Then, wherefore on this sainted spot, With peace and love, and hope imbued,-- Some vision calm of bliss to blot, And turn our thoughts on deeds of blood,-- Should signs of battle-fields intrude:-- Man wants no trophies here of strife; His Oriflamme--Faith unsubdued;-- His Panoply--a spotless life! * * * * * THE BRITISH SAILOR'S SONG. BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Away with bayonet and with lance, With corslet, casque and sword; Our island king no war-horse needs, For on the sea he's lord. His throne's the war-ship's lofty deck, His sceptre is the mast; His kingdom is the rolling wave, His servant is the blast. His anchor's up, fair Freedom's flag Proud to the mast he nails; Tyrants and conquerors bow your heads, For there your terror sails. I saw fierce Prussia's chargers stand, Her children's sharp swords out;-- Proud Austria's bright spurs streaming red, When rose the closing shout. But soon the steeds rushed masterless, By tower and town and wood; For lordly France her fiery youth Poured o'er them like a flood. Go, hew the gold spurs from your heels, And let your steeds run free; Then come to our unconquered decks, And learn to reign at sea. Behold you black and battered hulk That slumbers on the tide, There is no sound from stem to stern, For peace has plucked her pride. The masts are down, the cannon mute, She shews nor sheet nor sail; Nor starts forth with the seaward breeze, Nor answers shout nor hail. Her merry men with all their mirth, Have sought some other shore; And she with all her glory on, Shall rule the sea no more. So landsmen speak.--Lo! her top-masts Are quivering in the sky Her sails are spread, her anchor's raised, There sweeps she gallant by. A thousand warriors fill her decks; Within her painted side The thunder sleeps--man's might has nought Can match or mar her pride. In victor glory goes she forth, Her stainless flag flies free, Kings of the earth come and behold How Britain reigns on sea! When on your necks the armed foot Of fierce Napoleon trod; And all was his save the wide sea, Where we triumphant rode: He launched his terror and his strength, Our sea-born pride to tame; They came--they got the Nelson-touch, And vanished as they came. Go, hang your bridles in your halls, And set your war-steels free: The world has one unconquer'd king, And he reigns on the sea! Mr. Watts, the editor, besides the stanzas we have quoted, has contributed indeed less than other editors, in similar works, and much less than we could wish, for we are sincere admirers of his plaintive muse. His preface should be read with due attention, for it is calculated to set the public right on the _fate and merit_ of numberless works. * * * * * THE FORGET ME NOT.