Too oft on Earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest,

It here is tried and purified,

Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest;
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of Love is there.

O! when a Mother meets on high

The Babe she lost in infancy, Hath she not then, for pains and fears, The day of woe, the watchful night, For all her sorrow, all her tears, An over-payment of delight?

SOUTHEY.

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

A WELL there is in the west country,
And a clearer one never was seen;

There is not a wife in the west country

But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,

And behind doth an ash-tree grow,

And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.

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A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;
Joyfully he drew nigh,

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For from cock-crow he had been travelling,

And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he,

And he sat down upon the bank

Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the house hard by

At the Well to fill his pail;

On the Well-side he rested it,

And he bade the Stranger hail.

"Now art thou a bachelor, Stranger ?" quoth he,
"For an if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day
That ever thou didst in thy life.

"Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,

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Ever here in Cornwall been ?

For an if she have, I 'll venture my life

She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne."

"I have left a good woman who never was here," The Stranger he made reply,

"But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why ?”

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"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time

Drank of this crystal Well,

And before the Angel summon'd her,

She laid on the water a spell.

"If the Husband of this gifted Well, Shall drink before his Wife,

A happy man thenceforth is he,

For he shall be Master for life:

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"But if the Wife should drink of it first,—

God help the Husband then!"

The Stranger stoopt to the Well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the water again.

"You drank of the Well I warrant betimes ?"

He to the Cornish-man said:

But the Cornish-man smiled as the Stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.

"I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my Wife in the porch;

But i' faith she had been wiser than me,

For she took a bottle to church.”

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SOUTHEY.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moon-beams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

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But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

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Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

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From the field of his fame, fresh and gory;

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We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone

But left him alone with his glory!

WOLFE.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

A NAVAL ODE.

YE Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave:

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Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,—

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.

TO THE RAINBOW.

TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky,

When storms prepare to part,

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