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Stranger to fear-whom death alone could tame,
Enlist thyself, and emulate his fame.
If thou’rt a patriot; if it were thy fate
To fall like Cato, with a falling state,
Roused by the thought, exert thy firmest power,
Britain to save in this her luckless hour.
If love alone has taught thy heart to heave,
For such a state, what will you not believe ?
You will conclude her loved, but loved in vain,
Forbid alike to hope, and to complain.
Whate'er he

was,

whate'er thon mayest be, Peace to his ashes, peace be unto thee.

LINES,

By Lady DOUGLAS, as descriptive of herself.

1

When the sun shines out bright,
I am merry and light,

I laugh and I talk like a fool :
Then wise folks think I am mad,
And can never be sad,

I am wild as a boy broke from school.

Next comes a cloudy, chilly, stormy day,
The clouds hang low, and I'm as dark as they ;
Through a dark mist all earthly joys I see,
And think, at least, they are not made for me.

Then rectify, O heaven! my wavering mind,
Let it not be the sport

of
every

wind;
Teach me content_I know not how to pray,
Let me be blest,-heaven only knows the way,

MADELINE.

My child, my child, thou leav'st me!--I shall hear
The gentle voice no more that blessed mine ear
With its first utterance :- I shall miss the sound
Of thy light footstep, 'midst the flowers around,
And thy soft-breathing hymn at evening's close,
And thy 'good-night,' at parting for repose.
Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone,
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone
Among their tendrils, while I think of thee,
My child and thou, along the moonlight sea,
With a soft sadness baply in thy glance,
Shall watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France

1

Fading to air! Yet blessings with thee go-
Love guard thee, gentlest ! and the exile's woe
From thy young heart be far !-And sorrow not
For me, sweet daughter, in my lonely lot
God will be with me! Now farewell, farewell,
Thou that hast been what words may never tell
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days
When thou wert pillowed there ; and wont to raise
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye,
That 'still sought mine. Those moments are gone by
Thou too must go, my flower ! yet round thee dwell
The

peace of God! One, one more gaze-farewell !

This was a mother's parting with her childA young, meek bride, on whom fair fortune smiled, And wooed ber, with a voice of love, away From childhood's home. Yet there, with fond delay, She lingered on the threshold : heard the note Of her caged bird through trellised rose-trees float ; And fell upon her mother's neck, and wept, While old remembrances, that long had slept, Streamed o'er her soul; and many a vanished day, As in one picture traced, before her lay.

But the farewell was said ; and on the deep,' When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep,

With a stilled heart, young Madeline, ere long,
Poured forth her own low solemn vesper-song
To chiming waves. Through stillness heard afar, 1
And daily rising with the first pale star,
That voice was on the waters; till at last
The sounding ocean-solitudes were paesed,
And the bright land was reached ; the youthful world
That glows along the west: the sails were furled
In its clear sunshine; and the gentle bride
Looked on the home, which promised hearts untried
A bower of bliss to be. Alas! we trace
The map of our own paths, and long ere years
With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface,
Comes the swift storm, and blots them out in tears.
That home was darkened soon: the summer's breeze
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas !
Death unto one ! and anguish, how forlorn
To her that, widowed in her marriage-morn,
Sat in the lonely dwelling, whence with him,
Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide,
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earthi dim,
As from the sun shut out on every side,
By the close veil of misery. Oh! but ill,
When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young high heart
Bears its first blow! It knows not yet the part
Which life will teach-to suffer and be still !

And with submissive love, to count the flowers
Which yet are spared; and through the future hours
To send no busy dream! She bad not learned
Of sorrow till that blight, and therefore turned
In weariness from life. Then came the unrest,
The vague sad yearnings of the exile's breast;
The haunting sounds of voices far away,
And household steps; until at last she lay
On her lone couch of sickness lost in dreams
Of the gay vineyards and blue glancing streams
Of her own sunny land--and murmuring oft
Familiar names in accents wild, yet soft,
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught.
To strangers ?-Oh! could strangers raise the head,
Gently as her's was raised ?-did strangers shed
The kindly tear which bathed that pale young brow,
And feverish cheek, with half unconscious flow ?-
Something was there, that through the heavy night
Outwatches patiently the taper's light;
Something that bows not to the day's distress,
That knows not change, that fears not weariness:
Love, true and perfect love !--Whence came that power,
Upbearing through the storm the fragile flower ?
Whence ?-who can ask ? the long delirium passed,
And from her eyes the spirit looked at last

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