TO MARY.

Here's a health to thee, Mary,

Here's a health to thee;

The drinkers are gone,

And I am alone,

To think of home and thee, Mary.

There are some who may shine o'er thee, Mary,

And many as frank and free,

And a few as fair;

But the summer air

Is not more sweet to me, Mary.

I have thought of thy last low sigh, Mary,
And thy dimmed and gentle eye;
And I've called on thy name
When the night winds came,
And heard my heart reply, Mary.

Be thou but true to me, Mary,
And I'll be true to thee,

And at set of sun,

When my task is done,

Be sure that I'm ever with thee, Mary.

Barry Cornwall.

BATTLE OF TALAVERA.

Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ?-The fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high-from rock to rock
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe;
Death rides upon the sulphury siroc,

Red battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.

Lo! where the giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And that scorcheth all it glares upon;

eye

Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon

Flashing afar, and at his iron feet

Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done;

sweet.

For on this morn three potent nations meet,

To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally,
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,

Are met—as if at home they could not die—
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,

And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.

There shall they rot-ambition's honoured fools! Yes! honour decks the turf that wraps their clay ! Vain sophistry! in these behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away. By myriads, where they dare to pave their way With human hearts-to what ?-a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?

Byron.

TO LAURA.

I did not weep, when I was told
Thy bridal-day was near;
But ah! the words dropped icy cold
Upon my anguished ear.

Like dust to dust' upon a bier,
The sounds sepulchral fell,

That came my throbbing heart to sear;
And rung my hopes' sad knell.

I met thee-on my marble brow

There wrinkled no fierce ire ;

I touched thee-thou was changed, and now,
The thrill had nought of fire.

I smiled my pride did that require ;
And thou hadst shown how well
A smile can cloak a passion dire,
-Yea, smiled a cold farewell!

Anon.

THE MARTYRED MISSIONARY.

I saw, upon a foreign shore,

A prisoner in his cell;

His hands were not imbrued in gore,
Nor could I gather well

What was his crime, save crime it be
To think the enslaved should be free-

Free to adore the God of heaven

To know the Saviour-Christ
To love and be beloved, nor riven
From home, as brutes, and priced
By monsters savage as the howl
Of warring winter at the pole.

His native land he left in youth

No charm could tempt his stay; With the words of everlasting truth

He hied him on his way

To the darkest spot of earth's domain-
The land of the whip and clanking chain.