POETRY.

ENGLAND, AWAKE!

SPIRIT of England, art thou sleeping?

Soul of the Ocean, art thou fled ? Behold ! thy Sister is wounded and weeping ; The waves are leaping ; the storm is creeping Hither to break on thy slumbering head. England, awake ! or the tomb may cover thee ! Awake, awake ! for the shroud is over thee !

England, awake, if thou be not dead ! The seas are crying, the clouds are flying, Fair France is dying,—her blood flows red ; Europe in thunder is rent asunder, But the mother of nations is lying dead !

Weep !—and pray that our tears may wake her ; Pray !—tho' prayers have been vain of old ; Scream, tho' the thunder is weak to shake her ; In the Name of the Maker, awake her, awake her !

The storm bath come—let the bells be tolled. Mother, awake ! we are wailing aloud for thee!

Awake ! awake! they are bringing the shroud for thee—

They will bury thee quick, for thy pulse is cold ! 0 God ! to be sleeping !—with thy children weeping,

And the lightning leaping round farm and fold ; Dark rolls the motion of heaven and ocean—

Why is the mother of nations cold ?

Hush for I have a charm to move her: I will name her glories in times long fled. Now, that the doom is so dark above her, Come, all that love her, and over and over Let the mighty sum of her deeds be said.

England, awake! we wail wet-eyed for thee ! By the sons that have dream'd, the sons that have died for thee !

She hears ; she remembers ; she is not dead !

O hearts ! cease aching, the dawn is breaking, England is waking,—she lifts her head!

Her lips shall thunder; the world shall wonder : The mother of nations is not dead.