But let the storm rage on! Let the forest-wreaths be shed! For the Roncesvalles' field is won, There slumber England's dead. On the frozen deep's repose When round the ship the ice-fields close, But let the ice drift on! Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done, There slumber England's dead. The warlike of the isles, The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles, Go, stranger! track the deep, Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead. TO THE MEMORY OF BISHOP HEBER. If it be sad to speak of treasures gone, Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard? Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower? -Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn'd— Of Heaven they were, and thither have return'd. How shall we mourn thee ?-With a lofty trust, Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love, And yet can weep!-for nature thus deplores The friend that leaves us, though for happier shores. And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier, Not to decay, but unto death, hast bowed: Praise for yet one more name with power endowed, To dwell there, beautiful in holiness! Thine, Heber, thine! whose memory from the dead, Shines as the star which to the Saviour led. THE HOUR OF PRAYER. CHILD, amidst the flowers at play, Mother, with thine earnest eye Ever following silently; Father, by the breeze of eve Traveller, in the stranger's land Mourner, haunted by the tone Of a voice from this world gone ; Sailor, on the darkening sea— Lift the heart and bend the knee! |