Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 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, Worth a hundred Agincourts! 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, 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, Star of love's soft interviews, Of thrilling vows thou art, By absence from the heart. When each is lonely doomed to weep, What though, untouch'd by jealous madness, Is but more slowly doomed to break. Absence! is not the soul torn by it 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, Pageants!-Let the world reverc us For our people's rights and laws, 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, 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? 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- POETRY needs no Preface: if it do not speak for | Which Genius gives, I had my part: My childhood passed 'mid radiant things, My power was but a woman's power; Yet, in that great and glorious dower Oh, yet my pulse throbs to recall, I ever had, from earliest youth, My first was of a gorgeous hall, Like what the moon sheds on a summer-night. Divinest Petrarch! he whose lyre, O'er some Love's shadow may but pass Who, turning from a heartless world, Ere they may reach the blessed spring. But bear upon each cankered breast 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, I deemed, that of lyre, life, and love 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 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, Sun-god! lute, wreath are vowed to thee! Florence! with what idolatry And when seen by the pale moonlight, |