Ah me! what new prospects, new horrors arise? Thou thing that windest round the solid world
I see the war-tempested flood

All foaming, and panting with blood;
The panic-struck Ocean in agony roars,
Rebounds from the battle, and flies to his shores.

For Britannia is wielding the trident to-day,
Consuming her foes in her ire,

And hurling her thunder with absolute sway
From her wave-ruling chariots of fire.

She triumphs; the winds and the waters con-
spire

To spread her invincible name;
The universe rings with her fame;

But the cries of the fatherless mix with her
praise,

And the tears of the widow are shed on her bays.

O Britain, dear Britain ! the land of my birth;
O Isle most enchantingly fair!

Thou Pearl of the Ocean! thou Gem of the Earth!
O my Mother, my Mother, beware,

For wealth is a phantom, and empire a snare!
O, let not thy birthright be sold

For reprobate glory and gold!

Thy distant dominions like wild graftings shoot, They weigh down thy trunk, they will tear up thy root,

stands

1

Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled
From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone,
Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone!
Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep
Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep.
Thou speakest in the east and in the west
At once, and on thy heavily laden breast
Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life
Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife.
The earth has naught of this: no chance or change
Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare
Give answer to the tempest-wakened air;
But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range
At will, and wound its bosom as they go:
Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow:
But in their stated rounds the seasons come,
And pass like visions to their wonted home;
And come again, and vanish; the young Spring
Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming;
And Winter always winds his sullen horn,

When the wild Autumn, with a look forlorn,
Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies
Weep, and flowers sicken, when the summer flies.
O, wonderful thou art, great element,
And fearful in thy spleeny humors bent,
And lovely in repose! thy summer form
Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves
Make music in earth's dark and winding caves,

The root of thine oak, O my country! that I love to wander on thy pebbled beach,
Rock-planted and flourishing free;

Marking the sunlight at the evening hour,
And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach,

Its branches are stretched o'er the uttermost lands, Eternity - Eternity - and Power.
And its shadow eclipses the sea.

BARRY CORNWALL.

The hour is approaching, - a terrible hour!
And Vengeance is bending her bow;
Already the clouds of the hurricane lower,
And the ro k-rending whirlwinds blow;
Back rolls the huge Ocean, hell opens below;
The floods return headlong, they sweep
The slave-cultured lands to the deep,

In a moment entombed in the horri le void,
By their Maker himself in his anger destroyed.

"Ye Britons, who dwell where we conquered of old,

Who inherit our battle-field graves;

Shall this be the fate of the cane-planted isles,
More lovely than clouds in the west,
When the sun o'er the ocean descending in smiles, We were not, we could not be, slaves;
Sinks softly and sweetly to rest?

Though poor were your fathers, — gigantas ar !
bold,

But firm as our rocks, and as free as our waves,

No' - Father of mercy befriend the opprest; The spears of the Romans we broke,

At the voice of thy gospel of peace

May the sorrows of Africa cease ;

And slave and his master devoutly unite

We never stooped under their yoke.

In the shipwreck of nations we stood up alone, | The world was great Cæsar's, but Britain our own JAMES M