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Though great in war, in peace as great-
Rear the monument of Fame;
Deathless is the hero's name.

For him, whose worth, though unexpress'd,
Lives cherished in each freeman's breast;
Whose name, to patriot souls so dear,
Time's latest children shall revere,
Whose brave achievements prais'd shall be
While beats one breast for liberty-
Rear the monument of Fame ;
Deathless is the hero's name.

But why for him vain marbles raise ?
Can the cold sculpture speak his praise?
Illustrious shade! we can proclaim
Our gratitude, but not thy fame:
Long as Columbia shall be free,
She lives a monument of thee.

And may she ever rise in Fame,
To honour thy immortal name.


A chieftain to the Highlands bound,
Cries, Boatman, do not tarry!
'And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry.'-

'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water !'-
'Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
"And this Lord Ullin's daughter.-

'And fast before her father's men

'Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.


"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
• Should they our steps discover,
"Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover ??-

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
I'll go, my chief-I'm ready :-



It is not for your silver bright; 'But for your winsome lady:

And by my word! the bonny bird 'In danger shall not tarry;


So, though the waves are raging white,


I'll row you o'er the ferry.—

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heav'n each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.--

Oh, haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,
Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies:
'But not an angry father,'-

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-
When oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her.—

And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing :
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,
His wrath was chang'd to wailing.-

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade His child he did discover:

One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
And one was round her lover.

Come back! come back!' he cried in grief, Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,


My daughter!-oh my daughter!'

"Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing :

The waters wild went o'er his child-
And he was left lamenting.

From YOUNG's Night-Thoughts,

A languid leaden iteration reigns,

And ever must, o'er those, whose joys are joys
Of sight, smell, taste: The cuckow-seasons sing
The same dull note to such as nothing prize,
But what those seasons, from the teeming earth,
To doating sense indulge. But nobler minds,
Which relish fruits unripen'd by the sun,
Make their days various; various as the dyes
On the dove's neck, which wanton in his rays.
On minds of dove-like innocence possest,
On lightened minds, that bask in virtue's beams,
Nothing hangs tedious, nothing old revolves
In that, for which they long; for which they live.
Their glorious efforts, wing'd with heavenly hope,
Each rising morning sees still higher rise;
Each bounteous dawn its novelty presents
To worth maturing, new strength, lustre, fame;
While nature's circle, like a chariot-wheel
Rolling beneath their elevated aims,
Makes their fair prospect fairer ev'ry hour;
Advancing virtue, in a line to bliss ;
Virtue, which christian motives best inspire!
And bliss, which christian schemes alone ensure!

And shall we then, for virtue's sake, commence
Apostates? and turn infidels for joy?
A truth, it is, few doubt, but fewer trust,
"He sins against this life, who slights the next."
What is this life? How few their fav'rite know?
Fond in the dark, and blind in our embrace,
By passionately loving life, we make
Lov'd life unlovely; hugging her to death.
We give to time eternity's regard;

And dreaming, take our passage for our port.
Life has no value as an end, but means;

An end deplorable! a means divine!
When 'tis our all, 'tis nothing; worse than nought ;
A nest of pains; when held as nothing, much :
Like some fair hum'rist, life is most enjoy'd.
When courted least; most worth, when disesteem'd;
Then 'tis the seat of comfort, rich in peace;
In prospect richer far; important! awful!
Not to be mention'd but with shouts of praise!
Not to be thought on, but with tides of joy!
The mighty basis of eternal bliss!

EXILE OF ERIN.-Campbell.

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,

He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.
Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger,

The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my heart with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh! Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!
Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace--where no perils can chase me?
Never again, shall my brothers embrace me?

They died to defend me, or live to deplore!
Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?
Oh! my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure,
Why did it doat on a fast fading treasure!
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure ;
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.
Yet all its sad recollection suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw:
Erin! an exile bequeathes thee his blessing!
Land of my forefathers! Erin-go-bragh!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy field-sweetest isle of the ocean!
And may harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion-
Erin mavournin!-Erin-go-bragh!


ANDREW JONES.-Wordsworth.
I hate that Andrew Jones; he'll breed
His children up to waste and pillage;
I wish the press-gang or the drum,
With its tantara sounds would come,
And sweep him from the village!
I said not this, because he loves
Through the long day to swear and tipple,
But for the poor dear sake of one
To whom a foul deed he had done,
A friendless man-a travelling cripple !

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It chanced that Andrew passed that way,
Just at the time; and there he found
The cripple, at the mid-day heat,
Standing alone, and at his feet
He saw the penny on the ground.

He stoop'd and took the penny up,
And when the cripple nearer drew,

Quoth Andrew, "under half a crown
What a man finds is all his own,
And so my friend, good day to you."
And hence I said, that Andrew's boys

Will all be trained to waste and pillage;
And wish'd the press gang or the drum,
With its tantara sound would come,
And sweep him from the village.


Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er :

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