hore;
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 reckles