THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND.

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When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars ; Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpethorn,

Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,

Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man !

Warsaw's last champion, from her heights, surveyed Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid"O heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country save!— Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high! And swear, for her to live!—with her to die!"

He said: and, on the rampart-heights, arrayed
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm!
Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly-
Revenge or Death! the watchword and reply :-
Then pealed the notes omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm!

In vain-alas! in vain, ye gallant few, From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew :Oh! bloodiest picture in the book of time, Sarmatia fell-unwept-without a crime ! Found not a generous friend-a pitying foeStrength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! Dropped from her nerveless the shattered spear

grasp

Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career!
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And freedom shrieked-as Kosciusko fell!

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there; Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air— On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, Its blood-dyed waters murmuring far below. The storm prevails! the rampart yields a way— Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay ! Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! Earth shook!-red meteors flashed along the sky! And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry!

Departed spirits of the mighty dead!Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own! Oh! once again to Freedom's cause, return The patriot Tell-the Bruce of Bannockburn.

MY POOR DOG TRAY.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

ON the green banks of Shannon when Sheelah was nigh,

No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;

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."

1

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

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Poor dog! he was faithful and kind to be sure,
And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folk 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 gray,
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 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 return with my poor dog Tray.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

CHARLES WOLFE.

Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head

And we

far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone in his glory.

MARINER'S HYMN.

MRS. SOUTHEY.

LAUNCH thy bark, mariner!
Christian, God speed thee!
Let loose the rudder-bands-
Good angels lead thee!
Set thy sails wearily,
Tempests will come;
Steer thy course steadily;
Christian, steer home!

MARINER'S HYMN.

Look to the weather-bow,
Breakers are round thee;
Let fall the plummet now,
Shallows may ground thee.
Reef in the foresail there;
Hold the helm fast!
So-let the vessel wear-
There swept the blast.

"What of the night, watchman!
What of the night ?"
"Cloudy-all quiet-

No land yet-all's right."
Be wakeful, be vigilant-
Danger may be

At an hour when all seemeth
Securest to thee.

How! gains the leak so fast?
Clean out the hold—
Hoist up thy merchandise,
Heave out thy gold;
There-let the ingots go-
Now the ship rights;
Hurra! the harbour's near-
Lo! the red lights!

Slacken not sail yet

At inlet or island;

Straight for the beacon steer,
Straight for the high land.
Crowd all thy canvas on,

Cut through the foam-
Christian! cast anchor now—
Heaven is thy home!

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