SONG.

WHEN NAPOLEON was flying

From the field of Waterloo,

A British soldier dying,

To his brother bade adieu !

"And take," he said, "this token To the maid that owns my faith, With the words that I have spoken In affection's latest breath."

Sore mourn'd the brother's heart,

When the youth beside him fell;

But the trumpet warn'd to part,

And they took a sad farewell.

There was many a friend to lose him,

For that gallant soldier sigh'd;

But the maiden of his bosom

Wept when all their tears were dried.

THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION.

O leave this barren spot to me!

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Though bush or floweret never grow

My dark unwarming shade below;

Nor summer bud perfume the dew
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;

Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn ;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive

Th' ambrosial amber of the hive;

Yet leave this barren spot to me :

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers I have seen

The sky grow bright, the forest green ;
And many a wintry wind have stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude,

Since childhood in my pleasant bower

First spent its sweet and sportive hour,
Since youthful lovers in my shade

Their vows of truth and rapture made ;
And on my trunk's surviving frame
Carved many a long-forgotten name.
Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
First breathed upon this sacred ground;

By all that Love has whisper'd here,

Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;

As Love's own altar honour me,

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

SONG.

EARL MARCH look'd on his dying child,
And smit with grief to view her

The youth, he cried, whom I exiled,
Shall be restored to woo her.

She's at the window many an hour

His coming to discover;

And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower,

And she look'd on her lover

But ah! so pale, he knew her not,

Though her smile on him was dwelling.

And am I then forgot forgot?

It broke the heart of Ellen.