And while she bless'd his name, her smile
Struck fire unto my brain.

"No fears could damp; I reach'd the camp,

Sought out its champion;

And if my broad sword fail'd 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.

"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 pour'd
It out, and knelt and smiled:-

The stunn'd knight saw himself restored
To childhood in his child;

And stoop'd and caught him to his breast,
Laugh'd loud and wept anon,

And with a shower of kisses press'd
The darling little one.

"And where went Jane?"-"To a nunnery, SirLook not again so pale

Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her."

"And has she ta'en the veil?"

"Sit down, Sir," said the priest, "I bar

Rash words."-They sat all three,

And the boy play'd 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
Unnumber'd hours of pain;

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

THE HARPER.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,

No blithe Irish lad was so happy as 1;

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 grey, And he lick'd me for kindness-my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his case,

Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I play'd 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.

SONG.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

STAR that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary labourer free!

If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,

That send'st it from above,

Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,
Whilst the landscape's odors rise,

Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in Heaven

Of thrilling vows thou art,

Too delicious to be riven

By absence from the heart.

SONG.

"MEN OF ENGLAND."

MEN of England! who inherit

Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit

Has been proved on land and flood:

By the foes ye've fought uncounted,
By the glorious deeds ye 've done,
Trophies captured-breaches mounted,
Navies conquer'd-kingdoms won!
Yet, remember, England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,

If the patriotism 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,
Sydney's matchless shade is yours-
Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a hundred Azincours!

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

THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE.

NEVER wedding, ever wooing,
Still a lovelorn heart pursuing,
Read you not the wrong you 're doing
In my cheek's pale hue?

All my life with sorrow strewing,
Wed, or cease to woo.

Rivals banish'd, bosoms plighted,

Still our days are disunited;