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Hadst thou but lived, though stripped of power, A watchman on the lonely tower,

Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,
When fraud or danger were at hand;
By thee, as by the beacon-light,

Our pilots had kept course aright;
As some proud column, though alone,

Thy strength had propped the tottering throne:

Now is the stately column broke,

The beacon-light is quenched in smoke,

The trumpet's silver sound is still,
The warder silent on the hill!

O think, how to his latest day,

When death, just hovering, claimed his prey,
With Palinure's unaltered mood

Firm at his dangerous post he stood;
Each call for needful rest repelled,
With dying hand the rudder held,
Till in his fall with fateful sway,
The steerage of the realm gave way!
Then, while on Britain's thousand plains
One unpolluted church remains,
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound,
But still, upon the hallowed day,
Convoke the swains to praise and pray;
While faith and civil peace are dear,
Grace this cold marble with a tear,-
He, who preserved them, PITT, lies here!

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,
Because his rival slumbers nigh;
Nor be thy requiescat dumb,
Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb.
For talents mourn, untimely lost,
When best employed, and wanted most;
Mourn genius high, and lore profound,
And wit that loved to play, not wound;
And all the reasoning powers divine,
To penetrate, resolve, combine;

And feelings keen, and fancy's glow,-
They sleep with him who sleeps below:
And, if thou mourn'st they could not save
From error him who owns this grave,
Be ever harsher thought suppressed,
And sacred be the long last rest.
Here, where the end of earthly things
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,
Of those who fought, and spoke and sung;
Here, where the fretted aisles prolong
The distant notes of holy song,

As if some angel spoke agen,

All peace on earth, good-will to men';
If ever from an English heart,
O, here let prejudice depart,
And, partial feeling cast aside,
Record, that Fox a Briton died!

When Europe crouched to France's yoke,
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,
And the firm Russian's purpose brave
Was bartered by a timorous slave,
Even then dishonour's peace he spurned,
The sullied olive-branch returned,
Stood for his country's glory fast,
And nailed her colours to the mast!
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave
A portion in this honoured grave,
And ne'er held marble in its trust
Of two such wondrous men the dust.

With more than mortal powers endowed,
How high they soared above the crowd!
Theirs was no common party race,
Jostling by dark intrigue for place;
Like fabled Gods, their mighty war
Shook realms and nations in its jar;
Beneath each banner proud to stand,
Looked up the noblest of the land,
Till through the British world were known
The names of PITT and Fox alone.
Spells of such force no wizard grave

E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave,
Though his could drain the ocean dry,
And force the planets from the sky.

These spells are spent, and, spent with these
The wine of life is on the lees.

Genius, and taste, and talent gone,
For ever tombed beneath the stone,
Where taming thought to human pride!—
The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.
Drop upon Fox's grave the tear,
"Twill trickle to his rival's bier;
O'er PITT's the mournful requiem sound,
And Fox's shall the notes rebound.
The solemn echo seems to cry,-
'Here let their discord with them die.
Speak not for those a separate doom
Whom fate made Brothers in the tomb;
But search the land of living men,
Where wilt thou find their like agen?'

Sir Walter Scott.

XLII

THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND

DADDY NEPTUNE one day to Freedom did say,
'If ever I live upon dry land,

The spot I should hit on would be little Britain!'
Says Freedom, 'Why that's my own island!'
O, it's a snug little island!

A right little, tight little island,

Search the globe round, none can be found
So happy as this little island.

Julius Cæsar, the Roman, who yielded to no man,
Came by water, he couldn't come by land;

And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turn'd their

backs on,

And all for the sake of our island.

O, what a snug little island!

They'd all have a touch at the island!
Some were shot dead, some of them fled,
And some staid to live on the island.

Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman, Cried D-n it, I never liked my land;

It would be much more handy to leave this Normandy,
And live on yon beautiful island.'

Says he, ''Tis a snug little island:
Sha'n't us go visit the island?'

Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump,
And he kick'd up a dust in the island.

But party-deceit help'd the Normans to beat;
Of traitors they managed to buy land,

By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne'er had been lick'd,

Had they stuck to the King of their island.

Poor Harold, the King of the island!
He lost both his life and his island.

That's very true; what more could he do?
Like a Briton he died for his island!

The Spanish Armada set out to invade-a,
Quite sure, if they ever came nigh land,
They couldn't do less than tuck up Queen Bess,
And take their full swing in the island.

O, the poor Queen of the island!

The Dons came to plunder the island;

But, snug in the hive, the Queen was alive,
And buz was the word in the island.

Those proud puff'd-up cakes thought to make ducks and drakes

Of our wealth; but they hardly could spy land, When our Drake had the luck to make their pride

duck

And stoop to the lads of the island.

Huzza for the lads of the island!

The good wooden walls of the island;

Devil or Don, let 'em come on;

But how would they come off at the island?

Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept

tune,

In each saying, 'This shall be my land';

Should the Army of England,' or all they could

bring, land,

We'd show 'em some play for the island.
We'll fight for our right to the island;
We'll give them enough of the island;
Invaders should just-bite at the dust,
But not a bit more of the island!

Thomas Dibdin.

XLIII

THE MERRY SOLDIER

'WHO'LL Serve the King?' cried the sergeant aloud : Roll went the drum, and the fife played sweetly; 'Here, master sergeant,' said I, from the crowd,

'Is a lad who will answer your purpose completely.'

My father was a corporal, and well he knew his trade, Of women, wine, and gunpowder, he never was afraid :

He'd march, fight-left, right,

Front flank-centre rank,

Storm the trenches-court the wenches,
Loved the rattle of a battle,

Died with glory-lives in story!

And, like him, I found a soldier's life, if taken smooth and rough,

A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough.

'Hold up your head,' said the sergeant at drill: Roll went the drum, and the fife played loudly; Turn out your toes, sir!' Says I, 'Sir, I will,' For a nimble-wristed round rattan the sergeant flourished proudly.

My father died when corporal, but I ne'er turned my back,

Till, promoted to the halberd, I was sergeant in a crack.

In sword and sash cut a dash,

Spurr'd and booted, next recruited

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