"And art thou dead, thou gentle youth,
And art thou dead and gone ?
And didst thou die of love for me?-
Break, cruel heart of stone!"

"O weep not, lady, weep not so;
Some ghostly comfort seek;
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek."

"O do not, do not, holy friar,
My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth
That e'er won lady's love.

"And now, alas! for thy sad loss
I'll ever weep and sigh;
For thee I only wished to live,

For thee I wish to die."

Weep no more, lady, weep no more;
Thy sorrow is in vain;

For violets plucked, the sweetest shower

Will ne'er make grow again.

“His cheek was redder than the rose
The comeliest youth was he;
But he is dead, and laid in his grave,
Alas! and woe is me!"

"Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot on sea, one foot on land,
To one thing constant never.

“Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,
And left thee sad and heavy;
For young men ever were fickle found,
Since summer trees were leafy."

"And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth?

And didst thou die for me?

Then farewell home; forevermore
A pilgrim I will be.

"But first upon my true love's grove

My weary limbs I'll lay,

And thrice I'll kiss the grass-green
That wraps his breathless clay."

"Yet stay, fair lady; rest, a while, Beneath this cloister wall;

turf,

The cold wind through the hawthorn blows, And drizzly rain doth fall."

"O stay me not, thou holy friar!
O stay me not, I pray;
No drizzly rain that falls on me

Can wash my fault away."

"Yet stay, fair lady! turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;

For see, beneath this gown of gray,
Thy own true love appears!

"Here, forced by grief and hopeless love,

These holy weeds I sought;
And here, amid these lonely walls,
To end my days, I thought.

"But haply, for my year of grace

Is not yet passed away,

Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay."

"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy

Once more unto my heart;

For since I've found thee, lovely youth,
We never more will part!"

"As an orator, politician and author," says an English writer, "the name of Burke stood high with his contemporaries, and time has abated little of its lustre. He is still by far the most eloquent and imaginative of all our writers on public affairs, and the most philosophical of English statesmen." Besides his writings on political subjects, he published A Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful. His works fill sixteen volumes. He distinguished himself in Parliament by his speeches on American affairs, in which he exerted himself to redress wrongs, and remove oppression. In his writings and speeches, there was a constant reference to principle. The power of his eloquence is shown by the following anecdote: It is stated that Warren Hastings said, "When listening to Burke's argument against me, I thought, for about half an hour, I was the greatest villain in the world."

FROM THE SPEECH ON CONCILIATION WITH AMERICA. MR. SPEAKER, -I cannot prevail on myself to hurry over the great consideration. It is good for us to be here. We stand where we have an immense view of what is, and what is past. Clouds, indeed, and darkness, rest upon the future. Let us,

s youth, foreseeing he most amiable, as age, had opened to

however, before we descend this noble eminence, reflect that this growth of our national prosperity has he opened within the short period of the life of man. It has ha pened within the short period of sixty-three years. There are those alive, whose memories might touch the two extremities. For instance, my Lord Bathurst might remember all the sta. es of the progress. Suppose, sir, that the angel of this auspici the many virtues which made him one of he is one of the most fortunate men of his him, in vision, that, when, in the fourth generation, the third prince of the house of Brunswick had sat twelve years on the throne of that nation, * * * he should see his son, lordchancellor of England, turn back the current of hereditary dignity to its fountain, and raise him to a higher rank of peerage, whilst he enriched the family with a new one. If, amidst these bright and happy scenes of domestic honor and prosperity, that angel should have drawn up the curtain, and unfolded the rising glories of his country, and whilst he was gazing with admiration on the then commercial grandeur of England, the genius should point out to him a little speck, scarce visible in the mass of the national interest, a small seminal principle, rather than a formed body, and should tell him, "Young man, there is America, which, at this day, serves for little more than to amuse you with stories of savage men and uncouth manners, yet shall, before you taste of death, show itself equal to the whole of that commerce which now attracts the envy of the world. Whatever England has been growing to by a progressive increase of improvement, brought in by varieties of people, by succession of civilizing conquests and civilizing settlements, in a series of seventeen hundred years, you shall see as much added to her by America, in the course of a single life!" If this state of his country had been foretold to him, would it not require all the sanguine credulity of youth, and all the fervid glow of enthusiasm, to make him believe it? Fortunate man! he has lived to see it! Fortunate, indeed, if he lives to see nothing that shall vary the prospect, and cloud the setting of his day!

My hold of the colonies is in the close affection which grows

from common names, from kindred blood, from similar privileges, and equal protection. These are ties which, though light as air, are as strong as links of iron. Let the colonies always keep the idea of their civil rights associated with your government; they will cling and grapple to you, and no force under heaven will be of power to tear them from their allegiance. But let it be once understood that your government may be one thing, and their privileges another, that these two things may exist without any mutual relation; the cement is gone, the cohesion is loosened, and everything hastens to decay and dissolution. As long as you have the wisdom to keep the sovereign authority of this country as the sanctuary of liberty, the sacred temple consecrated to our common faith, wherever the chosen race and sons of England worship freedom, they will turn their faces towards you. The more they multiply, the more friends you will have; the more ardently they love liberty, the more perfect will be their obedience. Slavery they can have anywhere. It is a weed that grows in every soil. They may have it from Spain, they may have it from Prussia; but, until you become lost to all feeling of your true interest and your natural dignity, freedom they can have from none but you. This is the commodity of price, of which you have the monopoly. This is the true act of navigation, which binds you to the commerce of the colonies, and through them secures to you the commerce of the world. Deny them this participation of freedom, and you break the sole bond which originally made, and must still preserve, the unity of the empire. Do not entertain so weak an imagination, as that your registers and your bonds, your affidavits and your sufferances, your caquets and your clearances, are what form the great securities of your commerce. Do not dream that your letters of office, and your instructions, and your suspending clauses, are the things that hold together the great contexture of this mysterious whole. These things do not make your government. Dead instruments, passive tools, as they are, it is the spirit of the English communion that gives all their life and efficacy to them. It is the spirit of the English constitution, which, infused through the mighty mass, pervades, feeds, unites, invigorates, vivifies every part of the empire, even down to the minutest member.