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.