THE "NAME UNKNOWN;"

IN IMITATION OF KLOPSTOCK.

PROPHETIC pencil! wilt thou trace
A faithful image of the face,

Or wilt thou write the 'Name Unknown,' Ordained to bless my charmed soul,

And all my future fate controul,
Unrivalled and alone?

Delicious Idol of my thought!
Though sylph or spirit hath not taught
My boding heart thy precious name;

Yet musing on my distant fate,

To charms unseen I consecrate
A visionary flame.

Thy murmured vows shall yet be mine,

My thrilling hand shall meet with thine,
And never, never part!

Then fly, my days, on rapid wing,
Till Love the viewless treasure bring;
While I, like conscious Athens, own

A power in mystic silence sealed,

A guardian angel unrevealed,

In the deep blue of eve,

Ere the twinkling of stars had begun, Or the lark took his leave

Of the skies and the sweet setting sun,

I climbed to yon heights,

Where the Norman encamped him of old, With his bowmen and knights,

And his banner all burnished with gold.

At the Conqueror's side

There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand,
In pavilion wide;

And they chaunted the deeds of Roland.

Still the ramparted ground
With a vision my fancy inspires,
And I hear the trump sound,
As it marshalled our Chivalry's sires.

On each turf of that mead

Stood the captors of England's domains,
That ennobled her breed

And high-mettled the blood of her veins.

Over hauberk and helm

As the sun's setting splendour was thrown,
Thence they looked o'er a realm—
And to-morrow beheld it their own.

FF

FAREWELL TO LOVE.

I HAD a heart that doted once in passion's boundless pain, And though the tyrant I abjured, I could not break his chain; But now that Fancy's fire is quenched, and ne'er can burn

anew,

I've bid to Love, for all my life, adieu! adieu! adieu!

I've known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty's thrall, And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them all ; But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty's witching

sway

Is now to me a star that's fallen--a dream that's passed away.

Hail! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows roll, How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of soul! The wearied bird blown o'er the deep would sooner quit its shore,

Than I would cross the gulf again that time has brought me o'er.

Why say they Angels feel the flame?—Oh, spirits of the skies! Can love like ours, that dotes on dust, in heavenly bosoms rise?

Ah no; the hearts that best have felt its power, the best can tell,

That peace on earth itself begins, when Love has bid farewell.

LINES ON POLAND.

AND have I lived to see thee sword in hand
Uprise again, immortal Polish Land !—
Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind,
And leaves the tri-color in shade behind;

A theme for uninspired lips too strong;

That swells my heart beyond the power of song:-
Majestic men, whose deeds have dazzled faith,
Ah! yet your fate's suspense arrests my breath;
Whilst envying bosoms bared to shot and steel,
I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel.

Poles! with what indignation I endure

Th' half-pitying servile mouths that call you poor;
Poor is it England mocks you with her grief,
Who hates, but dares not chide, th' Imperial Thief?
France with her soul beneath a Bourbon's thrall,
And Germany that has no soul at all,-
States, quailing at the giant overgrown,

Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone!
No, ye are rich in fame e'en whilst ye bleed:
• We cannot aid you-we are poor indeed!

In Fate's defiance-in the world's great eye,
Poland has won her immortality;