"There scattered oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen, are showers of violets found; The redbreast loves to build and warble there, And little footsteps lightly print the ground." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; He gave to misery all he had, - a tear; He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. - Campbell. YE Mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 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 spirit of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, 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 battle rages loud and long, The meteor flag of England Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. When the storm has ceased to blow; K 132 A TUT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT. ON MUNGO PARK'S FINDING A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT. — Edinburgh Christian Herald. THE sun had reached its midday height, No cloudy veil obscured the sky, No mighty rock upreared its head No palm-trees, with refreshing green, Dauntless and daring was the mind And, ah! shall we less daring show, Who seek to lead the savage mind Whence flows salvation's stream? Let peril, nakedness, and sword, A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT. 133 Yet, martyr-like, we 'll lift the voice, And blossom as the rose. Sad, faint, and weary, on the sand Above, beneath, behind, around, All nature seemed as dead. One tiny tuft of moss alone, Mantling with freshest green a stone, Through bursting tears of joy he smiled, O, shall not He who keeps thee green, He who commands the dew to feed Me from a scorching grave. The heaven-sent plant new hope inspired, And bore him safe along, Till, with the evening's cooling shade, Thus we, in this world's wilderness, Seem undisturbed to reign, May faint because we feel alone, Yet often, in the bleakest wild Of this dark world, some heaven-born child, Amid the low and vicious crowd, From gazing on the tender flower, Who in this atmosphere of death Hath given it life, and form, and breath, And brilliant hues of heaven. Our drooping faith, revived by sight, New hope distends the breast; With joy we mount on eagle wing, LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. - THE breaking waves dashed high |