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What though my cloaths in squalid rags Hang fluttering on my knee,

They breathe, like sea-weed on the crags, The air of liberty.

Free as that buoyant breeze I rove,

All Nature's joys my own;

Sea, earth, and sky, the clouds above,
The rocks in masses thrown,

At summer's eve those rocks among,
I with the otter lie;

The sea-mews' cry my evening song,
The waves my lullaby.

The moon-beams falling on my form,
The spray that dews my hair,
The breathing of the summer storm,
All, all to me are fair.

And when in wint'ry nights I creep
Beneath the sheltering boat,
And feel my ice-bound fingers sleep,
And doff my frozen coat:

What though I lack reviving food,
Though bare my aged form,
Think you not that the freeman's blood
Can keep his bosom warm?

But frozen, stagnate would it chill,
Within thy prison pent-
Away-I'll keep my treasures still-

Peace, Freedom, and Content.

BERTRAM-HOUSE, FEB. 4, 1812.

THE

SPANISH LADY'S FAREWELL

"MANUEL, I do not shed a tear
Our parting to delay;

I dare not listen to my fear,
I dare not bid thee stay.

The heart may shrink, the spirit fail,
But Spaniards must be free!
And pride and duty shall prevail

O'er all my love for thee.

Then go; and round that gallant head,

Like banners in the air,

Shall float full many a daring hope,
And many a tender prayer.

Should Freedom perish-at thy death
"Twere madness to repine;
And I should every feeling lose,

Except the wish for mine.

But if the destiny of Spain

Be once again to rise!

O! grant me heav'n! to read the tale

In Manuel's joyful eyes."

MATILDA BETHAM.

NEW CAVENDISH STREET, JULY 3, 1808.

SONG.

SWEET maid, I hear thy frequent sigh,
And mourn to see thy languid eye;
For well I know those symptoms prove
Thy heart a prey to secret love.
But tho' so hard a fate be thine,
Think not thy grief can equal mine.
Hope may thy vanish'd bloom restore;
I sigh for him WHO LIVES NO MORE!

The youth, for whom thy bosom sighs,
Shall oft' delight thy conscious eyes ;
And oft' his voice, in accents sweet,
Shall Friendship's soothing tone repeat:
But he for whom my cheek is pale,
For whom my health and spirits fail,
Nought to my eyes can c'er restore,
And I shall hear his voice NO MORE

Thou, in existence, still canst find
A charm to captivate thy mind,
To make the morning ray delight,
And gild the gloomy brow of night!
But Nature's charms to me are fled!
I nought behold but HENRY DEAD!
What can my love of life restore?
I sigh for him WHO LIVES NO MORE!

AMELIA OPIE

SONG.

Written for the Anniversary of the Charitable Society of St. Patrick.

BY HORACE TWISS, ESQ.

Sons of fair Erin! who yet inherit
The gallant ardour of times gone by,
And feel, on this day, the reviving spirit
Which taught your fathers to live and die-
Lose not that impulse of high devotion,
Till bigot frenzy and coward guile
Shall brood no more on the Western Ocean,
And blight the olive on Erin's isle!

Nations may weather the darkest hour,

If the fervour of Freedom unclouded shine: Her guardian fires have a mystic power,

For the patriot's heart is their living shrine.
Their hallow'd lustre 'tis yours to cherish-
The trust of Erin is all in you-

If the glowing zeal of your bosoms perish,
Your country's life is extinguished too!

But the holy flame which the patriot raises

Should beam with a calm and a chastened smile; When the fire of Freedom too fiercely blazes, That blaze but kindles her funeral pile! Ill-fated Erin! too often already

Her fondest friends have prolonged her toil For the iron hand has been stern and steady That binds her down to the bleeding soil.

Leave, then, oh! leave unto them that curse ye,'
The guilt of widow's and orphan's cry:
Your's is the temper of love and mercy,

That wipe the tears from affliction's eye.
Vain shall be thus the unblest endeavour

To crush the spirit which Nature has given: That sacred spirit shall live for ever,

And triumph at last in the cause of heaven!

LINES,

Written during the public Rage for Master Betty.

BY THE LATE RICHARD CUMBERLAND, ESQ.

KEMBLE, while thus you give us to behold
Acting that would have grac'd the days of old,
May we not hope in time, that public taste
Will blush to find its favour so misplac'd?
Will not your form, with due proportion fraught,
Serve to embody our great Poet's thought?
Was Shakspeare of his reason so beguil'd
To let his Muse be dandled by a child?
Did his sublime imagination shape
Hamlet or Richard for a boy to ape?
Parrots can talk, but is the world so weak,

To say that parrots think, because they speak?

"Tis nothing strange, good folks! that boys can spout;

The wonder is, that you can hear them cut.

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