PART II.-TO THE EVENING STAR.

GEM of the crimson-coloured Even,
Companion of retiring day,
Why at the closing gates of Heaven,
Beloved star, dost thou delay ?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns,
When soft the tear of twilight flows;
So due thy plighted love returns,
To chambers brighter than the rose;

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love,
So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
Sure some enamoured orb above

Descends and burns to meet with thee.

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour,
When all unheavenly passions fly,
Chased by the soul-subduing power
Of Love's delicious witchery.

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,
Thou star of evening's purple dome,

That lead'st the nightingale abroad,
And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.

Shine, where my charmer's sweeter breath
Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue.

Where, winnowed by the gentle air,
Her silken tresses darkly flow,
And fall upon her brow so fair,

Like shadows on the mountain snow.

Thus, ever thus, at day's decline,
In converse sweet, to wander far,

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,
When a deathwatch beat in her lonely room,
When her curtain had shook of its own accord,
And the raven had flapped at her window board,
To tell of her warrior's doom.

Now sing the death-song and loudly pray
For the soul of my knight so dear,
And call me a widow this wretched day,
Since the warning of God is here.

For a nightmare rides on my strangled sleep-
The lord of my bosom is doomed to die :
His valorous heart they have wounded deep,
And the blood-red tears shall his country weep,
For Wallace of Ellerslie.

Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,
Ere the loud matin bell was rung,
That a trumpet of death on an English tower
Had the dirge of her champion sung.

When his dungeon light looked dim and red
On the high-born blood of a martyr slain,
No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed;
No weeping was there when his bosom bled,
And his heart was rent in twain,

Oh! it was not thus when his ashen spear
Was true to that knight forlorn,

And hosts of a thousand were scattered like deer,
At the sound of the hunter's horn!

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!
How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!

"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!
Ye babes of my love, that await me afar !"
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,
When he sunk in her arms-the poor wounded Hussar !

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,
Ere the sunshine of bliss was bedimmed by a tear,
And a sweeter delight every scene seemed to lend,
That the mansion of peace was the house of a FRIEND.