“And where went Jane ?” ̄«To a nunnery,

Sir

Look not again so pale

Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her.""And she has ta'en the veil !"—

"Sit down, Sir," said the priest, “I bar Rash words."-They sat all three,

And the boy play'd with the knight's broad star, As he kept him on his knee.

"Think ere you ask her dwelling-place,"

The abbot further said;

"Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face More deep than cloister's shade.

Grief may have made her what you can
Scarce love perhaps for life."
"Hush, abbot," cried the Ritter Bann,
"Or tell me where's my wife."

The priest undid two doors that hid
The inn's adjacent room,

And there a lovely woman stood,
Tears bathed her beauty's bloom.

One moment may with bliss repay
Unnumber'd hours of pain;

Such was the throb and mutual sob

Of the Knight embracing Jane.

MEN of England! who inherit

Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit

Has been proved on field and flood:

By the foes you've fought uncounted By the glorious deeds ye've done, Trophies captured-breaches mounted, Navies conquer'd-kingdoms won!

Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,

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
Crown'd and mitred tyranny ;-
They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights-so will we.

SONG.

DRINK ye to her that each loves best,
And if you nurse a flame

That's told but to her mutual breast,

We will not ask her name.

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 hallow'd thoughts so dear;
But drink to her that each loves most,
As she would love to hear.

THE HARPER.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was

nigh,

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.

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 lick'd me for kindness-my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I play'd 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.

THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

ALONE to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er :"Oh whither," she cried," hast thou wander'd, my

lover,

Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?

What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd!"
All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far,
When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried,
By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar !

From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming,

And pale was his visage, deep mark'd 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, "Heaven's mercy relieving

Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn!”"Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving! No light of the morn shall to Henry return!