THE FATE OF THE OAK.

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

1. In what sense is the word native used here?

1

CAMPBELL.

2. Anything to remark in the construction of this line?

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XI. THE FATE OF THE OAK.

"NAVIGATION and ship-building are arts so nice and complicated that they require the ingenuity, as well as experience, of many successive ages to bring them to any degree of perfection. From the raft or canoe, which first served to carry a savage over the river that obstructed him in the chase, to the construction of a vessel capable of conveying a numerous crew with safety to a distant coast, the progress in improvement is immense. Many efforts would be made, many experiments would be tried, and much labour as well as invention would be employed, before men could accomplish this arduous and important undertaking. The rude and imperfect state in which navigation is still found among all nations which are not considerably civilized, corresponds with this account of its progress, and demonstrates that, in early times, the art was not so far improved as to enable men to undertake distant voyages, or to attempt remote discoveries."-Robertson's History of America.

THE Owl to her mate is calling;

The river his hoarse song sings;
But the oak is marked for falling,

That has stood for a hundred springs.
Hark! a blow, and a dull sound follows;
A second-he bows his head;
A third-and the wood's dark hollows
Now know that their king is dead.
His arms from their trunk are riven;

His body all barked and squared;
And he's now, like a felon, driven

In chains to the strong dock-yard!
He's sawn through the middle, and turned
For the ribs of a frigate free;

And he's caulked, and pitched, and burned;
And now he is fit for sea!

Oh! now-with his wings outspread
Like a ghost (if a ghost may be),
He will triumph again, though dead,
And be dreaded in every sea:
The lightning will blaze about,

And wrap him in flaming pride:
And the thunder-loud cannon will shout,
In the fight, from his bold broad-side.

And when he has fought, and won,

And been honoured from shore to shore;
And his journey on earth is done,-
Why, what can he ask for more?
There is nought that a king can claim,
Or a poet or warrior bold,
Save a rhyme and a short lived name,
And to mix with the common mould!

BARRY CORNWALL.

XII.

STANZAS ON THE SEA.

"WHO ever gazed upon the broad sea without emotion? Whether seen in stern majesty, hoary with the tempest, rolling its giant waves upon the rocks, and dashing with resistless fury some gallant bark on an iron-bound coast; or sleeping beneath the silver moon, its broad bosom broken but by a gentle ripple, just enough to reflect a long line of light, a path of gold upon a pavement of sapphire; who has looked upon the sea without feeling that it has power

"To stir the soul with thoughts profound?"

Perhaps there is no earthly object, not even the cloud-cleaving mountains of an Alpine country, so sublime as the sea in its severe and naked simplicity. Standing on some promontory, whence the eye roams far out upon the unbounded ocean, the soul expands, and we conceive a nobler idea of the majesty of that God, who holdeth the waters in the hollow of His hand.'"-Gosse's Ocean.

OH! I shall not forget, until memory depart,
When first I beheld it, the glow of my heart;
The wonder, the awe, the delight that stole o'er me,
When its billowy boundlessness opened before me.
As I stood on its margin, or roamed on its strand,
I felt new ideas within me expand,

Of glory and grandeur, unknown till that hour,
And my spirit was mute in the presence of power!
In the surf-beaten sands that encircled it round,
In the billow's retreat, and the breaker's rebound,

HOW CHEERY ARE THE MARINERS.

In its white-drifted foam, and its dark-heaving green,
Each moment I gazed, some fresh beauty was seen.
And thus, while I wandered on ocean's bleak shore,
And surveyed its vast surface, and heard its waves roar,
I seemed wrapt in a dream of romantic delight,
And haunted by majesty, glory, and might!

BERNARD BARTON.

XIII. HOW CHEERY ARE THE MARINERS!

"THE careless frolicsome jollity, and vacant curiosity of a sailor on shore, are qualities which contribute, perhaps, as much as many others, to the high popularity of our seamen, and the general good inclination which society expresses towards them. Their gallantry, courage, and hardihood, are qualities which excite reverence, and perhaps rather humble pacific landsmen in their presence; and neither respect, nor a sense of humiliation, are feelings easily combined with a familiar fondness towards those who inspire them. But the boyish frolics, the exulting high spirits, the unreflecting mirth of a sailor, when enjoying himself on shore, temper the more formidable points of his character."-Sir Walter Scott.

How cheery are the mariners

Those lovers of the sea!

Their hearts are like its yesty waves,

As bounding and as free.

They whistle when the storm-bird wheels
In circles round the mast;

And sing when deep in foam the ship
Ploughs onward to the blast.

What care the mariners for gales?
There's music in their roar,

When wide the berth along the lee,
And leagues of room before.

Let billows toss to mountain heights,
Or sink to chasms low,

The vessel stout will ride it out,

Nor reel beneath the blow.

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With streamers down and canvass furled,
The gallant hull will float
Securely, as on inland lake,
A silken-tasselled boat;
And sound asleep some mariners,
And some with watchful eyes,
Will fearless be of dangers dark
That roll along the skies.

M

God keep these cheery mariners!
And temper all the gales

That sweep against the rocky coast,
To their storm-shattered sails;

And men on shore will bless the ship
That could so guided be,
Safe in the hollow of His hand,
To brave the mighty sea!

PARK BENJAMIN.

XIV. SEA-PIECE.

"In the wide sphere of bright creation, there exists nought that hath for man so deep a 'tone' of meaning as the fathomless, eternal seathat resplendent shield, guarding the verdant universe. It hath smiles for him in his gladness, when the glorious sun, dancing over the tameless waves, lights them into beauty; it hath a garb of mourning for his sorrow, when it reflects the dark cloud sailing over it, and rocks the shadow within its bosom; it hath notes of laughter for his hour of wassail and of song, when its free bright waters leap to shore with a sound of bounding mirth; and it hath a trumpet for the victor, when it raises its voice amidst the storm, and sends its billows gleaming on high, like mighty standards! Thou hast within thy depths, O sea! gems to deck the brow of the beautiful, wealth to lure the aspirations of the avaricious, and groves of the rich red coral to haunt the poet's dream. Thou hast, too, thy treasures amongst the dead, to fill the soul of the mourner. Thou art, O sea! the deep heart of earth,' imaging its beauties, thoughts, and passions."-Anonymous.

SUBLIME is thy prospect, thou proud rolling Ocean,

And Fancy surveys thee with solemn delight; When thy mountainous billows are wild in commotion, And the tempest is roused by the spirits of night. When the moon-beams thro' winter clouds faintly appearing, At intervals gleam on the dark swelling wave; And the mariner, dubious, now hoping, now fearing, May hear the stern Genius of hurricanes rave. But now, when thine anger has long been subsiding, And the tempest has folded the might of its wing; How clear is thy surface, in loveliness gliding,

For April has open'd the portals of spring.
Now soft on thy bosom the orient is beaming,

And tremulous breezes are waving thy breast;
On thy mirror the clouds and the shadows are streaming,
And morning and glory the picture have drest.
No gale but the balmy Favonian is blowing,

In coral caves resting, the winds are asleep:
And, rich in the sun-beam, yon pennants are glowing,
That tinge with their colours the silvery deep.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

Yet smile, or be dreadful, thou still-changing Ocean,
Tremendous or lovely, resistless or still:
I view thee, adoring with hallow'd emotion,

The Pow'r that can hush or arouse thee at will.

MRS. HEMANS.

XV. THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

"THE relation that subsists between parents and children is the strongest, the closest, the tenderest that exists in human society. Even among the brute creation there is an instinct which impels the parent to the defence of its offspring. Among the fiercer animals, the mother becomes fearless of danger, and reckless of life, where her young ones are threatened with injury. But the human parent has a still keener interest in the welfare of his children. To the affection which nature teaches us to bestow upon our offspring, reason and reflection add other and more endearing ties. They are not only our children, a part of ourselves, and linked with a thousand associations of pleasure or pain, of joy or sorrow, hope or fear; but they are of themselves creatures of feeling, susceptible of happiness or misery, capable of elevation or debasement. They may enjoy health or suffer sickness; they may be intelligent or ignorant, wise or foolish, virtuous or vicious. They may be an honour or a disgrace to their connexions. They may be a blessing or a curse to society. They may die in peace or sorrow; and may leave this world with an assured hope of happiness hereafter, or with the reluctant awe with which a criminal is brought before his judge. How many hopes and fears, how many ardent wishes, how many anxious apprehensions are twisted together in the threads that connect the parent with the child!"

"Thou seest the braided roots that bind
Yon towering cedar to the rock;
Thou seest the clinging ivy twined,

As if to spurn the whirlwind's shock;
Poor emblems of the strings that tie

His offspring to a parent's heart!
For those will, mouldering, yield and die,
But these can never, never part."

ONE morning (raw it was and wet

A foggy day in winter time)

A woman on the road I met,

Goodrich's Fireside Education.

163

Not old, though something past her prime;
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;

And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred
Such strength, a dignity so fair:

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate,
I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.