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"T was smiling on that babe one morn, While heath bloom'd on the moor, Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn As he hunted past our door.

"She shunn'd him, but he raved of Jane, And roused his mother's pride; Who came to us in high disdain,

'And where's the face,' she cried,

"Has witch'd my boy to wish for one
So wretched for his wife?-
Dost love thy husband? Know, my son
Has sworn to seek his life.'

"Her anger sore dismay'd us,

For our mite was wearing scant, And, unless that dame would aid us, There was none to aid our want.

"So

told her, weeping bitterly, What all our woes had been; And, though she was a stern ladie, The tears stood in her een.

"And she housed us both, when, cheerfully, My child to her had sworn,

That even if made a widow, she
Would never wed Kinghorn."-

Here paused the nurse, and then began
The abbot, standing by:
"Three months ago, a wounded man
To our abbey came to die.

"He heard me long, with ghastly eyes
And hand obdurate clench'd,
Speak of the worm that never dies,
And the fire that is not quench'd.

"At last by what this scroll attests He left atonement brief,

For years of anguish to the breasts His guilt had wrung with grief.

"There lived,' he said, a fair young dame Beneath my mother's roof;

I loved her, but against my flame
Her purity was proof.

"I feign'd repentance, friendship pure;
That mood she did not check,
But let her husband's miniature
Be copied from her neck.

"As means to search him, my deceit Took care to him was borne Nought but his picture's counterfeit, And Jane's reported scorn.

"The treachery took; she waited wild;
My slave came back and lied
Whate'er I wished; she clasp'd her child,
And swoon'd, and all but died.

"I felt her tears for years, and years Quench not my flame, but stir; The very hate I bore her mate Increased my love for her.

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What are monuments of bravery,

Where no public virtues bloom? What avail, in lands of slavery,

Trophied temples, arch and tomb? Pageants!-Let the world revere us

For our people's rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes

Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's, Russel's glory, Sydney's matchless shade is yours,—— Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Azincours!

We're the sons of sires that baffled Crown'd and mitred tyranny:— They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights-so will we!

THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE.

NEVER wedding, ever wooing,
Still a lovelorn heart pursuing,
Read you not the wrong you're doing
In my cheek's pale hue?

All my life with sorrow strewing, Wed, or cease to woo.

Rivals banish'd, bosoms plighted,
Still our days are disunited;
Now the lamp of hope is lighted,

Now half quench'd appears, Damp'd, and wavering, and benighted, Midst my sighs and tears.

Charms you call your dearest blessing,
Lips that thrill at your caressing,
Eyes a mutual soul confessing,

Soon you'll make them grow
Dim, and worthless your possessing,
Not with age, but woe!

SONG.

DRINK ye to her that each loves best, And if you nurse a flame

That's told but to her mutual breast, We will not ask her name.

Enough, while memory tranced and glad
Paints silently the fair,
That each should dream of joys he's had,
Or yet may hope to share.

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast

From hallow'd thoughts so dear; But drink to them that we love most, As they would love to hear.

SONG.

WHEN Napoleon was flying

From the field of Waterloo, A British soldier, dying,

To his brother bade adieu!

"And take," he said, "this token

To the maid that owns my faith, With the words that I have spoken

In affection's latest breath."

Sore mourn'd the brother's heart, When the youth beside him fell; But the trumpet warn'd to part,

And they took a sad farewell.

There was many a friend to lose him,
For that gallant soldier sigh'd;
But the maiden of his bosom

Wept when all their tears were dried.

THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION.

O LEAVE this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour, Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made; And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground: By all that Love has whisper'd here, Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear; As Love's own altar honor me, Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

SONG.

EARL March look'd on his dying child, And smit with grief to view herThe youth, he cried, whom I exiled,

Shall be restored to woo her.

She's at the window many an hour,
His coming to discover;

And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower,
And she look'd on her lover-

But ah! so pale, he knew her not,

Though her smile on him was dwelling. And am I then forgot-forgot?

It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Her cheek is cold as ashes;

Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes.

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""Tis done! the flame of hate no longer burns: Nature relents, but, ah! too late returns!

"Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed,
When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover! bleed?
Long had I watch'd thy dark foreboding brow,
What time thy bosom scorn'd its dearest vow!
Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover changed,
Still thy cold look was scornful and estranged,
Till, from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown,
I wander'd hopeless, friendless, and alone!

1 Warwick Castle.

"Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame
Forsake its languid melancholy frame!

Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close,
Welcome the dreamless night of long repose!
Soon may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourne
Where, lull'd to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn!"

SONG.

Он, how hard it is to find
The one just suited to our mind;
And if that one should be
False, unkind, or found too late,
What can we do but sigh at fate,

And sing Woe's me-Woe's me!

Love's a boundless burning waste,
Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste,
And still more seldom flee
Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings;
Yet somehow Love a something brings
That's sweet-ev'n when we sigh 'Woe's me!"

STANZAS

ON THE THREATENED INVASION, 1803.
OUR bosoms we'll bare for the glorious strife,
And our oath is recorded on high,

To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,
Or crush'd in its ruins to die!

God bless the green Isle of the brave!
Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust,

"Oh! righteous Heaven! 'twas then my tortured soul "Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust-
First gave to wrath unlimited control!
Adieu the silent look! the streaming eye!
The murmur'd plaint! the deep heart-heaving sigh!
Long-slumbering Vengeance wakes to bitter deeds;
He shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds!
Now the last laugh of agony is o'er,
And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more!

It would rouse the old dead from their grave!
Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide-
Profaning its loves and its charms?
Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side?
To arms! oh, my country, to arms!

Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

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