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Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in

war,

As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne ! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls!

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright!

Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night!

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave,

Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.

LYRE.

THE NEGLECTED CHILD.

BY THOMAS H. BAYLY.

I NEVER was a favourite-
My mother never smiled
On me, with half the tenderness
That blessed her fairer child;
I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek,
While fondled on her knee;

I've turned away to hide my tears,-
There was no kiss for me!

G

62

THE NEGLECTED CHILD.

And yet I strove to please, with all
My little store of sense;
I strove to please, and infancy
Can rarely give offence;
But when my artless efforts met
A cold, ungentle check,
I did not dare to throw myself
In tears upon her neck.

How blessed are the beautiful!
Love watches o'er their birth;
Oh beauty! in my nursery

I learned to know thy worth;
For even there, I often felt
Forsaken and forlorn;

And wished-for others wished it too-
I never had been born!

I'm sure I was affectionate,

But in my sister's face,

There was a look of love that claimed

A smile or an embrace.

But when I raised my lip, to meet
The pressure children prize,
None knew the feelings of my heart,-

They spoke not in my eyes.

But oh! that heart too keenly felt
The anguish of neglect;

I saw my sister's lovely form
With gems and roses deck'd;
I did not covet them: but oft,
When wantonly reproved,
I envied her the privilege
Of being so beloved.

But soon a time of triumph came—
A time of sorrow too,-
For sickness o'er my sister's form
Her venomed mantle threw :-
The features once so beautiful,

Now wore the hue of death;
And former friends shrank fearfully
From her infectious breath.

'Twas then, unwearied, day and night,

I watched beside her bed,

And fearlessly upon my breast
I pillowed her poor head.

She lived!-and loved me for my care!—
My grief was at an end;
I was a lonely being once,
But now I have a friend!

WHERE ARE THEY?

BY JOHN MALCOLM.

OUR Fathers! where are they? and where
The prophets?-From this mortal scene,
Gone with the dream of things that were,
As if they ne'er had been.
Beyond the wanderings of the morn,
Beyond the portals of the day,
Unto a land whence none return,
Our fathers-where are they?

The vanished comet long deemed lost,
And absent for a thousand years,

A gain, amid the starry host,

From darkness re-appears,

64

WHERE ARE THEY?

Seas ebb and flow upon the shore,

Moons wax when they have waned away,
But they who go to come no more,
Our fathers where are they?

Thou sun that light'st the boundless skies,
Where are the earth's departed gone?
Ye stars, to your all-seeing eyes
Is the great secret known?

Ye breathe not of their place of rest,
But roll in silence on your way,
And the lorn echoes of the breast
Still answer-Where are they?

TO MRS. HEMANS.

THY spirit hath a pure, embalming ray,
E'en like the sun, with his all-silvering light,
That sweetly sheds its glory through the day,
And lends us its reflection still at night-
Falling on every hill and mountain bright,
And forest dark, and the lone and quiet vale,
Bringing a thousand beauties to the sight,
That else had been unseen, or dim and pale;
Filling our souls in summer with delight,
And making winter's snowy robe more dazzling white.

Thus o'er the world of human feeling, thou
Hast shed the glory of thy thrilling song,-
Lit up its pinnacles to flash and glow,

Like stars, that in the deep blue sky do throng,

Till its romantic spots are hallowed so,
That all of beautiful in woman's love,
And all that's noble on the hero's brow,
All that resembles holiness above,
All that we venerate on earth below,
Unconscious in thy song to tenfold beauty grow.

The Pilgrim Fathers! how its light doth stream
And flash in glory o'er that thoughtful band;
In the clear brightness of its magic gleam,
Not dimly seen, those various forms are scanned.
With burning thoughts they tread the rock-bound
strand,

The hoary head, the frank, free face of youth,
The dear child clinging to the father's hand,

Stern manhood's brow, and woman's eye of truth-
A mingled crowd upon that wished-for land,

Oh! more than Plato's dream, devoutly there they stand.

The lays of many lands-they are thine own-
Yet hast thou twined them with such feelings dear
To all free hearts, and they have such a tone,
Ye may not strike them in the tyrant's ear,
Nor can the coward heart their music hear.
Some should be sung around the peaceful hearth,
For they are loved by all the dwellers there
And 'mid domestic scenes had their own birth,
Scenes, e'en the wicked in their hearts revere

Some in the battle heard, the freeman's soul might cheer.

Thou hast a voice, a glad voice for the spring,
And harvest hath a song of music quick,
And joyous chords the bridal morning ring;
But other notes than these for the sad wreck
The faithful boy on that still burning deck,

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