THE BATTLE OF PULTOWA. ON Vorska's glittering waves They strain their aching eyes, The conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede.] Him famine hath not tamed When man by man his veteran troops sunk down, He held undaunted on; What though he mounts not now The fiery steed of war, Borne on a litter to the fight he goes. Go, iron-hearted king! Think how the humbled Dane Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast- That on thy shame shall set! Now bend thine head from heaven, For ere the night descends His veteran host subdued, His laurels blasted to revive no mor He flies before the foe! Long years of hope deceived That restless soul must bear, The despot's savage anger took thy life, ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S DAY. THE night is come, no fears disturb They trust in kingly faith and kingly oaths, Go to the palace wouldst thou know Eye is not closed in those accursed walls, Nor heart at quiet there. The monarch from the window leans, And with a horrible and eager hope Oh, he has hell within him now! God, always art thou just! For innocence can never know such pangs As pierce successful guilt. He looks abroad and all is still. Hark! now the midnight bell Sounds through the silence of the night alone; Thy hand is on him, righteous God! He hears the glorying yells of massacre, He hears the murderer's savage shout, In vain they fly,-soldiers defenceless now, Righteous and just art thou, O God! Those shrieks and groans re-echoed in his ear They throng'd around his midnight couch It preyed like poison on his powers of life,— Spirits who suffered at that hour Ye saw your country bent beneath the yoke, And like a giant from his sleep Ye saw the people burst their double chain, THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR. AND wherefore do the poor complain ? "Twas evening and the frozen streets We met an old bare-headed man, "Twas bitter keen, indeed, he said, We met a young bare-footed child, She said her father was at home, And therefore was it she was sent We saw a woman sitting down And another at her breast; I ask'd her why she loiter'd there, When the night-wind was so chill ;She turn'd her head and bade the child That scream'd behind be still. She told us that her husband served And therefore to her parish she We met a girl, her dress was loose, I ask'd her what there was in guilt I turn'd me to the rich man then, You ask'd me why the poor complain, And these have answer'd thee! TO A BEE. THOU wert out betimes, thou busy busy bee! I saw thee, thou busy busy bee. Thou wert working late, thou busy busy bee! When the primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst, I heard thee last, as I saw thee first; In the silence of the evening hour, I heard thee, thou busy busy bee. Thou art a miser, thou busy busy bee! Still on thy golden stores intent, Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent, Wise lesson this for me, thou busy busy bee! Little dost thou think, thou busy busy bee! When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone METRICAL LETTER. WRITTEN FROM LONDON. MARGARET! my cousin,-nay you must not smile, However quaint amid the measured line, The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill As if the road between the heart and lips A A |