YE

MARINERS OF ENGLAND,

A NAVAL ODE.

I.

YE Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has brav'd, 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 tempests blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

II.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

III.

Britannia needs no bulwark,

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 tempests blow;

When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy tempests blow.

IV.

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 has ceas'd to blow;

When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceas'd to blow.

i

GLENARA.

HEARD ye yon pibrach sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail? 'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud ; Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud : Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around: They march'd all in silence-they look'd on the ground.

In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar:

Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn :

6

Why speak ye no word!'-said Glenara the stern.

And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse,

Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your

brows ?'

So spake the rude chieftain :-no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding a dagger display'd.

'I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,’ Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and

loud;

And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem: 'Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!'

O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclos'd, and no lady was seen;