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They shall describe thy life-thy form portray
But all the love that mourns thee swept away,
'Tis not in language or expressive arts
To paint-ye feel it, Britons, in your hearts!

LINES,

On receiving a seal with the Campbell Crest, from
K. M. before her marriage.

THIS wax returns not back more fair,
Th' impression of the gift you send,
Than stamped upon my thoughts I bear
The image of your worth, my friend!-

We are not friends of yesterday :—
But poet's fancies are a little
Disposed to heat and cool, (they say,)—
By turns impressible and brittle.

Well! should its frailty e'er condemn
My heart to prize or please you less,
Your type is still the sealing gem,
And mine the waxen brittleness.

What transcripts of my wea! and wo
This little signet yet may lock,-
What utt'rances to friend or foe,
In reason's calm or passion's shock!

What scenes of life's yet curtained page
May own its confidential die,

Whose stamp awaits th' unwritten page
And feelings of futurity !—

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Yet wheresoe'er my pen I lift

To date th' epistolary sheet,
The blest occasion of the gift

Shall make its recollection sweet;

Sent when the star that rules your fates
Hath reached its influence most benign-
When every heart congratulates,

And none more cordially than mine

So speed my song-marked with the crest
That erst th' advent'rous Norman* wore,
Who won the Lady of the West,

The daughter of Macaillain Mor.

Crest of my sires! whose blood it sealed
With glory in the strife of swords,
Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield
Degenerate thoughts or faithless words!

Yet little might I prize the stone,
If it but typed the feudal tree
From whence, a scattered leaf, I'm blown
In Fortune's mutability.

No!-but it tells me of a heart,
Allied by friendship's living tie;
A prize beyond the herald's art-
Our soul-sprung consanguinity!

Katherine! to many an hour of mine
Light wings and sunshine you have lent;
And so adieu, and still be thine

The all in-all of life-Content!

* A Norman leader, in the service of the king of Scotland, married the heiress of Lochow in the twelfth century, and from him the Camp bells are sprung.

STANZAS

To the memory of the Spanish Patriots latest killed in resisting the Regency and the Duke of Angouleme.

BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell

Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain,
There is a Victory in dying well

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For Freedom, and ye have not died in vain ;

For come what may there shall be hearts in Spain
To honour, ay embrace your martyred lot.
Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain,

And looking on your graves, though trophied not,
As holier, hallowed ground than priests could make the

spot!

What though your cause be bafiled-freemen cast

In dungeons-dragged to death, or forced to flee;
Hope is not withered in affliction's blast-

The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree;
And short your orgies of revenge shall be,
Cowled demons of the Inquisitorial cell

Earth shudders at your victory,--for ye

Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell,
The baser, ranker sprung Autochthones of hell!

Go to your bloody rites again-bring back
The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen,
Recording answers shrieked upon the rack;
Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men ;-
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den ;—
Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal
With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again,
To practise deeds, with torturing fire and steel
No eye may search-no tongue may challenge or reveal!

Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime
Too proudly, ye oppressors!-Spain was free,
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her crime
Been winnow'd by the wings of Liberty;
And these even parting scatter as they flee
Thoughts—influences, to live in hearts unborn,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution-show her mask off-torn,
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn!

Glory to them that die in this great cause!
Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,
Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause:
No!-manglers of the martyr's earthly frame !
Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame.
Still in your prostrate land there shall be some
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame.
Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb,
But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.

LINES

INSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT LATELY FINISHED BY

MR. CHANTREY,

Which has been erected by the widow of Admiral Sir G.
Campbell, K. C. B. to the memory of her husband.

To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart
Fulfilled the hero's and the patriot's part,—
Whose charity, like that which Paul enjoin'd,
Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined,-

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This stone is reared to public duty true,
The seaman's friend, the father of his crew-
Mild in reproof, sagacious in command,
He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band,
And led each arm to act, each heart to feel,
What British valour owes to Britain's weal.

These were his public virtues :—but to trace
His private life's fair purity and grace,
To paint the traits that drew affection strong
From friends, an ample and an ardent throng,
And, more, to speak his memory's grateful claim
On her who mourns him most, and bears his name-
O'ercomes the trembling hand of widowed grief,
O'ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief,
Save in religion's high and holy trust,
Whilst placing their memorial o'er his dust.

SONG OF THE GREEKS.

AGAIN to the battle, Achaians!

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree

It has been, and shall yet be the land of the free:

For the cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us

Ah! what though no succour advances,
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

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