Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand,
Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand!

"Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame Forsake its languid, melancholy frame! Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close, Welcome the dreamless night of long repose! Soon may this wo-worn spirit seek the bourne Where, lull'd to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn!"

U

SONG.

On, how hard it is to find
The one just suited to our mind!
And if that one should be
False, unkind, or found too late,
What can we do but sigh at fate,
And sing Wo's me—Wo's me!

Love's a boundless burning waste,
Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste,
And still more seldom flee

Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings;
Yet somehow Love a something brings

That's sweet-even when we sigh "Wo's me!"

STANZAS

ON THE THREATENED INVASION,

1803.

OUR bosoms we'll bare for the glorious strife,
And our oath is recorded on high,

To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,
Or crush'd in its ruins to die!

Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

'Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust-
God bless the green Isle of the brave!
Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust,
It would rouse the old dead from their grave!
Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide,
Profaning its loves and its charms?

Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side?
To arms! oh, my Country, to arms!

Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen ?—No!
His head to the sword shall be given―

A deathbed repentance be taught the proud foe,
And his blood be an offering to Heaven!
Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

SONG.

WITHDRAW not yet those lips and fingers, Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell; Life's joy for us a moment lingers,

And death seems in the word-Farewell. The hour that bids us part and go, It sounds not yet,-oh! no, no, no!

Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness,
Flies like a courser nigh the goal;
To-morrow where shall be his fleetness,
When thou art parted from my soul?
Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow,
But not together—no, no, no!