Convert the men who waver now, and pause

Between their love of self and human kind;

And move, Amphion-like, those hearts of stone

The hearts that have been deaf to Poland's dying groan!

Tell them, we hold the Rights of Man too dear,

To bless ourselves with lonely freedom blest; But could we hope, with sole and selfish breast, To breathe untroubled Freedom's atmosphere?

Suppose we wished it? England could not stand A lone oasis in the desert ground

Of Europe's slavery; from the waste around

Oppression's fiery blast and whirling sand

Would reach and scathe us! No; it may not be:
Britannia and the world conjointly must be free!

Burdett, demand why Britons send abroad
Soft greetings to th' infanticidal Czar,
The Bear on Poland's babes that wages war!
Once, we are told, a mother's shriek o'erawed
A lion, and he dropped her lifted child;
But Nicholas, whom neither God nor law,
Nor Poland's shrieking mothers overawe,
Outholds to us his friendship's gory clutch:
Shrink, Britain - shrink, my king and country, from
the touch!

He prays to Heaven for England's king, he says
And dares he to the God of mercy kneel,
Besmeared with massacres from head to heel?

No! Moloch is his god- to him he prays;
And if his weird-like prayers had power to bring
An influence, their power would be to curse.
His hate is baleful, but his love is worse-

A serpent's slaver deadlier than its sting!

Oh, feeble statesmen! ignominious times!

That lick the tyrant's feet, and smile upon his crimes!

ODE TO THE GERMANS.

THE Spirit of Britannia

Invokes across the main,
Her sister Allemannia

To burst the Tyrant's chain:
By our kindred blood, she cries,
Rise, Allemannians, rise!

And hallowed thrice the band

Of our kindred hearts shall be,
When your land shall be the land
Of the free of the free!

With Freedom's lion-banner
Britannia rules the waves;
Whilst your BROAD STONE OF HONOR
Is still the camp of slaves.
For shame, for glory's sake,
Wake, Allemannians, wake!

And thy tyrants now that whelm
Half the world shall quail and flee,
When your realm shall be the realm
Of the free-of the free!

MARS owes to you his thunder t
That shakes the battle-field;
Yet to break your bonds asunder
No martial bolt has pealed.
Shall the laurelled land of art
Wear shackles on her heart?

No! the clock ye framed to tell

Ehrenbreitstein signifies, in German, "the broad stone of honor." ↑ Germany invented gunpowder, clock-making, and printing.

By its sound, the march of Time,
Let it clang Oppression's knell

O'er your clime-o'er your clime!

The press's magic letters,

That blessing ye brought forth,
Behold! it lies in fetters

On the soil that gave it birth!

But the trumpet must be heard,
And the charger must be spurred;
For your father Armin's Sprite
Calls down from heaven, that ye
Shall gird you for the fight,

And be free! and be free!

LINES,

ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL IN THE ATTITUDE OF PRAYER, BY THE ARTIST GRUSE, IN THE POSSESSION OF LADY STEPNEY.

Was man e'er doomed that beauty made

By mimic art should haunt him;

Like Orpheus, I adore a shade,

And dote upon a phantom.

Thou maid that in my inmost thought

Art fancifully sainted,

Why liv'st thou not-why art thou nought

But canvass sweetly painted?

Whose looks seem lifted to the skies,
Too pure for love of mortals
As if they drew angelic eyes

To greet thee at heaven's portals.

Yet loveliness has here no grace,
Abstracted or ideal-

Art ne'er but from a living face
Drew looks so seeming real.

What wert thou, maid? thy life thy name Oblivion hides in mystery;

Though from thy face my heart could frame A long romantic history.

Transported to thy time I seem,

Though dust thy coffin covers — And hear the songs, in fancy's dream, Of thy devoted lovers.

How witching must have been thy, breath-
How sweet the living charmer,
Whose every semblance after death
Can make the heart grow warmer!

Adieu, the charms that vainly move
My soul in their possession -
That prompt my lips to speak of love,
Yet rob them of expression.

Yet thee, dear picture, to have praised
Was but a poet's duty;

And shame to him that ever gazed

Impassive on thy beauty.

LINES,

ON THE VIEW FROM ST. LEONARD'S.

HAIL to thy face and odors, glorious Sea!
"Twere thanklessness in me to bless thee not,
Great beauteous Being in whose breath and smile
My heart beats calmer, and my very mind
Inhales salubrious thoughts. How welcomer
Thy murmurs than the murmurs of the world!
Though like the world thou fluctuatest, thy din
To me is peace, thy restlessness repose.
Ev'n gladly I exchange yon spring-green lanes,
With all the darling field-flowers in their prime,
And gardens haunted by the nightingale's
Long trills and gushing ecstacies of song,

For these wild headlands, and the sea-mew's clang.

With thee beneath my windows, pleasant Sea,
I long not to o'erlook earth's fairest glades
And green savannahs - earth has not a plain

So boundless or so beautiful as thine;

The eagle's vision can not take it in:

The lightning's wing, too weak to sweep its space,
Sinks half-way o'er it like a wearied bird:
It is the mirror of the stars, where all
Their hosts within the concave firmament,
Gay marching to the music of the spheres,
Can see themselves at once.

Nor on the stage

Of rural landscape are there lights and shades
Of more harmonious dance and play than thine.
How vividly this moment brightens forth,