Feels he not then his soul rejoice,

Their shouts of love of praise to hear? Yes! fame to generous minds is dear,It pierces to their inmost core,

He weeps who never shed a tear,
He trembles who ne'er shook before.
The poet too-ah! well I deem

Small is the need the tale to tell,
Who knows not that his thought, his dream,
On thee at noon, at midnight dwell?
Who knows not that thy magic spell
Can charm his every care away?

In memory cheer his gloomy cell;
In hope can lend a deathless day.
'Tis sweet to watch affection's eye,
To mark the tear with love replete,
To feel the softly breathing sigh,

When friendship's lips the tones repeat;
But oh a thousand times more sweet,
The praise of those we love to hear !
Like balmy showers in summer heat,
It falls upon the greedy ear.

The lover lulls his rankling wound
By dwelling on his fair one's name ;
The mother listens for the sound

Of her young warrior's growing fame;
Thy voice can soothe the mourning dame
Of her soul's wedded partner riven,
Who cherishes the hallowed flame
Parted on earth, to meet in heaven;-

That voice can quiet passion's mood;
Can humble merit raise on high ;
And from the wise and from the good
It breathes of immortality.
There is a lip there is an eye
Where most I love to see it shine;
To hear it speak, to feel it sigh-
My mother! need I say 'tis thine?

MISS MITFORD

GERTRUDE VON DER WART.

She is here supposed to be standing near the Rack when her husband perished.

Her hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised,
The breeze threw back her hair;
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed—

All that she loved was there.

The night was round her clear and cold,

The holy heaven above;

Its pale stars watching to behold

The might of earthly love.

"And bid me not depart," she cried,

'My Rudolph, say not so!

This is no time to quit thy side;

Peace, peace, I cannot go.

Hath the world aught for me to fear

When death is on thy brow?

The world! what means it ?—mine is here-
I will not leave thee now.

"I have been with thee in thine hour
Of glory and of bliss;

Doubt not its memory's living power
To strengthen me through this!
And thou mine honour'd love and true,
Bear on, bear nobly on!

We have the blessed heaven in view,
Whose rest shall soon be won."

And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe
She bore her lofty part;

But oh! with such a glazing eye,
With such a curdling cheek-
Love, love! of mortal agony,

Thou, only thou should'st speak!

The wind rose high, but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear:
Perchance that dark hour brought repose,
To happy bosoms near,

While she sat striving with despair

Beside his tortured form,

And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hands and soft,

Whose touch upon the lute chords low,
Had still'd his heart so oft.

She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheeks such kisses press'd,
As hope and joy ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!

She had her meed- -one smile in death-
And his worn spirit pass'd.

While e'en as o'er a martyr's grave,

She knelt on that sad spot;

And weeping, bless'd the God who gave

Strength to forsake it not !

MRS. HEMANS.

It is the shooting of a star,

That gleams along the trackless air,

And vanishes, almost to nought;

And such is man,—

He shines and flutters for a span,

And is forgot.

It is the vermeil of the rose,

That blooms but till the east wind blows,

Then all entombed in sweets, doth fade and rot;

And such is man,

He struts in bravery for a span,

And is forgot.

It is a dew-drop of the morn,

That quiv'ring hangs upon the thorn,

Till quaff'd by sunbeams, 'tis no longer aught.

And such is man,

He's steep'd in sorrow for a span,
And melts forgot.

Life is what?

A stone whose fall doth circles make,
On the smooth surface of the lake,

Which spread till one and all forsake the spot;
And such is man,-

Midst friends he revels for a span,

It is a bubble of the morn

Raised by a little globe of rain,

Whose heir destroys the fabric it hath wrought;

And such is man,

Swelled into being for a span,

And broke, forgot.

Life is--what?

A shadow on the mountain's side,
A rock that doth in ether hide,

Driven by the northern gale in tempests fraught;

And such is man,

He hangs on greatness for a span,

And is forgot.

It is the sound of cannon near,
Which strikes upon the startled ear,
And ceases ere we can distinguish aught;
And such is man,-

He frights and blusters for a span,
And is forgot.

Life is what?

It is the swallow's sojournment

Which ere the summer's robe is rent,

Flies to some distant bourne by instinct taught;

And such is man,

He rents his dwelling for a span

And flits-forgot.

And is this life?

Oh yes! and had I time I'd tell

A hundred shapes more transient still,

But whilst I speak, fate whets his slaughterous knife;
And such is man-

While reck'ning o'er life's little span
Death ends the strife.

THE DEFENCE OF ACRE.

Ye sainted spirits of the warrior dead,
Whose giant force Britannia's armies led!
Whose bickering falchions, foremost in the fight,
Still pour'd confusion on the Soldan's might;
Lords of the biting axe and beamy spear,
Wide-conquering Edward, lion Richard, hear!
At Albion's call your crested pride resume,
And burst the marble slumbers of the tomb !
Your sons behold, in arm, in heart the same,
Still press the footsteps of parental fame,
To Salem still their generous aid supply,
And pluck the palm of Syrian chivalry!

When he, from towery Malta's yielding isle,
And the green waters of reluctant Nile,
Th' Apostate chief,---from Misraim's subject shore
To Acre's walls his trophied banners bore;
When the pale desert mark'd his proud array,
And Desolation hoped an ampler sway;
What hero then triumphant Gaul dismay'd?
What arm repell'd the victor Renegade?
Britannia's champion !---bathed in hostile blood,
High on the breach the dauntless Seaman stood:
Admiring Asia saw th' unequal fight,---
E'en the pale crescent bless'd the Christian's might.
Oh day of death! Oh thirst, beyond controul,
Of crimson conquest in th' Invader's soul!
The slain, yet warm, by social footsteps trod,
O'er the red moat supplied a panting road;