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A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth;
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air.

In every clime the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth, supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend:
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow path of life;
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,

An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man?-A patriot ?-look around;
O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home.

On Greenland's rocks, o'er rude Kamschatka's plains, In pale Siberia's desolate domains;

Where the wild hunter takes his lonely way,
Tracks through tempestuous snows his savage prey,
The reindeer's spoil, the ermine's treasures shares,
And feasts his famine on the fat of bears:
Or, wrestling with the might of raging seas,
Where round the pole the eternal billows freeze,
Plucks from their jaws the stricken whale, in vain
Plunging down headlong through the whirling main;

-His wastes of ice are lovelier in his eye
Than all the flowery vales beneath the sky;
And dearer far than Cæsar's palace-dome,
His cavern shelter, and his cottage-home.
O'er China's garden-fields, and peopled floods;
In California's pathless world of woods;

Round Andes' heights, where winter, from his throne,
Looks down in scorn upon the summer gone;

By the gay borders of Bermuda's isles,
Where spring with everlasting verdure smiles;
On pure Madeira's vine-robed hills of health;
In Java's swamp of pestilence and wealth;
Where Babel stood, where wolves and jackals drink;
'Midst weeping willows, on Euphrates' brink;
On Carmel's crest; by Jordan's reverend stream,
Where Canaan's glories vanished like a dream;
Where Greece, a spectre, haunts her heroes' graves,
And Rome's vast ruins darken Tiber's waves ;
Where broken-hearted Switzerland bewails
Her subject mountains, and dishonoured vales;
Where Albion's rocks exult amidst the sea,
Around the beauteous isle of liberty;

-Man, through all ages of revolving time,
Unchanging man, in every varying clime,
Deems his own land of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ;
His home the spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

BY WOLFE.

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts 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 moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor 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;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

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

Lightly, they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;

But nothing 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 tolled 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,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him—alone with his glory!

PEACE.

BY GEORGE HERBERT.

SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,

Let me once know.

I sought thee in a secret cave,

And asked if Peace were there:

A hollow sound did seem to answer, "No!
Go, seek elsewhere."

I did, and going, did a rainbow note,
"Surely," thought I,

"This is the lace of Peace's coat;

I will search out the matter."

But, while I looked, the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy
A gallant flower-

The Crown-Imperial: "Sure," said I,
"Peace at the root must dwell."

But, when I digged, I saw a worm devour
What showed so well.

At length I met a reverend, good old man :
Whom, when for Peace

I did demand, he thus began:

"There was a prince of old

In Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.

"He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save

His life from foes:

But, after death, out of his grave

There sprang twelve stalks of wheat,

Which many, wondering at, got some of those,
To plant and set.

"It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse Through all the earth:

For they that taste it do rehearse,

That virtue lies therein,—

A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth,
By flight from sin.

"Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,

And grows for you :

Make bread of it; and that repose

And peace, which everywhere

With so much earnestness you do pursue,
You'll find, is there."

WE ARE SEVEN.

BY WORDSWORTH.

A SIMPLE child,

That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick, with many a curl, That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said,

And wondrous looked at me.

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