Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a hundred Agincourts! We're the sons of sires that baffled ADELGITHA. THE ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded, She wept, delivered from her danger; "For he is in a foreign far land Whose arm should now have set me free: And I must wear the willow garland For him that's dead, or false to me." "Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!" She fell into his arms and fainted; SONG. DRINK ye to her that each loves best, That's told but to her mutual breast, Enough, while memory tranced and glad Paints silently the fair, That each should dream of joys he's had, Or yet may hope to share. Yet far, far hence be jest or boast From hallowed thoughts so dear: But drink to them that we love most, As they would love to hear. SONG. WHEN Napoleon was flying To his brother bade adieu! "And take," he said, "this token To the maid that owns my faith, But the maiden of his bosom Wept when all their tears were dried. SONG Он how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind; And if that one should be False, unkind, or found too late Love's a boundless burning waste, Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings; SONG. EARL March looked on his dying child, And smit with grief to view her— She's at the window many an hour And her love looked up to Ellen's bower, But ah! so pale, he knew her not, And am I then forgot-forgot? It broke the heart of Ellen. In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes ABSENCE. 'Tis not the loss of love's assurance, The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, What though, untouched by jealous madness, Absence! is not the soul torn by it From more than light, or life, or breath? 'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quietThe pain without the peace of death! SONG. WITHDRAW not yet those lips and fingers, And death seems in the word-farewell. Time, while I gaze upon thy sweetness, THE LAST MAN. ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep I saw the last of human mould, The Sun's eye had a sickly glare Some had expired in fight,—the brands Yet, prophet like, that lone one stood, That shook the sere leaves from the wood Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run, "Tis Mercy bids thee go. For thou ten thousand thousand years What though beneath thee man put forth pomp, his pride, his skill; His |