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 Agincourts!

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 love-lorn 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;
Now the lamp of hope is lighted,

Now half-quench'd appears,

Damp'd, and wavering, and benighted,

'Midst my sighs and tears.

Charms you call your dearest blessing,
Lips that thrill at your caressing,
Eyes a mutual soul confessing,

Soon you'll make them grow

Dim, and worthless your possessing, Not with age, but wo!

SONG.

DRINK ye to her that each loves best,
And if you nurse a flame

That's told but to her mutual breast,
We will not ask her name.

Enough, while memory tranced and glad Paints silently the fair,

That each should dream of joys he's had, Or yet may hope to share.

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast

From hallow'd thoughts so dear; But drink to her that each loves most, As she would love to hear.

SONG.

WHEN NAPOLEON was flying
From the field of Waterloo,

A British soldier dying

To his brother bade adieu!

"And take," he said, "this token
To the maid that owns my faith,
With the words that I have spoken
In affection's latest breath."

Sore mourn'd the brother's heart,
When the youth beside him fell;
But the trumpet warn'd to part,
And they took a sad farewell.

There was many a friend to lose him
For that gallant soldier sigh'd;

But the maiden of his bosom

Wept when all their tears were dried.

THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION.

O LEAVE this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Though bush or floweret never grow
My dark unwarming shade below;
Nor summer bud perfume the dew,
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
Nor fruits of Autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
The ambrosial amber of the hive;
Yet leave this barren spot to me:
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers I have seen
The sky grow bright, the forest green;
And many a wintry wind have stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude,
Since childhood in my pleasant bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour,
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture made;