The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 288, Supplementary Number

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

The avant-courier of the "Annuals" is of equal literary merit with its precursors; but not quite equal in its engravings—The Sisters' Dream, by Davenport, from a drawing by Corbould, is, however, placidly interesting; the Bridal Morning, by Finden, is also a pleasing scene; and the Seventh Plague of Egypt, by Le Keux, from a design by Martin, though in miniature, is terrific and sublime. In the literary department we especially notice the Sun-Dial, a pensive tale, by Delta, but too long for extract; and the Sky-Lark by the Ettrick Shepherd, soaring with all the freshness and fancy of that extraordinary genius. The Sword, a beautiful picture of martial woe, by Miss Landon, is subjoined:—

'Twas the battle field, and the cold pale moon
Look'd down on the dead and dying,
And the wind pass'd o'er with a dirge and a wail,
Where the young and the brave were lying.

With his father's sword in his red right hand.
And the hostile dead around him,
Lay a youthful chief: but his bed was the ground,
And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.

A reckless Rover, 'mid death and doom,
Pass'd a soldier, his plunder seeking:
Careless he stept where friend and foe
Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.

Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword,
The soldier paused beside it:
He wrench'd the hand with a giant's strength,
But the grasp of the dead defied it.

He loosed his hold, and his English heart
Took part with the dead before him,
And he honour'd the brave who died sword in hand,
As with soften'd brow he leant o'er him.

"A soldier's death thou hast boldly died,
A soldier's grave won by it:
Before I would take that sword from thine hand,
My own life's blood should dye it.

"Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow,
Or the wolf to batten o'er thee:
Or the coward insult the gallant dead,
Who in life had trembled before thee."

Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth
Where his warrior foe was sleeping,
And he laid him there in honour and rest,
With his sword in his own brave keeping.

As a relief, we quote the following characteristic sketch by Miss Mitford:—

A COUNTRY APOTHECARY

One of the most important personages in a small country town is the apothecary. He takes rank next after the rector and the attorney, and before the curate; and could be much less easily dispensed with than either of those worthies, not merely as holding "fate and physic" in his hand, but as the general, and as it were official, associate, adviser, comforter, and friend, of all ranks and all ages, of high and low, rich and poor, sick and well. I am no despiser of dignities; but twenty emperors shall be less intensely missed in their wide dominions, than such a man as my friend John Hallett in his own small sphere.

The spot which was favoured with the residence of this excellent person was the small town of Hazelby, in Dorsetshire; a pretty little place, where every thing seems at a stand-still. It was originally built in the shape of the letter T; a long broad market-place (still so called, although the market be gone) serving for the perpendicular stem, traversed by a straight, narrow, horizontal street, to answer for the top line. Not one addition has occurred to interrupt this architectural regularity, since, fifty years ago, a rich London tradesman built, at the west end of the horizontal street, a wide-fronted single house, with two low wings, iron palisades before, and a fish-pond opposite, which still goes by the name of New Place, and is balanced, at the east end of the street, by an erection of nearly the same date, a large square dingy mansion enclosed within high walls, inhabited by three maiden sisters, and called, probably by way of nickname, the Nunnery. New Place being on the left of the road, and the Nunnery on the right, the T has now something of the air of the italic capital T, turned up at one end and down at the other. The latest improvements are the bow-window in the market-place, commanding the pavement both ways, which the late brewer, Andrews, threw out in his snug parlour some twenty years back, and where he used to sit smoking, with the sash up, in summer afternoons, enjoying himself, good man; and the great room, at the Swan, originally built by the speculative publican, Joseph Allwright, for an assembly-room. That speculation did not answer. The assembly, in spite of canvassing and patronage, and the active exertions of all the young ladies in the neighbourhood, dwindled away, and died at the end of two winters: then it became a club-room for the hunt; but the hunt quarrelled with Joseph's cookery: then a market-room for the farmers; but the farmers (it was in the high-price time) quarrelled with Joseph's wine: then it was converted into the magistrate's room—the bench; but the bench and the market went away together, and there was an end of justicing: then Joseph tried the novel attraction (to borrow a theatrical phrase) of a billiard-table; but, alas! that novelty succeeded as ill as if it had been theatrical; there were not customers enough to pay the marker: at last, it has merged finally in that unconscious receptacle of pleasure and pain, a post-office; although Hazelby has so little to do with traffic of any sort—even the traffic of correspondence—that a saucy mail-coach will often carry on its small bag, and as often forget to call for the London bag in return.