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Lo! yonder comes the foe

Rush on with gun and glaive,
For freedom 'tis ye strike below

The banner of the brave;
On-on, until they fly,

Their fiercest daring mar-
'Tis well! Aling down the brand and cry

The victor shout-hurrah !



I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that like the air, 'tis less of earth than


Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning

birds, And something more than melody dwells ever in her

words; The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips

each flows As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the


Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her

hours ; Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness, of young

flowers ; And lonely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she ap.

pears The image of themselves by turns,--the idol of past


Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the

brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long

remain ; But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's,

but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman of her gentle sex the seeming paragon-
Her health! and would on earth there stood some more

of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.



'Tis the break of day, and cloudless weather,
The eager dogs are all roaming together,
The moor-cock is flitting across the heather,
Up, rouse from your slumbers,

No vapour encumbers the day;
Wind the echoing horn,

For the waking morn
Peeps forth in its mantle of gray.

The wild boar is shaking his dewy bristle,
The partridge is sounding his morning whistle,
The red-deer is bounding o'er the thistle,
Up, rouse from your slumbers,

No vapour encumbers the day;
Wind the echoing horn,

For the waking morn
Peeps forth in its mantle of gray.



DEEP mists hung over the mariner's grave

When the holy funeral rite was read; And every breath on the dark blue wave

Seemed hushed, to hallow the friendless dead.

And heavily heaved on the gloomy sea,

The ship that sheltered that homeless oneAs though his funeral-hour should be

When the waves were still and the winds were gone.

And there he lay, in his coarse, cold shroud

And strangers were round the coffinless : Not a kinsman was seen among that crowd,

Not an eye to weep, nor a lip to bless.

No sound from the church's passing-bell

Was echoed along the pathless deep, The hearts that were far away to tell

Where the mariner lies, in his lasting sleep.

Not a whisper then lingered upon the air

O'er his body, one moment, his messmates bent; But the plunging sound of the dead was there

And the ocean is now his monument !

But many a sigh, and many a tear,

Shall be breathed, and shed, in the hours to come When the widow and fatherless shall hear

How he died, far, far from his happy home!



Our life is a dream-when memory surveys
The scenes that have sped with the flight of her days,
They resemble those visions of grief or delight,
Which so frequently dance on the mind, for a night.

The youth is in Eden, beneath the fresh bowers,
Or culling his temples a chaplet of flowers :
The glad offspring embraces its parent again,
And hears the fond voice it had longed for in vain.

The friend, whose dark destiny long had been wept,
And whose dust the four winds of the heavens had swept,
In the smiles of an angel from slumber returns,
And asks his beloved, “Why so sadly he mourns ?”

The minstrel exults—for his exile is o'er;
And he rouses his harp from its silence once more-
But the least breathing whisper, the stir of a leaf,
Ushers in on the fancy the morning of grief!

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