And many an hour beguile, reciting tales
Of legendary lore, or on thy harp

The plaintive dirge of Morfa Rhuddlan chant.
When, peeping through thy lattice, Phoebus' rays
The morning dawn proclaim'd, then didst thou haste
To guide the stranger o'er the craggy steeps

Of Snowden, saying, "God be with thee, Friend!
"And if perchance thou hither comest again,
"Know, thou shalt e'er at OWEN's lowly Cot
"A cordial welcome find." Thus late thy heart
Throbb'd with benevolence, but now, alas !

It beats no more.

Yet, O departed shade!

One task is mine-thy church-glebe-tenement
These living perfumes oft to strew around,
And o'er thy coffined relics drop my tears.
And soothing is the thought, that at the hour,
The witching hour of night, when airy sprites
Their cloud-built mansions quit, thy sainted form
With printless feet this roscid turf shall tread,
And view thine Orphan's labours with a smile!

The DEATH of WALLACE.

By ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Joy, joy in London now!

He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to death,

At length the traitor meets the traitor's doom, Joy, joy in London now!

He on a sledge is drawn,

His strong right arm unweapon'd and in chains, And garlanded around his helmless head

The laurel wreath of scorn.

They throng to view him now

Who in the field had fled before his sword, Who at the name of Wallace once grew pale

And faltered out a prayer.

Yes they can meet his eye,

That only beams with patient courage now;
Yes they can gaze upon those manly limbs
Defenceless now and bound.

And that eye did not shrink
As he beheld the pomp of infamy,
Nor did one rebel feeling shake those limbs
When the last moment care.

What tho' suspended sense Was by their damned cruelty revived, What tho' ingenious vengeance lengthened life

To fell protracted death

What tho' the hangman's hand
Graspt in his living breast the heaving heart,
In the last agony, the last sick pang,

Wallace had comfort still.

He called to mind his deeds

Done for his country in the embattled field,

He thought of that good cause for which he died And it was joy in death!

Go Edward triumph now! Cambria is fallen, and Scotland's strength is crush'd; On Wallace, on Llewellyn's mangled limbs The fowls of Heaven have fed.

Unrivalled, unopposed,

Go Edward full of glory to thy grave!
The weight of patriot blood upon thy soul
Go Edward to thy God!

Something childish, but very natural.

Written in GERMANY.

If I had but two little wings,

And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my

dear!

But thoughts like these are idle things

And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly,

I'm always with you in my sleep,

The world is all one's own.

But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.

Sleep stays not though a Monarch bids,
So I love to wake 'ere break of day;
For though my sleep be gone,

Yet while 'tis dark one shuts one's lids

And still dreams on.

CORDOMI.