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"The treachery took: she waited mild; My slave came back and lied

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Whate'er I wished; she clasped her child,
And swooned, and all but died.

"I felt her tears for years and years

Quench not my flame, but stir;
The very hate I bore her mate
Increased my love for her.

"Fame told us of his glory, while
Joy flushed the face of Jane :

And while she blessed his name, her smile
Struck fire into my brain.

"No fears could damp; I reached the camp,
Sought out its champion ;
And if my broad-sword failed at last,
'Twas long and well laid on.

"This wound's my meed, my name's Kinghorn, My foe's the Ritter Bann.'

The wafer to his lips was borne,

And we shrived the dying man.

"He died not till you went to fight
The Turks at Warradein;

But I see my tale has changed you pale."-
The abbot went for wine;

And brought a little page who poured

It out and knelt and smiled;

The stunned knight saw himself restored
To childhood in his child;

And stooped and caught him to his breast,
Laughed loud and wept anon,

And with a shower of kisses pressed

The darling little one.

"And where went Jane ?"-"To a nunnery, Look not again so pale

Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her." "And has she ta'en the veil ?"

"Sit down, sir," said the priest, "I bar Rash words."-They sat all three,

sir

And the boy played with the knight's broad star, As he kept him on his knee.

"Think ere you ask her dwelling-place,"
The abbot further said;
"Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face
More deep than cloister's shade.

"Grief may have made her what you can
Scarce love perhaps for life."
"Hush, abbot," cried the Ritter Bann,
"Or tell me where's my wife."

The priest undid two doors that hid
The inn's adjacent room,

And there a lovely woman stood,
Tears bathed her beauty's bloom.

One moment may with bliss repay
Unnumbered hours of pain;

Such was the throb and mutual sob
Of the Knight embracing Jane.

GILDEROY.

THE last, the fatal hour is come
That bears my love from me :
I hear the dead note of the drum,
I mark the gallows' tree!

The bell has tolled; it shakes my heart;

The trumpet speaks thy name; And must my Gilderoy depart

To bear a death of shame ?

No bosom trembles for thy doom;
No mourner wipes a tear;
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier.

Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then
So soon, so sad to part,
When first in Roslin's lovely glen
You triumphed o'er my heart?

Your locks they glittered to the sheen,
Your hunter garb was trim;
And graceful was the ribbon green
That bound your manly limb!

Ah! little thought I to deplore

Those limbs in fetters bound; Or hear upon the scaffold floor, The midnight hammer sound.

Ye cruel, cruel, that combined
The guiltless to pursue;
My Gilderoy was ever kind,
He could not injure you!

A long adieu! but where shall fly
Thy widow all forlorn,
When every mean and cruel eye
Regards my woe with scorn?

Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears,
And hate thine orphan boy;

Alas! his infant beauty wears
The forin of Gilderoy.

Then will I seek the dreary mound
That wraps thy mouldering clay,
And weep and linger on the ground,
And sigh my heart away.

STANZAS

ON THE THREATENED INVASION.

1803.

OUR bosoms we'll bare for the glorious strife,
And our oath is recorded on high,

To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,

Or crushed in its ruins to die!

Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

'Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trustGod bless the green Isle of the brave!

Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust,

It would rouse the old dead from their grave! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide,
Profaning its loves and its charms?

Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side?
To arms! oh, my Country, to arms!

Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen ?—No!
His head to the sword shall be given-

A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe,
And his blood be an offering to Heaven!
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

ALONE to the banks of the dark-rolling 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?

[graphic]

"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!

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