THE ARETHUSA.

TUNE_" The Princess Royal.” .
Come all ye jolly sailors bold,
Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould,
While British glory I unfold,

Huzza to the Arethusa!
She is a frigate tight and brave,
As ever stemm'd the dashing wave;

Her men are staunch

To their fav’rite launch;
And when the foe shall meet our fire,
Sooner than strike we'll all expire,

On board of the Arethusa.

'Twas with the spring fleet she went out,
The English Channel to cruize about,
When four French sail, in show so stout,

Bore down on the Arethusa.
The fam'd Belle Poole straight a-head did lie,
The Arethusa seem'd to fly;

Not a sheet or a tack,

Or a brace did she slack, Tho' the Frenchmen laugh’d, and thought it stuff; But they knew not the handful of men how tough

On board of the Arethusa.

On deck five hundred men did dance,
The stoutest they could find in France;
We with two hundred did advance,

On board of the Arethusa.
Our Captain hail'd the Frenchmen, Ho!
The Frenchmen they cried out, Hallo!

Bear down, d'ye see,

To our Admiral's lee:
No, no, says the Frenchmen, that can't be.
Then I must lug you along with me,

Says the saucy Arethusa.

The fight was off the Frenchmen's land,
We forc'd them back upon the strand;
For we fought till not a stick would stand,

Of the gallant Arethusa.
And now we've driven the foe ashore,
Never to fight with Britons more.

Let each fill a glass

To his favourite lass;
A health to our Captain and officers true,
And all that belong to the jovial crew,

On board of the Arethusa.

THE DECEITFUL MAID.
When Charles was deceiv'd by the maid he lov’d,

We saw no cloud his brow o'ercasting,
But proudly he smil'd as if gay and unmov’d,

Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting; And often, at night, when the tempest rollid,

He sung, as he pac'd the dark deck over, “ Blow, wind, blow ! thou art not so cold

As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover !" Yet he liv'd with the happy, and seem'd to be gay,

Tho' the wound but sunk more deep for concealing; And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way,

Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling! And, still by the frowning of Fate unsubdu'd,

He sung, as if sorrow had plac'd him above her, "Frown, Fate, frown ! thou art not so rude

As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover!” At length his career found a close in death,

The close he long wish'd to his cheerless roving, For Victory shone on his latest breath,

And he died in a cause of his heart's approving,

But still he remember'd his sorrow,—and still

He sung, till the vision of life was over, 6 Come, death, come! thou art not so chill

As the heart of the maid that deceiv'd her lover!"

THE WILLOW TREE.

Oh, take me to your arms, my love,

For keen the wind doth blow;
O take me to your arms, my love,

For bitter is my woe.
She hears me not, she cares not,

Nor will she list to me;
And here I lie, in misery,

Beneath the willow tree.

My love has wealth and beauty,

The rich attend her door;
My love has wealth and beauty,

But I, alas! am poor.
The ribbon fair that bound her hair,

Is all that's left to me;
While here I lie, in misery,

Beneath the willow tree.

I once had gold and silver,

I thought 'em without end;
I once had gold and silver,

I thought I had a friend;
My wealth is lost, my friend is false,

My love is stole from me,
And here I lie, in misery,

Beneath the willow tree.

BONAPARTE'S FAREWELL.

TUNE—“ Captain O'Kean."
FAREWELL to the land, where the gloom of my glory

Arose and o'ershadowed the earth with her name, She abandons me now,—but the page of her story,

The brightest or blackest, is filled with my fame. I have warred with a world which vanquished me only

When the meteor of Conquest allured me too far, I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely,

The last single captive to millions in war!

Farewell to thee, France-when thy diadem crowned me,

I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,

Decayed in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted _In strife with the storm, when their battles were won,Then the eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, Had still soared with eyes fixed on victory's sun!

Farewell to thee, France-but when liberty rallies

Once more in thy regions, remember me thenThe violet grows in the depth of thy valleys,

Though withered, thy tears will unfold it again Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us,

And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voiceThere are links which must break in the chain that has

bound us; Then turn thee, and call on the chief of thy choice ! *

* It will probably be known to the most of our readers that these admirable verses are from the pen of Lord Byron. They were written, and first made their appearance in the public prints, at the time when Napoleon was in Plymouth sound, on board the Bellerophon. There is no doubt that the Noble author intended (for he has said as much to his friends) merely to depict what he

conceived might be Bonaparte's sentiments and feelings on leave ing that country he had so long governed, and not to embody his own feelings and regrets on the occasion ; and few will deny that he has succeeded most happily. To those who have paid but an ordinary attention to the bold, decisive, and romantic character of the man who could be subdued only by the united powers of all Europe, in alliance with the storms and frosts of a Russian winter, it will appear, that the sentiments here put into his mouth by the poet, are all in perfect unison with the most prominent traits in that character; and that even the language, (the ryhme, of course, being left out of the question) is such as he was in the habit of using every day. We are not certain whether the generality of our readers entertain similar opinions with ourselves respecting this extraordinary character. One thing, however, must be pretty obvious to the most of them, and that is, that the mists of political prejudice which caused him to be regarded by many az the most detestable monster in existence, are now gradually dispersing; and mankind are beginning to blush for their former credulity, and to look mighty silly at having been so easily deceived. On this account we are certain that we need not apologize to any of our readers for laying before them the following philosophical attempt, by a writer of considerable eminence, to ascertain the proper medium through which the character of Bonaparte ought to be estimated, and the causes of those piques, prejudices, or antipathies, which have hitherto, in a greater or a less degree, influenced every one, who has formed any judgment at all of his character,

“ It is a trite observation, that no true judgment is formed of a man but by history and posterity, and that the only way to get at something of their truth is to try and reach their dispassionateness. How far they themselves make mistakes, is another question; but the observation still holds good. Now what has hindered a dispassionate judgment of Bonaparte, in these times, is still more connected with violent and predisposing causes than usual. It is self-love perhaps that leads or misleads us at all times in our opinions of others; but this principle has been doubly intense in influencing the judgment on Bonaparte, let it have been what it might. All powerful enemies excite parties for and