PART II.-TO THE EVENING STAR. GEM of the crimson-coloured Even, So fair thy pensile beauty burns, To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, Descends and burns to meet with thee. Thine is the breathing, blushing hour, O! sacred to the fall of day, Queen of propitious stars appear, And early rise and long delay, When Caroline herself is here! Shine on her chosen green resort, Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers that well may court An angel's feet to tread them down. Shine on her sweetly-scented road, That lead'st the nightingale abroad, Shine, where my charmer's sweeter breath Where, winnowed by the gentle air, Like shadows on the mountain snow. Thus, ever thus, at day's decline, O bring with thee my Caroline, And thou shalt be my ruling star! DIRGE OF WALLACE. HEY lighted the tapers at dead of night, THE And chanted their holiest hymn, But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright, Her eye was all sleepless and dim. And the lady of Ellerslie wept for her lord, Now sing the death-song and loudly pray For a nightmare rides on my strangled sleep- Yet knew not his country that ominous hour, When his dungeon light looked dim and red Oh! it was not thus when his ashen spear And hosts of a thousand were scattered like deer, When he strode o'er the wreck of each well-fought field, With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land; For his lance was not shivered on helmet or shield, And the sword that seemed fit for archangel to wield, Was light in his terrible hand. But bleeding and bound though “the Wallace wight," For his much-loved country die, The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight Than Wallace of Ellerslie. But the day of his glory shall never depart, His head unentombed shall with glory be palmed, From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start; Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart— A nobler was never embalmed. THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. the Danube Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er"Oh, whither," she cried, "hast thou wandered, my lover? Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore? "What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sighed !" All mournful she hastened, nor wandered she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried, By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar ! From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming, And pale was his visage, deep marked with a scar! And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war! How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight! "Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night, To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar ?" "Thou shalt live," she replied, relieving "Heaven's mercy Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn!" "Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving! No light of the morn shall to Henry return. "Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true! O LINES. ON REVISITING CATHCART. H! scenes of my childhood, and dear to my heart Ye green waving woods on the margin of Cart, How blest in the morning of life I have strayed, By the stream of the vale and the grass-covered glade! Then, then every rapture was young and sincere, |