Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Agincourts!

We're the sons of sires that baffled
Crowned and mitred tyranny:
They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights-so will we!

ADELGITHA.

THE ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded,
And sad pale Adelgitha came,
When forth a valiant champion bounded,
And slew the slanderer of her fame.

She wept, delivered from her danger;
But when he knelt to claim her glove
"Seek not," she cried, "oh! gallant stranger,
For hapless Adelgitha's love.

"For he is in a foreign far land

Whose arm should now have set me free:

And I must wear the willow garland

For him that's dead, or false to me."

"Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!"
He raised his vizor-At the sight

She fell into his arms and fainted;
It was indeed her own true knight!

SONG.

DRINK ye to her that each loves best,
And if you nurse a flame

That's told but to her mutual breast,
We will not ask her name.

Enough, while memory tranced and glad Paints silently the fair,

That each should dream of joys he's had, Or yet may hope to share.

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast

From hallowed thoughts so dear: But drink to them that we love most, As they would love to hear.

SONG.

WHEN Napoleon was flying
From the field of Waterloo,
A British soldier dying,

To his brother bade adieu!

"And take," he said, "this token

To the maid that owns my faith,
With the words that I have spoken
In affection's latest breath."
Sore mourned the brother's heart,
When the youth beside him fell;
But the trumpet warned to part,
And they took a sad farewell.
There was many a friend to lose him,
For that gallant soldier sighed ;

But the maiden of his bosom

Wept when all their tears were dried.

SONG

Он how hard it is to find

The one just suited to our mind;

And if that one should be

False, unkind, or found too late
What can we do but sigh at fate,
And sing Wo's me—Wo's me!

Love's a boundless burning waste,
Where bliss's stream we seldom taste,
And still more solemn flee

Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings;
Yet somehow Love a something brings
That's sweet-ev'n when we sigh Wo's me!

SONG.

EARL March looked on his dying child,

And smit with grief to view her—
The youth, he cried, whom I exiled,
Shall be restored to woo her.

She's at the window many an hour
His coming to discover:

And her love looked up to Ellen's bower,
And she looked on her lover-

But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
Though her smile on him was dwelling.

And am I then forgot-forgot?

It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
Her cheek is cold as ashes;

Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
To lift their silken lashes.

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.

The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,
When each is lonely doomed to weep,
Are fruits on desert isles that perish,
Or riches buried in the deep.

What though, untouched 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 quietThe pain without the peace of death!

SONG.

WITHDRAW not yet those lips and fingers,
Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell;
Life's joy for us a moment lingers,

And death seems in the word-farewell.
The hour that bids us part and go,
It sounds not yet, oh! no, no, no.

Time, while I gaze upon thy sweetness,
Flies like a courser nigh the goal;
To-morrow where shall be his fleetness,
When thou art parted from my soul?
Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow,
But not together—no, no, no!

THE LAST MAN.

ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its Immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!

I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare
The Earth with age was wan
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!

Some had expired in fight,—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;
In plague and famine some!
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,

That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm passed by,

Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun,

Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

"Tis Mercy bids thee go.

For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth pomp, his pride, his skill;

His