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 ceased to blow:
When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow.

Mrs. Ireland, who saw much of Campbell at this time (1799), mentions that it was in the musical evenings at her mother's house, that he appeared to derive the greatest enjoyment. At these soirées his favourite song was "Ye Gentlemen of England," with the music of which he was particularly struck, and determined to write new words for it. Hence this noble and stirring lyric of "Ye Mariners of England," part of which, if not all, he is said to have composed after one of these family parties. It was not, however, until after he had retired to Ratisbon, and felt his patriotism kindled by the announcement of war with Denmark, that he finished the original sketch, and sent it home to Mr. Perry, of the "Morning Chronicle."-Life of Thomas Campbell, by W. Beattie M.D.

THE ARETHUSA.

PRINCE HOARE, born 1754, died 1834.

COME, all ye jolly sailors bold,

Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould,
While English glory I unfold-
Huzza to the Arethusa !

She is a frigate tight and brave,
As ever stemm'd the dashing wave:
Her men are staunch

To their fav'rite launch,

And when the foe shall meet our fire,
Sooner than strike, we'll all expire,
On board of the Arethusa.

'Twas with the spring fleet she went out,

The English Channel to cruise about,

When four French sail, in shore so about,
Bore down on the Arethusa.

The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie-
The Arethusa seem'd to fly;

Not a sheet or a tack,

Or a brace did she slack;

Though the Frenchman laugh'd, and thought it stuff;
But they knew not the handful of men, how tough,
On board of the Arethusa.

On deck five hundred men did dance,
The stoutest they could find in France;
We with two hundred did advance,

On board of the Arethusa.

Our captain hail'd the Frenchman, "Ho!"
The Frenchman then cried out "Hollo!"
"Bear down, d'ye see,

66

To our admiral's lee."

No, no," says the Frenchman, "that can't be;"
“Then I must lug you along with me,"
Says the saucy Arethusa.

The fight was off the Frenchman's land;
We forced them back upon the strand;
For we fought till not a stick would stand
Of the gallant Arethusa.

And now we've driv'n the foe ashore,
Never to fight with Britons more,
Let each fill a glass

To his fav'rite lass;

A health to the captains and officers true,
And all that belong to the jovial crew,
On board of the Arethusa.

THE ORIGIN OF NAVAL ARTILLERY.
THOMAS DIBDIN.

WHEN Vulcan forged the bolts of Jove
In Etna's roaring glow,
Neptune petition'd he might prove
Their use and power below;
But finding in the boundless deep
Their thunders did but idly sleep,
He with them arm'd Britannia's hand,
To guard from foes her native land.
Long may she hold the glorious right,

And when through circling flame
She darts her thunder in the fight,

May justice guide her aim!
And when opposed in future wars,
Her soldiers brave and gallant tars
Shall launch her fires from every hand
On every foe to Britain's land.

L

0

194

THE MINUTE GUN.

R. S. SHARpe.

WHEN in the storm on Albion's coast,
The night-watch guards his wary post,
From thoughts of danger free,
He marks some vessel's dusky form,
And hears, amid the howling storm,
The minute gun at sea.

Swift on the shore a hardy few
The life-boat man with gallant crew
And dare the dangerous wave:

Through the wild surf they cleave their way,
Lost in the foam, nor know dismay,

For they go the crew to save.

But, oh! what rapture fills each breast
Of the hopeless crew of the ship distress'd!
Then, landed safe, what joy to tell

Of all the dangers that befell!

Then heard is no more,

By the watch on shore,

The minute gun at sea.

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

OF Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone,

By each gun the lighted brand,

In a bold determined hand.

And the prince of all the land,
Led them on,

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine
While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line :

It was ten of April morn by the chime,
As they drifted on their path,

There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath

For a time.

But the might of England flush'd,
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush'd

O'er the deadly space between.

"Hearts of oak!" our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feebler cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom :

Then ceased, and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter'd sail;

Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hailed them o'er the wave; "Ye are brothers! ye are men!

And we conquer but to save :

So peace instead of death let us bring;

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,

With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet

To our king."

Then Denmark bless'd our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from the day.
While the sun look'd smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.

Now joy, Old England, raise !
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore.

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride,
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died;
With the gallant good Riou:1

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls

And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!

THE SPANISH ARMADA.

JOHN O'KEEFFE. Music by Dr. Arnold.

IN May fifteen hundred and eighty and eight,
Cries Philip," The English I'll humble;

I've taken it into my Majesty's pate,

And their lion, O, down he shall tumble!

They lords of the sea!"-then his sceptre he shook,-
"I'll prove it an arrant bravado.

By Neptune! I'll sweep 'em all into a nook,

With the invincible Spanish Armada!"

1 A captain in the fleet, "justly entitled the gallant and the good" by Lord Nelson.