Yes they can meet his eye,

That only beams with patient courage now;
Yes they can gaze upon those manly limbs
Defenceless now and bound.

And that eye did not shrink
As he beheld the pomp of infamy,
Nor did one rebel feeling shake those limbs
When the last moment caine.

What tho' suspended sense Was by their damned cruelty revived, What tho' ingenious vengeance lengthened life

To fell protracted death

What tho' the hangman's hand
Graspt in his living breast the heaving heart,

In the last agony, the last sick pang,
Wallace had comfort still.

He called to mind his deeds

Done for his country in the embattled field,

He thought of that good cause for which he died And it was joy in death!

Go Edward triumph now!

Cambria is fallen, and Scotland's strength is crush'd; On Wallace, on Llewellyn's mangled limbs

The fowls of Heaven have fed.

Unrivalled, unopposed,

Go Edward full of glory to thy grave!
The weight of patriot blood upon thy sou!
Go Edward to thy God!

Something childish, but very natural.

Written in GERMANY.

If I had but two little wings,

And were a little feathery bird,

To you

I'd fly, my dear!

But thoughts like these are idle things

And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly,

I'm always with you in my sleep,

The world is all one's own.

But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.

Sleep stays not though a Monarch bids,
So I love to wake 'ere break of day;
For though my sleep be gone,

Yet while 'tis dark one shuts one's lids

And still dreams on.

CORDOMI

HOME-SICK.

Written in GERMANY.

"Tis sweet to him who all the week
Thro' city crowds must push his way,
To stroll alone thro' fields and woods
And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day.

And sweet it is in summer bower,
Sincere, affectionate, and gay,

One's own dear children feasting round
To celebrate one's marriage day.

But what is all to his delight

Who having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back

Before the door of his own home!

Home-sickness is no baby pang,

This feel I hourly more and more, There's healing only in thy wings

Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore.

-N

CORDOMI.

To a FLOWER.

By JOSEPH HUCKS.

Child of the Spring! fair opening Flower ! I love thine early bloom;

To snatch thee from yon sheltering bower, Let no rude hand presume.

Yet, yet protected from the blast,
Thy leaves in beauty blow;
Ah soon thy halcyon days are past,
Stern winter lays thee low.

But when revolves the varying year,
And sleeps the wasting storm,
Returning life again shall cheer,
Thy renovated form.

When nature's rougher skies are fled,
Then cloth'd in loveliest hue,

Again thou'lt lift thy gentle head,
And drink the vernal dew.