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TO THE UNITED STATES.- LINES.

Heroes of old! to whom the Nine have strung
Their lyres, and spirit-stirring anthems sung;
Heroes of chivalry! whose banners grace
The aisles of many a consecrated place,
Confess how few of you can match in fame
The martyr Winkelried's immortal name!

TO THE UNITED STATES OF NORTH AMERICA.

UNITED STATES, your banner wears

Alas! the other that it bears

Reminds us of your shame.

Your standard's constellation types
White freedom by its stars;

But what's the meaning of the stripes? -
They mean your negroes' scars.

LINES ON MY NEW CHILD-SWEETHEART.

I HOLD it a religious duty

To love and worship children's beauty;
They've least the taint of earthly clod,
They're freshest from the hand of God;
With heavenly looks they make us sure
The heaven that made them must be
We love them not in earthly fashion,
But with a beatific passion.

pure.

I chanced to, yesterday, behold
A maiden child of beauty's mould;

'T was near, more sacred was the scene,
The palace of our patriot Queen.

The little charmer to my view
Was sculpture brought to life anew.
Her eyes had a poetic glow,

Her pouting mouth was Cupid's bow:
And through her frock I could descry
Her neck and shoulders' symmetry.
'Twas obvious from her walk and gait
Her limbs were beautifully straight;
I stopped the enchantress, and was told,
Though tall, she was but four years old.
Her guide so grave an aspect wore
I could not ask a question more;
But followed her. The little one
Threw backward ever and anon
Her lovely neck, as if to say,
"I know you love me, Mister Grey;'
For by its instinct childhood's eye
Is shrewd in physiognomy;
They well distinguish fawning art
From sterling fondness of the heart

And so she flirted, like a true
Good woman, till we bade adieu.
'Twas then I with regret grew wild,
O, beauteous, interesting child!
Why asked I not thy home and name?
My courage failed me more's the shame.

But where abides this jewel rare?
O, ye that own her, tell me where!
For sad it makes my hear and sore
To think I ne'er may meet her more.

THE LAUNCH OF A FIRST-RATE.

WRITTEN ON WITNESSING THE SPECTACLE.

ENGLAND hails thee with emotion,
Mightiest child of naval art,
Heaven resounds thy welcome! Ocean
Takes thee smiling to his heart.

Giant oaks of bold expansion

O'er seven hundred acres fell,

All to build thy noble mansion,

Where our hearts of oak shall dwell.

'Midst those trees the wild deer bounded, Ages long ere we were born, And our great-grandfathers sounded

Many a jovial hunting-horn.

Oaks that living did inherit

Grandeur from our earth and sky,

Still robust, the native spirit

In

your timbers shall not die.

Ship to shine in martial story,
Thou shalt cleave the ocean's path
Freighted with Britannia's glory
And the thunders of her wrath.

Foes shall crowd their sails and fly thee,
Threatening havoc to their deck,
When afar they first descry thee,
Like the coming whirlwind's speck.

Gallant bark! thy pomp and beauty
Storm or battle ne'er shall blast,
Whilst our tars in pride and duty
Nail thy colors to the mast.

EPISTLE FROM ALGIERS,

TO HORACE SMITH.

DEAR Horace! be melted to tears,

For I'm melting with heat as I rhyme;
Though the name of the place is All-jeers,
'T is no joke to fall in with its clime.

With a shaver from France who came o'er,
To an African inn I ascend;
I am cast on a barbarous shore,
Where a barber alone is my friend.

Do you ask me the sights and the news
Of this wonderful city to sing?

Alas! my hotel has its mews,

But no muse of the Helicon's spring.

On board the vessel from Marseilles to Algiers I met with a fellowpassenger whom I supposed to be a physician from his dress and manners, and the attentions which he paid me to alleviate the sufferings of my seasickness. He turned out to be a perruquier and barber in Algeria; but his vocation did not lower him in my estimation - -for he continued his attentions until he passed my baggage through the customs, and helped me, when half dead with exhaustion, to the best hotel.

My windows afford me the sight
Of a people all diverse in hue;
They are black, yellow, olive, and white,
Whilst I in my sorrow look blue.

Here are groups for the painter to take,
Whose figures jocosely combine,-
The Arab disguised in his haik,

And the Frenchman disguised in his wine.

In his breeches of petticoat size

You may say, as the Mussulman goes, That his garb is a fair compromise

'Twixt a kilt and a pair of small-clothes.

The Mooresses, shrouded in white,

Save two holes for their eyes to give room, Seem like corpses in sport or in spite

That have slyly whipped out of their tomb.

The old Jewish dames make me sick :
If I were the devil-I declare

Such hags should not mount a broom-stick
In my service to ride through the air.

But hipped and undined as I am,

My hippogriff's course I must rein

For the pain of my thirst is no sham,

Though I'm bawling aloud for champagne.

Dinner's brought; but their wines have no pithThey are flat as the statutes at law;

And for all that they bring me, dear Smith!

Would a glass of brown stout they could draw!