I loved her, but against my flame
Her purity was proof.

"I feigned repentance, friendship pure;
That mood she did not check,

But let her husband's miniature

Be copied from her neck,

"As means to search him; my deceit
Took care to him was borne
Nought but his picture's counterfeit,
And Jane's reported scorn.

"The treachery took: she waited wild;
My slave came back and lied
Whate'er I wished; she clasped her child,
And swooned, and all but died.

"I felt her tears, for years and years,

Quench not my flame, but stir;

The very hate I bore her mate
Increased my love for her.

"Fame told us of his glory, while

Joy flushed the face of Jane;

And while she blessed his name, her smile

Struck fire into my brain.

"No fears could damp; I reached the camp,

Sought out its champion;

And if my broad-sword failed at last,

"Twas long and well laid on.

"This wound's my meed, my name's Kinghorn,

My foe's the Ritter Bann.'

The wafer to his lips was borne,
And we shrived the dying man.

3

"He died not till you went to fight

The Turks at Warradein;

But I see my tale has changed you pale."

The Abbot went for wine;

And brought a little page who poured

It out, and knelt and smiled;

The stunned knight saw himself restored
To childhood in his child;

And stooped and caught him to his breast,

Laughed loud and wept anon,

And with a shower of kisses pressed

The darling little one.

"And where went Jane?" -"To a nunnery, Sir

Look not again so pale

Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her.".

"And she has ta'en the veil!".

"Sit down, Sir," said the priest, "I bar Rash words."-They sat all three,

And the boy played with the knight's broad star, As he kept him on his knee.

“Think ere you ask her dwelling-place,”

The Abbot further said;

"Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face More deep than cloister's shade.

"Grief may have made her what you can

Scarce love perhaps for life."

Hush, Abbot," cried the Ritter Bann,

"Or tell me where's my wife."

The priest undid two doors that hid

The inn's adjacent room,

And there a lovely woman stood,
Tears bathed her beauty's bloom.

One moment may with bliss repay
Unnumbered hours of pain;

Such was the throb and mutual sob
Of the Knight embracing Jane.

SONG.

"MEN OF ENGLAND."

MEN of England! who inherit

Rights that cost your sires their blood!

Men whose undegenerate spirit

Has been proved on field and flood:

By the foes you've fought uncounted,
By the glorious deeds you've done,
Trophies captured-breaches mounted,
Navies conquered - kingdoms won!

Yet, remember, England gathers

Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,

If the freedom of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same.

What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail in lands of slavery,
Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?

Pageants! Let the world revere us
For our people's rights and laws,
And the breasts of civic heroes

Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory,
Sidney's matchless shade is yours, -
Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Agincourts!

We're the sons of sires that baffled
Crowned and mitred tyranny; ·
They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights- so will we!

SONG.

DRINK ye to her that each loves best,
And if you nurse a flame

That's told but to her mutual breast,
We will not ask her name.

Enough, while memory tranced and glad Paints silently the fair,

That each should dream of joys he's had, Or yet may hope to share.

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast
From hallowed thoughts so dear;
But drink to her that each loves most,
As she would love to hear.

THE HARPER.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;

No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,) Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,
And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray,
And he licked me for kindness - my poor dog Tray.

--

Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

18*