MARS owes to you his thunder*
That shakes the battle-field,
Yet to break your bonds asunder
No martial bolt has peal'd.
Shall the laurel'd land of art
Wear shackles on her heart?

No! the clock ye framed to tell
By its sound the march of time;
Let it clang oppression's knell
O'er your clime-o'er your

The press's magic letters,

That blessing ye brought forth,Behold! it lies in fetters

On the soil that gave it birth: But the trumpet must be heard, And the charger must be spurr'd;

For your father Armin's sprite Calls down from heaven, that ye Shall gird you for the fight,

And be free!-and be free!

clime!

* Germany invented gunpowder, clock-making, and printing.

TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT,

ON HIS SPEECH DELIVERED IN PARLIAMENT, AUGUST 7, 1832,

RESPECTING THE FOREIGN POLICY OF GREAT BRITAIN.

BURDETT, enjoy thy justly foremost fame, Through good and ill report-through calm and storm

For forty years the pilot of reform!

But that which shall afresh entwine thy name
With patriot laurels never to be sere,

Is that thou hast come nobly forth to chide
Our slumbering statesmen for their lack of pride—
Their flattery of Oppressors, and their fear—
When Britain's lifted finger, and her frown,
Might call the nations up, and cast their tyrants
down!

Invoke the scorn-Alas! too few inherit

The scorn for despots cherish'd by our sires, That baffled Europe's persecuting fires, And shelter'd helpless states!-Recall that spirit, And conjure back Old England's haughty mindConvert the men who waver now, and pause Between their love of self and human kind;

And move, Amphion-like, those hearts of stone—The hearts that have been deaf to Poland's dying groan!

Tell them, we hold the Rights of Man too dear, To bless ourselves with lonely freedom blest; But could we hope, with sole and selfish breast, To breathe untroubled Freedom's atmosphere? Suppose we wish'd it? England could not stand A lone oasis in the desert ground

Of Europe's slavery; from the waste around
Oppression's fiery blast and whirling sand
Would reach and scathe us! No; it may not be:
Britannia and the world conjointly must be free!

Burdett, demand why Britons send abroad
Soft greetings to the infanticidal Czar,
The Bear on Poland's babes that wages war.
Once, we are told, a mother's shriek o'erawed
A lion, and he dropt her lifted child;
But Nicholas, whom neither God nor law,
Nor Poland's shrieking mothers overawe,
Outholds to us his friendship's gory clutch:
Shrink, Britain-shrink my king and country, from
the touch!

He prays to Heaven for England's king, he saysAnd dares he to the God of mercy kneel,

Besmear'd with massacres from head to heel? No; Moloch is his god-to him he prays;

And if his weird-like prayers had power to

bring

An influence, their power would be to curse.
His hate is baleful, but his love is worse-

A serpent's slaver deadlier than its sting!

Oh, feeble statesmen-ignominious times,*

That lick the tyrant's feet, and smile upon his crimes!

* There is not upon record a more disgusting scene of Russian hypocrisy, and (wo that it must be written!) of British humiliation, than that which passed on board the Talavera, when British sailors accepted money from the Emperor Nicholas, and gave him cheers. It will require the Talavera to fight well with the first Russian ship that she may have to encounter to make us forget that day.

LINES

ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL IN THE ATTITUDE OF PRAYER, BY THE

ARTIST GRUSE, IN THE POSSESSION OF LADY STEPNEY.

Was man e'er doom'd that beauty made
By mimic art should haunt him;
Like Orpheus, I adore a shade,

And doat upon a phantom.

Thou maid that in my inmost thought
Art fancifully sainted,

Why liv'st thou not-why art thou nought
But canvass sweetly painted?

Whose looks seem lifted to the skies,
Too pure for love of mortals-

As if they drew angelic eyes

To greet thee at heaven's portals.

Yet loveliness has here no grace,

Abstracted or ideal

Art ne'er but from a living face
Drew looks so seeming real.