The tread of armed mariners is in our streets to-day,
An Empire's pulse is beating in the march of this array.
From western woods, and Celtic hills, and homely Saxon shires,
They sailed beneath the "meteor flag," the emblem of our sires;
And for the glory that has been, the pride that yet may be,
We hail them in the sacred names of home and liberty,
And know that not on sea or land more dauntless hearts there are
Than the hearts of these bold seamen from the English men-of-war.
Trafalgar's fame-crowned hero stands, encarved in storied stone,
And from his place of honor looks in silence and alone:
But no, to-day his spirit lives, and walks the crowded way;
For us Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher and Howard live to-day;
For us from many a page of eld, 'mid war and tempest blast,
A thousand thousand valiant forms come trooping from the past,
And say, "Forget not us to-day, we have a part with these,
The 'sea-dogs' of old England, the 'Mistress of the Seas.'"
No, no, ye gruff old heroes, ye can never be forgot;
The memory of your prowess will outlive the storm, the shot
Destruction pours impartially on common and sublime,
And scorn the volleying years that mount the battery of time;
For far above this tide of war your worth is written clear
On fame's bright rock of adamant, imperishable here;
Your names may be recorded not, your graves be 'neath the keel,
But many a million English hearts some love for you shall feel.
Five grim old ocean-buffeters, stern ploughshares of the deep,
Have come to visit us of those whose duty 'tis to keep,
With the old lion's courage and the young eagle's ken,
Their sleepless watch upon the sea that skirts this world of men:
And if again in stately pride their lordly forms they bear
Upon the ample bosom of our noble stream, whene'er
From massive prow impregnable their peaceful anchor falls,
We'll hail old England's hearts of steel who man her iron walls.
ON FINDING A COPY OF BURNS'S POEMS IN
THE HOUSE OF AN ONTARIO FARMER.
Large Book, with heavy covers worn and old,
Bearing clear proof of usage and of years,
Thine edges yellow with their faded gold,
Thy leaves with fingers stained--perchance with tears;
How oft thy venerable page has felt
The hardened hands of honorable toil!
How oft thy simple song had power to melt
The hearts of the rude tillers of the soil!
How oft has fancy borne them back to see
The Scottish peasant at his work, and thou
Hast made them feel the grandeur of the free
And independent follower of the plough!
What careth he that his proud name hath peal'd
From shore to shore since his new race began,
In humble cot and "histie stibble field"
Who doth "preserve the dignity of man"?
With reverent hands I lay aside the tome,
And to my longing heart content returns,
And in the stranger's house I am at home,
For thou dost make us brothers, Robert Burns.
And thou, old Book, go down from sire to son;
Repeat the pathos of the poet's life;
Sing the sweet song of him who fought and won
The outward struggle and the inward strife.
Go down, grand Book, from hoary sire to son;
Keep by the Book of books thy wonted place;
Tell what a son of man hath felt and done,
And make of us and ours a noble race,--
A race to scorn the sordid greed of gold,
To spurn the spurious and contemn the base,
Despise the shams that may be bought and sold,--
A race of brothers and of men,--a race
To usher in the long-expected time
Good men have sought and prophets have foretold,
When this bright world shall be the happy clime
Of brotherhood and peace, when men shall mould
Their lives like His who walked in Palestine;
The truly human manhood thou dost show,
Leading them upward to the pure divine
Nature of God made manifest below.