No more, surveying with an eye impartial
          The long line of the coast,
     Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal
          Be seen upon his post!

     For in the night, unseen, a single warrior,
          In sombre harness mailed,
     Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer,
          The rampart wall has scaled.

     He passed into the chamber of the sleeper,
          The dark and silent room,
     And as he entered, darker grew and deeper
          The silence and the gloom.

     He did not pause to parley or dissemble,
          But smote the Warden hoar;
     Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble,
          And groan from shore to shore.

     Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,
          The sun rose bright o’erhead: 
     Nothing in Nature’s aspect intimated
          That a great man was dead.

ENGLAND’S DEAD.

BY FELICIA HEMANS.

          Son of the ocean isle! 
          Where sleep your mighty dead? 
     Show me what high and stately pile
          Is reared o’er Glory’s bed.

          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.

          On Egypt’s burning plains,
          By the pyramid o’erswayed,
     With fearful power the noon-day reigns,
          And the palm-trees yield no shade.

          But let the angry sun
          From Heaven look fiercely red,
     Unfelt by those whose task is done!
          There slumber England’s dead.

          The hurricane hath might
          Along the Indian shore,
     And far, by Ganges’ banks at night,
          Is heard the tiger’s roar.

          But let the sound roll on! 
          It hath no tone of dread
     For those that from their toils are gone;—­
          There slumber England’s dead.

          Loud rush the torrent-floods
          The western wilds among,
     And free, in green Columbia’s woods,
          The hunter’s bow is strung.

          But let the floods rush on! 
          Let the arrow’s flight be sped! 
     Why should they reck whose task is done?
          There slumber England’s dead.

          The mountain-storms rise high
          In the snowy Pyrenees,
     And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,
          Like rose-leaves on the breeze.

          But let the storms 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
          ’Tis a dark and dreadful hour
     When round the ship the ice-fields close,
          And the northern-night-clouds lour;