Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,
That were cold and extinguished in sadness;
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving
Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens,
Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.
THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS
ON HER BIRTHDAY.
Ir any white winged Power above
My joys and griefs survey,
The day when thou wert born, my love—
He surely blessed that day.
I laughed (till taught by thee) when told
Of beauty's magic powers,
That ripened life's dull ore to gold,
And changed its weeds to flowers.
My mind had lovely shapes portrayed;
But thought I 'earth had one
Could make e'en Fancy's visions fade
Like stars before the sun?
I gazed and felt upon my lips
Th' unfinished accents hang:
One moment's bliss, one burning kiss,
To rapture changed each pang.
And though as swift as lightning's flash
Those tranced moments flew,
Not all the waves of time shall wash
But duly shall my raptured song,
And gladly shall my eyes,
Still bless this day's return, as long
As thou shalt see it rise
"C MEN OF ENGLAND."
MEN of England! who inherit
Rights that cost your sires their blood!
Men whose undegenerate spirit
Has been proved on land and flood:-
By the foes ye've fought uncounted,
By the glorious deeds ye've done,
Trophies captured-breaches mounted-
Navies conquered-kingdoms won!
Yet, remember, England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the patriotism of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same.
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, Russell's glory,
Sydney's matchless shade is yours,—
Martyrs in heroic story,
Worth a hundred Agincourts!
We're the sons of sires that baffled
Crowned and mitred tyranny:
They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights-so will we!
THE ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded,
And sad pale Adelgitha came,
When forth a valiant champion bounded,
And slew the slanderer of her fame.
She wept, delivered from her danger;
But when he knelt to claim her glove
"Seek not," she cried, "oh! gallant stranger,
For hapless Adelgitha's love.
"For he is in a foreign far land
Whose arm should now have set me free:
And I must wear the willow garland
For him that's dead, or false to me."
Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!"
He raised his vizor-At the sight
She fell into his arms and fainted;
It was indeed her own true knight!
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 hallowed thoughts so dear:
But drink to them that we love most,
As they would love to hear.
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 mourned the brother's heart,
When the youth beside him fell;
But the trumpet warned to part,
And they took a sad farewell.
There was many a friend to lose him,
For that gallant soldier sighed ;
But the maiden of his bosom
Wept when all their tears were dried.
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 Wo's me-Wo's me!
Love's a boundless burning waste,
Where bliss's stream we seldom taste,
And still more solemn flee
Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings;
Yet somehow Love a something brings
That's sweet-ev'n when we sigh Wo's me!
EARL March looked on his dying child,
And smit with grief to view her-
The 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 looked up to Ellen's bower,
And she looked 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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