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Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste

To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall tasteGo, 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!

Yours are Hampden's, Russel's glory,
Sydney's matchless shade is yours,-
Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Agincourts!

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TO THE EVENING-STAR.

STAR that bringest home the bee, And sett'st the weary labourer free! If any star shed peace, 'tis thou, That sendst it from above,

ABSENCE.

'Tis not the loss of love's assurance,
It is not doubting what thou art,
But 'tis the too, too long endurance
Of absence, that afflicts my heart.

Appearing when heaven's breath and brow The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,

Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,
Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in heaven

Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven

By absence from the heart.

When each is lonely doomed to weep,
Are fruits on desert isles that perish,
Or riches buried in the deep.

What though, untouch'd by jealous madness,
Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck;
Th' undoubting heart, that breaks with
sadness,

Is but more slowly doomed to break.

Absence! is not the soul torn by it
From more than light, or life, or breath?
'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet,—
The pain without the peace of death!

SONG.

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.

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 reverc us

For our people's rights and laws,
And the breasts of civic heroes
Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

NOTE S.

To whom nor relative nor blood remains, No! not a kindred drop that runs in human [p. 421.

veins.

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 punish this outrage in a sumColonel Cresap, a man infamous mary manner. for the many murders 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. Logan, however, The Indians sued for peace. disdained to be seen among the suppliants; but lest the sincerity of a treaty should be disturbed from which so distinguished a chief abstracted

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

"I appeal to any white man, if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, Logan is the friend of white men. 1 have even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap the last spring, in cold blood, murdered all the relations of Logan, even my women and children.

"There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge-I have fought for it.—I have killed many. -I have fully glutted my vengeance. - For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace-but do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear. -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.

Oh! once the harp of Innisfail Innisfail, the ancient name of Ireland.

[p. 434.

Yet why, though fallen her brother's kerne [p. 434. Kerne, Irish foot soldiers. In this sense the word is used by Shakespeare. Gainsford, in his Glory's of England, says: "They (the Irish) are desperate in revenge, and their kerne think no man dead until his head be off."

The lady, at her shieling door Shieling, a rude cabin or hut.

The morat in a golden cup [p. 435. Morat, a drink made of the juice of mulberry mixed with honey.

Rome, à qui vient ton bras d'immoler mon amant,
Rome, qui t'a vu naitre et que ton coeur adore,
Rome, enfin, que je hais, parce qu'elle t'honore!
Puissent tous ses voisins, ensemble conjurés,
Saper ses fondemens encore mal assurés ;
Et, si ce n'est assez de toute l'Italie,
Que l'Orient, contre elle, à l'Occident s'allie;
Que cent peuples unis, des bouts de l'univers
Passent, pour la détruire, et les monts et les
Qu'elle-même sur soi renverse ses murailles,
Et de ses propres mains déchire ses entrailles ;
Que le courroux du Ciel, allumé par mes voeux,
Fasse pleuvoir sur elle un déluge de feux!
Puissé-je de mes yeux y voir tomber ce foudre,
Voir ses maisons en cendre, et tes lauriers ea
poudre ;
Voir le dernier Romain à son dernier soupir,
Moi seule en être cause, et mourir de plaisir!

mers;

And go to Athunree, I cried[p. 436. Athunree, the battle fought in 1315, which decided the fate of Ireland. In the reign of Edward the Second, the Irish presented to Pope John the Twenty-second a memorial of their sufferings under the English, of which the language exhibits all the strength of despair.-"Ever since the English (say they) first appeared upon our coasts, they entered our territories under a certain specious pretence of charity, and external hypocritical show of religion, endea vouring at the same time, by every artifice malice could suggest, to extirpate us root and branch, and [p. 435. without any other right than that of the strongest: they have so far succeeded by base fraudulence and cunning, that they have forced us to quit our fair and ample habitations and inheritances, and to take refuge like wild beasts in the mountains, the woods, and the morasses of the country. Nor 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 uncultivated rocks, and arracter as too unnaturally stript of patriotic androgate to themselves the PROPERTY OF EVERY PLACE domestic affections, I must beg leave to plead the authority of Corneille in the representation of a similar passion. I allude to the denunciation of Camilla, in the tragedy of Horace. When Horace, accompanied by a soldier, bearing the three swords of the Curiatii, meets his sister, and invites her to congratulate him on his victory, she expresses only her grief, which he attributes at first only to her feelings for the loss of her two brothers; but when she bursts forth into reproaches against him as the murderer of her lover, the last of the Curiatii, he exclaims:

O Ciel! qui vit jamais une pareille rage?
Crois-tu donc que je sois insensible à l'outrage,
Que je souffre en mon sang ce mortel déshonneur?
Aime, aime cette mort qui fait notre bonheur,
Et préfère du moins au souvenir d'un homme"
Ce que doit ta naissance aux intérêts de Rome.

At the mention of Rome, Camille breaks out into this apostrophe:

on which we can stamp the figure of our feet."

The greatest effort ever made by the ancient Irish to regain their native independence, was made at the time when they called over the brother of Robert Bruce from Scotland. William de Bourgo, brother to the Earl of Ulster, and Richard de Bermingham, were sent against the main-body of the native insurgents, who were headed, rather than commanded, by Felim O'Connor-The important battle, which decided the subjection of Ireland, took place on the 10th of August, 1315. It was the bloodiest that ever was fought between the two nations, and continued throughout the whole day, from the rising to the setting sun. The Irish fought with inferior discipline, but with great enthusiasm. They lost ten thousand men, among whom were twenty-nine chiefs of Connaught.Tradition states that after this terrible day, the O'Connor family, like the Fabian, were so nearly exterminated, that throughout all Connaught not one of the same remained, except Felim's brother, who was capable of bearing arms.

MISS L. E. LANDON.

THE IMPROVISATRICE.

I knew not which I loved the most-
Pencil or lute,-both loved so well.

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 My dreams of beauty visible;
earliest childhood by all that is beautiful in Nature
and glorious in Art. The character depicted is
entirely Italian,--a young female with all the
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
call forth.

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My childhood passed 'mid radiant things,
Glorious as Hope's imaginings;
Statues but known from shapes of the earth,
By being too lovely for mortal birth;
Paintings whose colours of life were caught
From the fairy tints in the rainbow wrought;
Music whose sighs had a spell like those
That float on the sea at the evening's close;
Language so silvery, that every word
Was like the lute's awakening chord;
Skies half sunshine, and half starlight;
Flowers whose lives were a breath of delight;
Leaves whose green pomp knew no withering
Fountains bright as the skies of our spring;
And songs whose wild and passionate line
Suited a soul of romance like mine.

My power was but a woman's power; Yet, in that great and glorious dower

Oh, yet my pulse throbs to recall,
When first upon the gallery's wall
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-

I ever had, from earliest youth,
A feeling what my fate would be.

My first was of a gorgeous hall,
Braided tresses, and cheeks of bloom,
Lighted up for festival;
Diamond-agraff, and foam-white plume;
Censers of roses, vases of light,

Like what the moon sheds on a summer-night.
Youths and maidens with linked hands,
Joined in the graceful sarabands,
Smiled on the canvass; but apart
Was one who leant in silent mood,
As revelry to his sick heart
Were worse than veriest solitude.
Pale, dark-eyed, beautiful, and young,
Such as he had shone o'er my slumbers,
When I had only slept to dream
Over again his magic numbers.

Divinest Petrarch! he whose lyre,
Like morning-light, half dew, half fire,
To Laura and to love was vowed-
He looked on one, who with the crowd
Mingled, but mixed not; on whose cheek
There was a blush, as if she knew
Whose look was fixed on hers. Her eye,
Of a spring-sky's delicious blue,
Had not the language of that bloom,
But mingling tears, and light, and gloom,
Was raised abstractedly to Heaven :—
No sign was to her lover given.

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O'er some Love's shadow may but pass
As passes the breath-stain o'er glass;
And pleasures, cares and pride combined,
Fill up the blank Love leaves behind.
But there are some whose love is high,
Entire, and sole idolatry;

Who, turning from a heartless world,
Ask some dear thing, which may renew
Affection's severed links, and be
As true as they themselves are true.
But Love's bright fount is never pure;
And all his pilgrims must endure
All passion's mighty suffering

Ere they may reach the blessed spring.
And some who waste their lives to find
A prize which they may never win:
Like those who search for Irem's groves,
Which found, they may not enter in.
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
The scar that never heals again.

My next was of a minstrel too, Who proved what woman's hand might do, When, true to the heart-pulse, it woke The harp. Her head was bending down, As if in weariness, and near, But unworn, was a laurel-crown. She was not beautiful, if bloom And smiles form beauty; for, like death, Her brow was ghastly; and her lip Was parched, as fever were its breath. There was a shade upon her dark, Large, floating eyes, as if each spark Of minstrel-ecstasy was fled, Yet leaving them no tears to shed; Fixed in their hopelessness of care, And reckless in their great despair.

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.

SAPPHO'S SONG.

Farewell, my lute!-and would that I Had never waked thy burning chords! Poison has been upon thy sigh,

And fever has breathed in thy words.

Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame
Thy power, thy spell, my gentlest lute?
I should have been the wretch I am,
Had every chord of thine been mute.

It was my evil star above,

Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong; It was not song that taught me love, But it was love that taught me song.

If song be past, and hope undone,
And pulse, and head, and heart, are flame;
It is thy work, thou faithless one!
But, no! I will not name thy name!

Sun-god! lute, wreath are vowed to thee!
Long be their light upon my grave-
My glorious grave-yon deep blue sea:
I shall sleep calm beneath its wave!

Florence! with what idolatry
I've lingered in thy radiant halls,
Worshipping, till my dizzy eye
Grew dim with gazing on those walls,
Where Time had spared each glorious gift
By Genius unto Memory left!

And when seen by the pale moonlight,
More pure, more perfect, though less bright,
What dreams of song flashed on my brain,
Till each shade seemed to live again;
And then the beautiful, the grand,
The glorious of my native land,
In every flower that threw its veil
Aside, when wooed by the spring-gale;
In every vineyard, where the sun,
His task of summer-ripening done,
Shone on their clusters, and a song
Came lightly from the peasant-throng ;-
In the dim loveliness of night,
In fountains with their diamond-light,

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