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THE COMPLAINT.

A BALLAD.

Rest, rest, dear babe! in balmy sleep reposing,

No care, no sorrow moves thy tranquil breast; Rest, till the dawn thy gentle eyes unclosing,

Shall wake that smile in which alone I'm blest.

Hush thee, sweet babe ! let nought disturb thy slumbers,

Thy mother fondly o'er thy cradle hung,
Thus frames for thee the soothing favourite numbers,

For thee her vigils thus beguiles with song.

Alas! my child, for thee no father's bosom

Throbs to soft sympathy and fond alarm;
No sheltering arm protects thy tender blossom,

And screens its weakness from life's gathering storm.

In vain with tears and suppliant accents blended,

His infant seeks its sacred rights to claim;
Though truth and honour for those claims contended,

Honour and truth -- to him—are but a name.

Vainly to him this faithful heart appealing,

Which passion's tenderest, truest flame still warms, Urges those oft-pledged vows, each generous feeling,

Though now forgot — which gave me to his arms.

How can he thus forego the soft relations,

That bind with mutual ties his soul to me? How can he lose those ever-dear sensations,

Which swell to rapture as I gaze on thee?

Oft o'er thy lovely form while pensive musing,

His smile, his features, with delight I trace, Each painful thought in melting fondness losing,

I clasp his image in my child's embrace.

O may that Power, who hears my sad lamenting,

And guards my nursling with a parent's eye, Restore his heart, at nature's voice relenting,

To faith's firm bonds, and love's forgiving sigh!

Sleep on, dear babe! no thoughts like these oppress thee,

Mild innocence thy peaceful temples crowns; No anxious doubts, no keen regrets distress thee,

No brooding care around thy cradle frowns.

Those tranquil looks suspend thy mother's anguish,

Those artless smiles her drooping heart sustain; Victim of broken vows, though doomed to languish,

She lives in thee to peace and hope again!

NAPOLEON AT THE KREMLIN.

BY MRS. CHARLES GORE.

Deeply shadowed by the night,

On the platformed tower he stands;
And his lonely hour is bright

With the dream of conquered lands,
Where the chosen of his legions have striven!

Where his plumed host appears,
And its soaring eagle bears
Its boast of blood and tears
Unto heaven!

Hushed in silent midnight sleep

The city lies below;
And the watch-call hoarse and deep,

As he paceth to and fro,
Breaks sternly its mighty repose !

Lo! kindling one by one,
A thousand lights are shewn,
Each meteor-like and lone
Brightly glows!

“Say! hath the licensed hour,

With years of danger bought,
Hath the wine-cup's wanton power

To my hardy veterans taught
The excesses of corruption and shame?

Have they bade yon flames arise
To tell the crimson skies
That the stain of outrage lies
On our name?

“ Or doth my warriors' mirth

Yon fires in triumph raise,
To scare the shuddering earth

With the terrors of their blaze?
Like a flag of defiance unfurled,

Doth yon flood of radiance flow
From our camp?” “ Invader,—no!
'Tis a beacon-fire, whose glow
Cheers the world !"

“ Lo! its fury rageth higher,

Columned upward to the sky, Like that pyramid of fire

Which shone, of old, on high,
To pilot the loved of the Lord !

Soldiers of Fame ! come forth,
Let the Empress of the North
Note your valour's daring worth
At my word!

“ Tear down each smoking wall

Of her city doomed to death, Ere her towers unaided fall,

Lie bravely earthed beneath, Where the bulwarks of her strength darkly nod !"

“ Invader! stay thy hand, -
Those mighty flames are fanned
By the patriots of the land,
And their God!

“ Dreamedst thou with patient grief

They would look on, to see The conqueror of their chief

Issue forth his proud decree,
To humble the city of their sires?

Rather, let ruin come!
Let each altar-hallowed dome,
Let each loved, and peaceful home
Feed its fires !

“ Hark! the gathering flames roar round

Like the ocean's troubled bed! With a fiery shower, the ground

And the stifling air are red ;
Blazing fragments fall fast on the tower,

Where the stores of ordnance lie
Prompt for death.” “ Invader ! fly:
'Tis a nation's rallying cry
Rules the hour!

“ The sulphurous smoke pours down

To mock the conqueror's flightFlames gather like a crown

Round the Kremlin's sacred height :Invader! thy minions shall find

That before the blazing war
Of yon flames, that shed afar
Their glorious light—thy star
Hath declined !

WITH A PRESENT OF A KNIFE.

A knife, dear girl, cuts love, they say;
Mere modish love, perhaps it may :
For

any tool of any kind
Can separate what ne'er was joined.
The knife that cuts our love in two,
Will have much tougher work to do:
Must cut your softness, worth, and spirit,
Down to the vulgar size of merit!
To level you with modern taste,
Must cut a world of sense to waste ;
And from your single beauty's store,
Clip what would dizen out a score.
The self-same blade from me must sever,
Sensation, judgment, sight, for ever;
All memory of endearments past,
All hope of comforts long to last,
All that makes fourteen years with

you, A summer- and a short one too! All that affection feels and fears, When hours, without you, seem like years. Till that be done, (and I 'd as soon Believe this knife will chip the moon) Accept my present undeterred, And leave their proverbs to be heard. If in a kiss - delicious treat! Your lips acknowledge its receipt; Love, fond of such substantial fare, And proud to play the glutton there, All thoughts of cutting will disdain, Save only-cut and come again.

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