MEN of England! who inherit

Rights that cost your sires their blood!

Men whose undegenerate spirit

Has been proved on land and flood—

By the foes ye've fought uncounted,

By the glorious deeds ye've done, Trophies captured-breaches mounted

Navies conquered-kingdoms won!

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Yet, remember, England gathers

Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame

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If the freedom of your fathers

Glow not in your hearts the same.

What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail in lands of slavery

Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?

Pageants!—Let the world revere us
For our people's rights and laws,
And the breasts of civic heroes
Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory,
Sidney's matchless shade is yours—
Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Agincourts!

We're the sons of sires that baffled
Crowned and mitred tyranny ;-

They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights-so will we !

THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.

EARL MARCH looked on his dying child,
And smit with grief to view her-
"The youth," he cried, "whom I exiled,
Shall be restored to woo her."

She's at the window many an hour

His coming to discover ;

And he looked up to Ellen's bower,
And she looked on her lover-

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But ah! so pale he knew her not,
Though her smile on him was dwelling.
"And am I then forgot-forgot?"—

It broke the heart of Ellen.

THE LAST MAN.

ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,

The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume

Its immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!

I saw the last of human mould

That shall Creation's death behold,

As Adam saw her prime !

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,

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Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood
With dauntless words and high,

That shook the sere leaves from the wood

As if a storm passed by,

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

Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.

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"What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,

The vassals of his will?—

To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall—
The majesty of darkness shall

Receive my parting ghost!

"This spirit shall return to Him

That gave its heavenly spark;

Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim

When thou thyself art dark !

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