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| Yours are Hampden's, Russel's glory,

Sydney's matchless shade is yours,
Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Agincourts !

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up

On Nature's awful waste
To drink this last and bitter cup

of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell the Night that hides thy face,
Thou sawst the last of Adam's race,

On Earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening Universe defy To quench his Immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!

We 're the sons of sires that baffled

Crown'd and mitred tyranny :
They defied the field and scaffold

For their birthrights-80 will we!

ABSENCE.
TO THE EVENING-STAR.

'Tis not the loss of love's assurance, STAR that bringest home the bee,

It is not doubting what thou art, And sett'st the weary labourer free!

But 'tis the too, too long endurance If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,

Of absence, that afflicts my heart. That sendst it from above, Appearing when heaven's breath and brow The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, Are sweet as here we love.

When each is lonely doomed to weep,

Are fruits on desert isles that perish, Come to the luxuriant skies,

Or riches buried in the deep. Whilst the landscape's odours rise, Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, What though, untouch'd by jealous madness, And songs, when toil is done,

Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck; From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd Th' undoubting heart, that breaks with Curls yellow in the sun.

sadness,

Is but more slowly doomed to break. Star of love's soft interviews, Parted lovers on thee muse;

Absence! is not the soul torn by it Their remembrancer in heaven

From more than light, or life, or breath ? Of thrilling vows thou art,

'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet,Too delicious to be riven

The pain without the peace of death! By absence from the heart.

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SO NG

Men of England! who inherit

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

Has been proved on land and flood :

By the foes ye 've fought uncounted,

By the glorious deeds ye 've done, Trophies captured-breaches mounted, Navies conquered-kingdoms won!

Yet, remember England gathers

Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the patriotism of your fathers

Glow not in your hearts the same.

To whom nor relative nor blood remains,
No! not a kindred drop that runs in human
veins.

[p. 421. In the spring of 1774, a robbery and murder were committed on an inhabitant of the frontiers of Virginia, by two Indians of the Shawanee tribe. The neighbouring whites, according to their custom, undertook to panish this outrage in a summary inanner. Colonel Cresap, a man infamous for the many murdere he had committed on those much injured people, collected a party, and pro. ceeded down the Kanaway in quest of vengeance ; unfortunately, a canoe with women and children. with one man only, was seen coming from the opposite shore, unarmed and unsuspecting an attack from the whites. Cresap and his party concealed themselves on the bank of the river, and the moment the canoe reached the shore, singled out their objects, and at one fire killed every person in it. This happened to be the family of Logan, who had long been distinguished as a friend to the whites. This unworthy return provoked his vengeance; he accordingly signalized himself in the war which ensued. In the autumn of the same year a decisive battle was fought at the mouth of the great Kanaway, in which the collected forces of the Shawanees, Mingoes, and Delawares, were defeated by a detachment of the Virginian militia. The Indians sued for peace. Logan, however, disdained to be seen among the suppliants; but lest the sincerity of a treaty should be disturbed from which so distinguished a chief abstracted

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 ns

For our people's rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes

Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

himself, he sent, by a messenger, the following Rome, l'unique objet de mon ressentiment, speech to be delivered to Lord Dunmore.

Rome, à qui vient ton bras d'immoler mon amant. “I appeal to any white man, if ever he entered Rome, qui t'a vu naitre et que ton coeur adore, Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not to eat; Rome, enfin, que je hais, parce qu'elle t'honore ! if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed Puissent tous ses voisins, ensemble conjurés, him not. During the course of the last long and Saper ses fondemens encore nal assurés ; bloody war Logan remained idle in his cabin, an ad Et, si ce n'est assez de toute l'Italie, vocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, Que l'Orient, contre elle, à l'Occident s'allie; that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and Que cent peuples unis, des bouts de l'univers said, Logan is the friend of white men. i have Passent, pour la détruire, et les monts et les even thought to have lived with you, but for the

mere ; iniories of one man. Colonel Cresap the last spring, I Qu'elle-même sur soi renverse ses murailles, in cold blood, murdered all the relations of Logan, Et de ses propres.mains déchire ses entrailles ; even my women and children.

Que le courroux du Ciel, allumé par mes voeus, “There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins Fasse pleuvoir sur elle un déluge de feux ! of any living creature. This called on me for re- Puissé-je de mes yeux y voir tomber ce foudre, venge. I have fought for it. I have killed many: Voir ses maisons en cendre, et tes lauriers en - I have fully glulled my vengeance. — For my

poudre; country, I rejoice at the beams of peace-but do Voir le dernier Romain à son dernier soupir, not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Moi seule en être cause, et mourir de plaisir ! -Logan never felt fear.-He will not turn on his heel to save his life.--Who is there to mourn for Logan ? not one!"-JEFFERSON'S Notes on Virginia. And go to Athunree, I cried

(p. 436.

Athunree, the battle fought in 1315, which decided Oh lonce the hard of Innisfail

[p. 434. the fate of Ireland. In the reign ofEdward the Second, Innisfail, the ancient name of Ireland.

the Irish presented to Pope John the Twenty-second

a memorial of their sufferings under the English, of Yes whu though fallen her brother's kerne [p. 434. which the language exhibits all the strength of

Kerne, Irish foot - soldiers. In this sense the despair.-"Ever since the English (say they) first word is used by Shakespeare. Gainsford, in his appeared upon our coasts, they entered our terriGlory's of England, says: "They (the Irish) are tories under a certain specious pretence of charity, desperate in revenge, and their kerne think no and external hypocritical show of religion, endeaman dead until his head be off."

vouring at the same time, by every artifice malice

could suggest, to extirpate us root and branch, and The lady, at her shieling door . [p. 435. without any other right than that of the strongest: Shieling, a rude cabin or hut.

they have so far succeeded by base fraudulence

and cunning, that they have forced us to quit oor The morat in a golden cup

fair and ample habitations and inheritances, and Morat, a drink made of the juice of mulberry to take refuge like wild beasts in the mountains, mixed with honey.

the woods, and the morasses of the country. Lor

even can the caverns and dens protect us against To speak the malison of heaven. (p. 436. their insatiable avarice. They pursue us even If the wrath which I have ascribed to the heroine into these frightful abodes; endeavouring to disof this little piece should seem to exhibit her cha- possess us of the wild uncoltivated rocks, and arracter as too unnaturally stript of patriotic and rogate to themselves the PROPERTY OP EVERY PLACE domestic affections, I must beg leave to plead the on which we can stamp the figure of our feet." authority of Corneille in the representation of a The greatest effort ever made by the ancient similar passion. I allude to the denunciation of Irish to regain their native independence, was Camilla, in the tragedy of Horace. When Horace, made at the time when they called over the broaccompanied by a soldier, bearing the three swords ther of Robert Bruce from Scotland. William de of the Curiatii, meets his sister, and invites her Bourgo, brother to the Earl of Ulster, and Richard to congratulate him on his victory, she expresses de Bermingham, were sent against the main-body only her grief, which he attributes at first only of the native insurgents, who were headed, rather to her feelings for the loss of her two brothers; than commanded, by Felim O'Connor-The imporbut when she bursts forth into reproaches against tant battle, which decided the subjection of Ireland, him as the murderer of her lover, the last of the took place on the 10th of August, 1315. It was Curiatii, he exclaims :

the bloodiest that ever was fought between the

two nations, and continued throughout the whole O Ciel! qui vit jamais une pareille rage ?

day, from the rising to the setting sun. The Irish Crois-tu donc que je sois insensible à l'outrage, fought with inferior discipline, but with great enQue je souffre en mon sang ce inortel déshonneur ? thusiasm. They lost ten thousand men, among Aime, aime cette mort qui fait notre bonheur, whom were twenty-nine chiefs of Connaught.

préfère du noins au gouvenir d'un homme Tradition states that after this terrible day. the Ce que doit ta naissance aux intérêts de Rome. O'Connor family, like the Fabian, were so nearly

exterminated, that throughout all Connaught not At the mention of Rome , Camille breaks out one of the name remained, except Felim's brother, into this apostrophe :

who was capable of bearing aring.

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MISS L. E. LANDON.

THE IMPROVISATRICE.

POETRY needs no Preface: if it do not speak for | Which Genius gives, I had my part:

itself, no comment can render it explicit, I have I poured my full and burning heart
only, therefore, to state that The Improvisatrice
is an attempt to illustrate that species of inspiration | In song, and on the canvass made
common in Italy, where the mind is warmed from
earliest childhood by all that is beautiful in Nature I knew not which I loved the most-
and glorious in Art. The character depicted is
entirely Italian,--a young female with all the

Pencil or lute,- both loved so well.
loveliness, vivid feeling, and genius of her own
impassioned land. She is supposed to relate her
own history; with which are intermixed the
tales and episodes which various circumstances

Oh, yet my pulse throbs to recall, call forth.

When first upon the gallery's wall
L. E. L.

Picture of mine was placed, to share
Wonder and praise from each one there!
Sad were my shades; methinks they had

Almost a tone of prophecy-
It lieg not in our power to love or hate, I ever had, from earliest youth,
For will in us is overruled by Fate.

MARLOWE.

A feeling what my fate would be.

I am a daughter of that land,

My first was of a gorgeous hall,
Where the poet's lip and the painter's hand
Are most divine,-where the earth and sky

Lighted up for festival;
Are picture both and poetry-

Braided tresses, and cheeks of bloom,

Diamond-agraff, and foam-white plume; I am of Florence. 'Mid the chill

Censers of roses, vases of light,
Of hope and feeling, oh! I still
Am proud to think to where I owe

Like what the moon sheds on a summer-night. My birth, though but the dawn of woe!

Youths and maidens with linked hands,
Joined in the graceful sarabands,
Smiled on the canvass; but apart

Was one who leant in silent mood,
My childhood passed 'mid radiant things, As revelry to his sick heart
Glorious as Hope's imaginings;

Were worse than veriest solitude. Statues but known from shapes of the earth, Pale, dark-eyed, beautiful, and young, By being too lovely for mortal birth; | Such as he had shone o'er my slumbers, Paintings whose colours of life were caught When I had only slept to dream From the fairy tints in the rainbow wronght; Over again his magic numbers. Music whose sighs had a spell like those That float on the sea at the evening's close; Language so silvery, that every word

Divinest Petrarch! he whose lyre, Was like the lute's awakening chord;

Like morning-light, half dew, half fire, Skies half sunshine, and half starlight;

To Laura and to love was vowedFlowers whose lives were a breath of delight;

: He looked on one, who with the crowd Leaves whose green pomp knew no withering;

18: Mingled, but mixed not; on whose cheek Fountains bright as the skies of our spring;

ring; There was a blush, as if she knew And songs whose wild and passionate line

| Whose look was fixed on hers. Her eye, Suited a soul of romance like mine.

of a spring-sky's delicious blue,
Had not the language of that bloom,

But mingling tears, and light, and gloom,
My power was but a woman's power; Was raised abstractedly to Heaven :-
Yet, in that great and glorious dower No sign was to her lover given.

I painted her with golden tresses,
Such as float on the wind's caresses
When the laburnums wildly fling
Their sunny blossoms to the spring;
A cheek whicb had the crimson hue
Upon the sun-touched nectarine ;
A lip of perfume and of dew;
A brow like twilight's darkened line.
I strove to catch each charm that long
Has lived,- thanks to her lover's song!
Each grace he numbered one by one,
That shone in her of Avignon.

She sat beneath a cypress-tree,
A little fountain ran beside,
And, in the distance, one dark rock
Threw its long shadow o'er the tide;
And to the west, where the nightfal
Was darkening day's gemmed coronal,
Its white shafts crimsoning in the sky,
Arose the Sun-god's sanctuary.
I deemed, that of lyre, life, and love
She was a long, last farewell taking;-
That, from her pale and parched lips,
Her latest, wildest song was breaking.

I ever thought that poet's fate

SAPPHO's song.
Utterly lone and desolate.
It is the spirit's bitterest pain

Farewell, my lute!-and would that I
To love, to be beloved again ;

| Had never waked thy burning chords! And yet between a gulf which ever Poison has been upon thy sigh, The hearts that burn to meet must sever. And fever has breathed in thy words. And he was vowed to one sweet star, Bright yet to him, but bright afar.

Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame

Thy power, thy spell, my gentlest lute? O'er some Love's shadow may but pass

I should have been the wretch I am, As passes the breath-stain o'er glass;

Had every chord of thine been mute. And pleasurcs, cares and pride combined, Fill up the blank Love leaves behind. It was my evil star above, But there are some whose love is high, | Not my sweet lute,that wrought me wrong; Entire, and sole idolatry;

It was not song that taught me love, Who, turning from a heartless world,

But it was love that taught me song. Ask some dear thing, which may renew Affection's severed links, and be As true as they themselves are true.

If song be past, and hope undone, But Love's bright fount is never pure;

And pulse, and head, and heart, are flame; And all his pilgrims must endure

It is thy work, thou faithless one!

But, no!-I will not name thy name! All passion's mighty suffering Ere they may reach the blessed spring. And some who waste their lives to find Sun-god! lute, wreath are vowed to thee! A prize which they may never win:

Long be their light upon my graveLike those who search for Irem's groves, My glorious grave-yon deep blue sea : Which found, they may not enter in.

I shall sleep calm beneath its wave! Where is the sorrow but appears In Love's long catalogue of tears? And some there are who leave the path In agony and fierce disdain; But bear upon each cankered breast

Florence! with what idolatry
The scar that never heals again.

I've lingered in thy radiant halls,
Worshipping, till my dizzy eye

Grew dim with gazing on those walls,
My next was of a minstrel too,

Where Time had spared each glorious gift Who proved what woman's hand might do, By Genius unto Memory left! When, true to the heart-pulse, it woke And when seen by the pale moonlight, The harp. Her head was bending down, More pure, more perfect, though less bright, As if in weariness, and near,

What dreams of song flashed on my brain, But unworn, was a laurel-crown.

Till each shade seemed to live again; She was not beautiful, if bloom

And then the beautiful, the grand, And smiles form beauty; for, like death, The glorious of my native land, Her brow was ghastly; and her lip

In every flower that threw its veil Was parched, as Tever were its breath. Aside, when wooed by the spring-gale; There was a shade upon her dark,

In every vineyard, where the sun, Large, floating eyes, as if each spark His task of summer-ripening done, Of minstrel-ecstasy was fled,

Shone on their clusters, and a song Yet leaving them no tears to shed;

Came lightly from the peasant-throng ;Fixed in their hopelessness of care,

In the dini loveliness of night, And reckless in their great despair.

In fountains with their diamond-light,

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