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, At summer's eve those rocks among, The sea-mews' cry my evening song, The moon-beams falling on my form, And when in wint'ry nights I creep What though I lack reviving food, But frozen, stagnate would it chill, Peace, Freedom, and Content. BERTRAM-HOUSE, FEB. 4, 1812. THE SPANISH LADY'S FAREWELL "MANUEL, I do not shed a tear I dare not listen to my fear, The heart may shrink, the spirit fail, 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, Should Freedom perish-at thy death 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, The youth, for whom thy bosom sighs, Thou, in existence, still canst find 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 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. If the glowing zeal of your bosoms perish, 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,' That wipe the tears from affliction's eye. 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 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. |