"Down, down, insulting ship," she cried,
"To death, with all thy crew!

"So perish ye for Nelson's blood,-
If deaths like thine can pay
For blood so brave, or ocean wave
Can wash that crime away!"

LINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. Он, death! if there be quiet in thine arms, And I must cease-gently, oh, gently come, To me! and let my soul learn no alarms,

But strike me, ere a shriek can echo, dumb, Senseless, and breathless.-And thou, sickly life, If the decree be writ, that I must die, Do thou be guilty of no needless strife. Nor pull me downwards to mortality, When it were fitter I should take a flightBut whither? Holy Pity, hear, oh hear! And lift me to some far-off skyey sphere, Where I may wander in celestial light: Might it be so-then would my spirit fear

To quit the things I have so loved, when seenThe air, the pleasant sun, the summer green,Knowing how few would shed one kindly tear, Or keep in mind that I had ever been!

LINES ON THE STATE OF GREECE,

OCCASIONED BY BEING PRESSED TO MAKE TA
SUBJECT OF POETRY, 1827.

IN Greece's cause the Muse, you deem,
Ought still to plead, persisting strong;
But feel you not, 't is now a theme

That wakens thought too deep for song?

The Christian world has seen you, Greeks,
Heroic on your ramparts fall;

The world has heard your widows' shrieks,
And seen your orphans dragg'd in thrall.

Even England brooks that, reeking hot,
The ruffian's sabre drinks your veins,
And leaves your thinning remnant's lot
The bitter choice of death or chains.

Oh! if we have nor hearts nor swords
To snatch you from the assassins' brand,
Let not our pity's idle words

Insult your pale and prostrate land.

No! be your cause to England now,
That by permitting acts the wrong,
A thought of horror to her brow,
A theme for blushing-not for song.

To see her unavenging ships

Ride fast by Greece's funeral pile, 'Tis worth a curse from Sibyl lips! "Tis matter for a demon's smile!

LINES

ON JAMES IV. OF SCOTLAND, WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN.

'TWAS he that ruled his country's heart
With more than royal sway;

But Scotland saw her James depart,
And sadden'd at his stay.

She heard his fate-she wept her grief-
That James, her loved, her gallant chief,
Was gone for evermore:

But this she learnt, that, ere he fell,
(O men! O patriots! mark it well,)
His fellow-soldiers round his fall
Inclosed him like a living wall,
Mixing their kindred gore!
Nor was the day of Flodden done,
Till they were slaughter'd one by one;
And this may serve to show:

When kings are patriots, none will fly-
When such a king was doom'd to die,
Oh who would death forego?

TO JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE,

THREE CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BEAUTIES.

ADIEU, romance's heroines!

Give me the nymphs, who this good hour
May charm me, not in fiction's scenes,
But teach me beauty's living power;-

My harp, that has been mute too long,
Shall sleep at beauty's name no more,
So but your smiles reward my song,
Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore,-

In whose benignant eyes are beaming
The rays of purity and truth;

Such as we fancy woman's seeming,
In the creation's golden youth;-
The more I look upon thy grace,
Rosina, I could look the more,
But for Jemima's witching face,
And the sweet voice of Eleanore.

Had I been Lawrence, kings had wanted
Their portraits, till I'd painted yours:
And these had future hearts enchanted
When this poor verse no more endures;
I would have left the congress faces,
A dull-eyed diplomatic corps,

Till I had grouped you as the graces-
Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.

The Catholic bids fair saints befriend him;
Your poet's heart is Catholic too,-
His rosary shall be flowers ye send him,
His saint-days when he visits you.
And my sere laurels for my duty,
Miraculous at your touch would rise,
Could I give verse one trace of beauty
Like that which glads me from your eyes.

Unseal'd by you, these lips have spoken,
Disused to song for many a day;

Ye've tuned a harp whose strings were broken, And warm'd a heart of callous clay;

So, when my fancy next refuses
To twine for you a garland more,
Come back again and be my muses,
Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.

SONG.

"Tis now the hour-'t is now the hour
To bow at beauty's shrine;

Now, whilst our hearts confess the power
Of women, wit, and wine;

And beaming eyes look on so bright,
Wit springs, wine sparkles in their light.

In such an hour-in such an hour,
In such an hour as this,

While pleasure's fount throws up a shower
Of social sprinkling bliss,

Why does my bosom heave the sigh
That mars delight?-She is not by!

There was an hour-there was an hour
When I indulged the spell,

That love wound round me with a power
Words vainly try to tell;-

Though love has fill'd my chequer'd doom
With fruits and thorns, and light and gloom-

Yet there's an hour-there's still an hour
Whose coming sunshine may

Clear from the clouds that hang and lour
My fortune's future day:

That hour of hours beloved will be

That hou. that gives thee back to me!