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From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was stream

ing,

And pale was his visage, deep marked with a scar; And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war!

How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!
How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!
Hast thou come my fond Love, this last sorrowful night,
To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar ?
Thou shalt live, she replied, Heav'n's mercy relieving
Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn!
Ah, no! the last pang in my bosom is heaving!
No light of the morn shall to Henry return!

Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true :

Ye babes of my love that await me afar !— His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, When he sunk in her arms-the poor wounded Hussar!

GILDEROY.

THE last, the fatal hour is come,
That bears my love from me;
I hear the dead note of the drum,
I mark the gallows tree!

The bell has tolled; it shakes my heart;

The trumpet speaks thy name;

And must my Gilderoy depart
To bear a death of shame?

No bosom trembles for thy doom;
No mourner wipes a tear;
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier!

Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then
So soon, so sad, to part,
When first in Roslin's lovely glen
You triumphed o'er my heart?

Your locks they glittered to the sheen
Your hunter garb was trim;
And graceful was the ribbon green
That bound your manly limb!

Ah! little thought I to deplore

These limbs in fetters bound;
Or hear, upon thy scaffold floor,
The midnight hammer sound.
Ye cruel, cruel, that combined
The guiltless to pursue;
My Gilderoy was ever kind,
He could not injure you!

A long adieu! but where shall fly
Thy widow all forlorn,
When every mean and cruel eye
Regards my wo with scorn?

Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears,
And hate thine orphan boy;

Alas! his infant beauty wears
The form of Gilderoy!

Then will I seek the dreary mound

That wraps thy mouldering clay;

And weep and linger on the ground,
And sigh my heart away.

THE HARPER.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;

No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

[nigh

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart) Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me, although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray, And he licked me for kindness-my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face; But he died at my feet on a cold winter day, And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? To my sweet native village, so far, far away, I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

SONG.

My mind is my kingdom, but if thou wilt deign

A

queen there to sway without measure;

Then come, o'er its wishes and homage to reign,
And make it an empire of pleasure.

Then of thoughts and emotions each mutinous crowd,
That rebelled at stern reason and duty,
Returning shall yield all their loyalty proud
To the Halcyon dominion of beauty.

THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION.

OH! leave this barren spot to me,
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.
Though shrub or flow'ret never grow,
My wan unwanning shade below,
Nor fruits of autumn blossom born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn,
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
The ambrosial treasures of the hive,
Yet leave this little spot to me,
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.

Thrice twenty summers I have stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude;
Since childhood in my rustling bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour,
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture paid,

And on my trunk's surviving frame
Carved many a long forgotten name.
Oh, by the vows of gentle sound
First breathed upon this sacred ground,
By all that Love hath whispered here,
Or beauty heard with ravished ear,
As Love's own altar honour me,
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.

HOHENLINDEN.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riv❜n,
Then rushed the steed to battle driv❜n,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.

And redder yet those fires shall glow,
On Linden's hills of blood stained snow,

And darker yet shall be the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

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