Men whose heirs would yet finish the tyrannous task,
If the Truth and the Time had not dragged off their mask..
They parted-but not till the sight might discern
A scutcheon distinct at their pinnace's stern,
Where letters emblazoned in blood-coloured flame,
Named their faction-I blot not my page with its name.
WHEN LOVE came first to Earth, the SPRING
Spread rose-beds to receive him,
And back he vowed his flight he'd wing
To Heaven, if she should leave him,
But SPRING departing, saw his faith.
Pledged to the next new comer-
He revelled in the warmer breath
And richer bowers of SUMMER.
Then sportive AUTUMN claimed by rights
An Archer for her lover,
And even in WINTER's dark cold nights
A charm he could discover.
Her routs and balls, and fireside joy,
For this time were his reasons-
In short, Young Love's a gallant boy,
That likes all times and seasons.
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 he 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.
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.
SENT WITH A COPY OF THE AUTHOR'S POEMS.
SINCE there is magic in your look
And in your voice a witching charm,
As all our hearts consenting tell,
Enchantress, smile upon my book,
And guard its lays from hate and harm
By Beauty's most resistless spell.
The sunny dew-drop of thy praise,
Young day-star of the rising time,
Shall with its odoriferous morn
Refresh my sere and withered bays.
Smile, and I will befieve my rhyme
Shall please the beautiful unborn.
Go forth, my pictured thoughts, and rise
In traits and tints of sweeter tone,
When Julia's glance is o'er ye flung;
Glow, gladden, linger in her eyes,
And catch a magic not your own,
Read by the music of her.tongue.
SWEET Iser! were thy sunny realm
And flowery gardens mine,
Thy waters I would shade with elm
To prop the tender vine;
My golden flagons I. would fill
With rosy draughts from every
And under every myrtle bower,
My gay companions should prolong
The laugh, the revel, and the song,
To many an idle hour.
Like rivers crimsoned with the beam
Of yonder planet bright,
Our balmy cups should ever stream
Profusion of delight;
No care should touch the mellow heart,
And sad or sober none depart;
For wine can triumph over woe,
And Love and Bacchus, brother powers,
Could build in Iser's sunny bowers
A paradise below.
ON THE DEPARTURE OF EMIGRANTS FOR NEW SOUTH WALES.
ON England's shore I saw a pensive band,
With sails unfurled for earth's remotest strand,
Like children parting from a mother, shed
Tears for the home that could not yield them bread;
Grief marked each face receding from the view,
'Twas grief to nature honourably true.
And long, poor wanderers o'er the ecliptic deep,
The song that names but home shall make you weep;
Oft shall ye fold your flocks by stars above
In that far world, and miss the stars ye love;
Oft when its tuneless birds scream round forlorn,
Regret the lark that gladdens England's morn,
And, giving England's names to distant scenes,
Lament that earth's extension intervenes.
But cloud not yet too long, industrious train,
Your solid good with sorrow nursed in vain :
For has the heart no interest yet as bland
As that which binds us to our native land?
The deep-drawn wish, when children crown our hearth,
To hear the cherub-chorus of their mirth,
Undamped by dread that want may e'er unhouse,
Or servile misery knit those smiling brows:
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