What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail in lands of slavery,
Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?

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
Crowned and mitred tyranny-
They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights-so will we !

THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE.

N

EVER 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 banished, bosoms plighted,

Still our days are disunited;

Now the lamp of hope is lighted,
Now half quenched appears,

Damped, 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 woe!

D

SONG.

RINK 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 hallowed thoughts so dear;
But drink to them that we love most,
As they would love to hear.

E

SONG.

ARL MARCH looked on his dying child,
And smit with grief to view her-

"The youth," he cried, "whom I exiled,
Shall be restored to woo her."

She's at the window many an hour

His coming to discover;

And her love looked up to Ellen's bower,
And she looked on her lover-

But ah! so pale he knew her not,
Though her smile on him was dwelling.
"And am I then forgot-forgot?"-
It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
Her cheek is cold as ashes;

Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
To lift their silken lashes.

TO THE RAINBOW.

RIUMPHAL arch, that fills't the sky
When storis prepare to part,

I ask not proud Philosophy

To teach me what thou art

Still seem as to my childhood's sight,

A midway station given

For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that Optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,

As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from Creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's grey fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign.

And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first made anthem rang
On earth delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam:
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshened fields
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.

For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man.

A

SONG OF THE GREEKS.

GAIN to the battle, Achaians !

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree

It has been, and shall yet be the land of the free:
For the cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.