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 tempests blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests 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:

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.

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.

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!

FROM O'CONNOR'S CHILD.

Oh! once the harp of Innisfail

Was strung full high to notes of gladness; But yet it often told a tale

Of more prevailing sadness.

Sad was the note, and wild its fall,
As winds that moan at night forlorn
Along the isles of Fion-Gall,
When, for O'Connor's child to mourn,
The harper told, how lone, how far
From any mansion's twinkling star,
From any path of social men,
Or voice, but from the fox's den,
The lady in the desert dwelt;

And yet no wrongs, no fear, she felt:

Say, why should dwell in place so wild,
O'Connor's pale and lovely child?

Sweet lady! she no more inspires
Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power,
As, in the palace of her sires,
She bloom'd a peerless flower.

Gone from her hand and bosom, gone,

The royal brooch, the jewell'd ring,
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone,
Like dews on lilies of the spring.

Yet why, though fallen her brother's kerne
Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern,
While yet, in Leinster unexplored,
Her friends survive the English sword;
Why lingers she from Erin's host,
So far on Galway's shipwreck'd coast?
Why wanders she a huntress wild-
O'Connor's pale and lovely child?

And fix'd on empty space, why burn
Her eyes with momentary wildness;
And wherefore do they then return
To more than woman's mildness?
Dishevell'd are her raven locks;
On Connocht Moran's name she calls;
And oft amidst the lonely rocks
She sings sweet madrigals.

Placed in the foxglove and the moss,
Behold a parted warrior's cross!

That is the spot where, evermore,
The lady, at her shieling door,
Enjoys that, in communion sweet,
The living and the dead can meet;
For, lo! to love-lorn fantasy,
The hero of her heart is nigh.

Bright as the bow that spans the storm,
In Erin's yellow vesture clad,
A son of light-a lovely form,
He comes, and makes her glad:
Now on the grass-green turf he sits,
His tassell'd horn beside him laid;
Now o'er the hills in chase he flits,
The hunter and the deer a shade!

Sweet mourner! those are shadows vain,
That cross the twilight of her brain;

Yet she will tell you, she is blest,

Of Connocht Moran's tomb possess'd,

More richly than in Aghrim's bower,

When bards high praised her beauty's power, And kneeling pages offer'd up,

The morat in a golden cup.

THE TURKISH LADY.

"Twas the hour when rites unholy Call'd each Paynim voice to prayer, And the star that faded slowly

Left to dews the freshen'd air.

Day her sultry fires had wasted,
Čalm and sweet the moonlight rose;

Even a captive spirit tasted

Half oblivion of his woes.

Then 'twas from an Emir's palace
Came an Eastern lady bright:
She, in spite of tyrants jealous,
Saw and loved an English knight.

"Tell me, captive, why in anguish
Foes have dragg'd thee here to dwell,
Where poor Christians as they languish
Hear no sound of Sabbath bell?"

""Twas on Transylvania's Bannat,
When the Crescent shone afar,

Like a pale disastrous planet
O'er the purple tide of war-

"In that day of desolation,
Lady, I was captive made;
Bleeding for my Christian nation

By the walls of high Belgrade!"
"Captive! could the brightest jewel
From my. turban set thee free?"-
"Lady, no!—the gift were cruel,
Ransom'd, yet if reft of thee.

"Say, fair princess! would it grieve thee
Christian climes should we behold?"
"Nay, bold knight! I would not leave thee
Were thy ransom paid in gold!".

Now in Heaven's blue expansion
Ro the midnight star to view,
When to quit her father's mansion
Thrice she wept, and bade adieu!

"Fly we then, while none discover!
Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride!"
Soon at Rhodes the British lover
Clasp'd his blooming Eastern bride.

SONG OF THE GREEKS.

Again to the battle, Achaians!

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree

It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free:
For the Cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale dying Crescent is daunted,

And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves May be wash'd out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succour advances,

Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

Are stretch'd in our aid-be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone:
For we've sworn by our country's assaulters,
By the virgins they 've dragg'd from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old and their blood in our veins,
That living, we shall be victorious,

Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not;

The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not!
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.
Earth may hide-waves engulf-fire consume us,
But they shall not to slavery doom us:

If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves;
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us.

To the charge!-Heaven's banner is o'er us.

This day shall ye blush for its story,

Or brighten your lives with its glory.

Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair,

Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair? Accursed may his memory blacken,

If a coward there be that would slacken,

Till we've trampled the turban and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth. Strike home, and the world shall revere us

As heroes descended from heroes.