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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 ap
On Nature's awful waste
Of grief that man shall taste-
On Earth's sepulchral clod,
Or shake his trust in God!
We 're the sons of sires that baffled
Crown'd and mitred tyranny :-
For their birthrights-—-80 will we!
A B S E N C E.
'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 hers we love.
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, 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.
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.
NO TE S.
S O N G
Mex 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,
[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 mau infamous for the many murders he had committed on those much injured people, collected a party, and proceeded 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 forceg of the Shawanees, Mingoes, and Delawares, were defeated by a detachment of the Virginian militia. The Indians sued for peace. Logall, 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 reverc us
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 paked, and he clothed Puissent tous ses voisins, ensemble conjurés, him not. During the course of the last long and Saper ses fondemens encore mal 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 injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap the last spring, 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 voeui, “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.—1 have killed many. Voir ses maisons en cendre, et tes lauriers en - l have fully glutted 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 ètre 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 Athunsee, I cried
Athunree, the battle fought in 1315, which decided Oh ! once the harp of Innisfail [p. 434. the fate of Ireland. In the reign of Edward 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 Yet why, though fallen her brother's kerne [p. 434. which the lauguage 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 fraudulesce
and cunning, that they have forced us to quit oar The morat in a golden cup
[p. 435. 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. Vor
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 and rogate to themselves the PROPERTY OF 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 Uster, 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 mortel déshonneur ? |thusiasm. They lost ten thousand men, among Aime, aime cette mort qui fait notre bonheur, whom were twenty-nine chiefs of Connaught.--Et préfère du moins au sonvenir 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.
MISS L. E. LANDON.
Poetry needs no Preface: if it do not speak for | Which Genius gives, I had my part:
. The character depicted is Pencil or lute,- both loved so well.
When first upon the gallery's wall
Picture of mine was placed, to share
Almost a tone of prophecy-
A feeling what my fate would be.
I am a daughter of that land,
My first was of a gorgeous hall,
Lighted up for festival;
Diamond-agraff, and foam-white plume;
Censers of roses, vases of light, Of hope and feeling, oh! I still
Like what the moon sheds on a summer-night. Am proud to think to where I owe
Youths and maidens with linked hands, My birth, though but the dawn of woe!
Joined in the graceful sarabands,
Was one who leant in silent mood,
Were worse than veriest solitude.
Divinest Petrarch! he whose lyre,
Like morning-light, half dew, half fire, Flowers whose lives were a breath of delight; He looked on one, who with the crowd
To Laura and to love was vowedLeaves whose green pomp knew no withering : Mingled, but mixed not; on whose cheek Fountains bright as the skies of our spring; 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,
But mingling tears, and light, and gloom,
I painted her with golden tresses,
She sat beneath a cypress-tree,
I ever thought that poet's fate
Farewell, my lute!--and would that I
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?
I should have been the wretch I am,
Had every chord of thine been mute.
It was not song that taught me love,
If song be past, and hope undone,
And pulse, and head, and heart, are flame; And all his pilgrims must endure
It is thy work, thou faithless one! All passion's mighty suffering
But, no!-I will not name thy name ! 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 grave Like 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 ware! 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
I've lingered in thy radiant halls,
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 ite veil Was parched, as fever 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 dim loveliness of night, And reckless in their great despair. In fountains with their diamond-ligbt.