deep,
And bore thy name in thunder round the world.
Then flamed thy spirit high: but who can speak
The numerous worthies of the Maiden Reign?
In Raleigh mark their ev'ry glory mixed;
Raleigh, the scourge of Spain! whose breast with all
The sage, the patriot, and the hero burned;
Nor sunk his vigour when a coward-reign
The warrior fettered, and at last resigned,
To glut the vengeance of a vanquished foe.
Then, active still and unrestrained, his mind
Explored the vast extent of ages past,
And with his prison-hours enriched the world;
Yet found no times, in all the long research,
So glorious, or so base, as those he proved,
In which he conquered, and in which he bled.
Nor can the Muse the gallant Sidney pass,

The plume of war! with early laurels crowned,
The lover's myrtle and the poet's bay.

A Hampden too is thine, illustrious land!
Wise, strenuous, firm, of unsubmitting soul.
Bring every sweetest flower, and let me strew
The grave where Russell lies; whose tempered blood,
With calmest cheerfulness for thee resigned,
Stained the sad annals of a giddy reign,

Aiming at lawless power, though meanly sunk
In loose, inglorious luxury. With him
His friend, the British Cassius,* fearless bled;
Of high determined spirit, roughly brave,
By ancient learning to th enlightened love
Of ancient freedom warmed. Fair thy renown
In awful Sages and in noble Bards;
Soon as the light of dawning Science spread
Her orient ray, and waked the Muses' song.

Thine is a Bacon: him for studious shade
Kind Nature formed, deep, comprehensive, clear,
Exact, and elegant,-in one rich soul,

Plato, the Stagyrite, and Tully joined.

The great deliverer he! who, from the gloom
Of cloistered monks and jargon-teaching schools,
Led forth the true Philosophy, there long
Held in the magic chain of words and forms,
And definitions void: he led her forth,
Daughter of Heaven! that slow-ascending still,
Investigating sure the chain of things,

With radiant finger points to Heaven again.

Why need I name thy Boyle, whose pious search, Amid the dark recesses of His works,

The great Creator sought? And why thy Locke,
Who made the whole internal world his own?

Let Newton, pure intelligence! whom God

To mortals lent to trace His boundless works

From laws sublimely simple, speak thy fame
In all philosophy. For lofty sense,
Creative fancy, and inspection keen

Through the deep windings of the human heart,
Is not wild Shakspere thine and Nature's boast?
Is not each great, each amiable Muse
Of classic ages, in thy Milton met?-
A genius universal as his theme-
Astonishing as chaos-as the bloom

Of blowing Eden fair-as heaven sublime.

Nor shall my verse that elder bard forget,
The gentle Spenser, Fancy's pleasing son;
Who, like a copious river, poured his song
O'er all the mazes of enchanted ground:
Nor thee, his ancient master, laughing sage,
Chaucer, whose native manners-painting verse,
Well moralized, shines through the Gothic cloud
Of time and language o'er thy genius thrown.

THE PATRIOT'S PRAYER FOR ENGLAND.
ISLAND of bliss! amid the subject seas
That thunder round thy rocky coasts set up;
At once the wonder, terror, and delight
Of distant nations, whose remotest shore
Can soon be shaken by thy naval arms;
Not to be shook thyself, but all assaults
Baffling, like thy hoar cliffs the loud sea-wave!

O Thou! by whose almighty nod the scale
Of empire rises, or alternate falls,

THOMSON.

Send forth the saving Virtues round the land,
In bright patrol;--white Peace and social Love,-
The tender-looking Charity, intent

On gentle deeds, and shedding tears through smiles;
Undaunted Truth, and Dignity of mind;

Courage, composed and keen; sound Temperance,
Healthful in heart and look; clear Chastity,