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ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

Friend after friend departs;

Who hath not lost a friend ? There is no union here of hearts

That finds not here an end; Were this frail world our final rest, Living or dying none were blest.

Beyond the flight of time,

Beyond the reign of death,
There surely is some blessed clime

Where life is not a breath ;
Nor life's affections, transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upwards and expires

There is a world above,

A long eternity of love,

Formed for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying, here,
Translated to that glorious sphere!

Thus star by star declines, .

Til all are past away :
As morning high and higher shines,

To pure and perfect day:
Nor sink those stars in empty night,
But hide themselves in heaven's own light.

CAMPBELL

ODB.

YE Mariners of England ! That guard our native seas ; Whose flag has braved, a thousand year, 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 .. blow.

HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low,

And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On! ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meets
The snow shall be their winding sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's seguichre.

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