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Ar Mantua long had lain in chains
The gallant Hofer bound;

But now his day of doom was come

At morn the deep roll of the drum Resounded o'er the soldiered plains.

O Heaven! with what a deed of dole The hundred thousand wrongs were

crowned

Of trodden-down Tyrol !
With iron-fettered arms and hands
The hero moved along.

His heart was calm, his eye was clear

Death was for traitor slaves to fear ! He oft amid his mountain bands,

Where Inn's dark wintry waters roll, Had faced it with his battle song,

The Sandwirth of Tyrol.

So through the files of musketeers
Undauntedly he passed,

And stood within the hollow square.
Well might he glance around him

there,
And proudly think on by-gone years !

Amid such serfs his bannerol,
Thank God! had never braved the blast

On thy green hills, Tyrol !
They bade him kneel; but he with all
A patriot's truth replied:

“I kneel alone to God on high-

As thus I stand so dare I die; As oft I fought so let me fall!

Farewell”_his breast a moment swoll With agony he strove to hide

“My Kaiser and Tyrol !”. No more emotion he betrayed. Again he bade farewell

To Francis and the faithful men
Who girt his throne. His hands were

then Unbound for prayer, and thus he prayed:

God of the Free, receive my soul ! And you, slaves, Fire !” So bravely fell Thy foremost man, Tyrol !

Dublin University Magazine,

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THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED.

My beautiful ! my beautiful! that standest | Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel meekly by,

hand may chide, With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, and dark and fiery eye;

along thy panting side : fret not to roam the desert now with all And the rich blood that is in thee swells in thy winged speed,

thy indignant pain, I may not mount on thee again,-thou’rt Till careless eyes which rest on thee may sold, my Arab steed!

count each started vein. Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but not the breezy wind;

no, it cannot be; The further that thou fliest now, so far am Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so I behind :

gentle, yet so free: The stranger hath thy bridle rein—thy And yet if haply, when thou’rt gone, my master hath his gold

lonely heart should yearn, Fleet limbed and beautiful, farewell ! Can the hand which casts thee from it now

thou’rt sold, my steed—thou’rt sold ! command thee to return?

Farewell! those free untired limbs full Return! alas, my Arab steed! what shall many a mile must roam,

thy master do, To reach the chill and wintry sky which When thou who wert his all of joy hast clouds the stranger's home;

vanished from his view ? Some other hand, less fond, must now thy When the dim distance cheats mine eye, corn and bread prepare;

and through the gathering tears The silky mane I braided once must be Thy bright form for a moment like the another's care !

false mirage appears? The morning sun shall dawn again, but Slow and unmounted will I roam, with never more with thee

weary foot alone, Shall I gallop through the desert paths, Where with fleet step and joyous bound where we were wont to be:

thou oft hast borne me on; Evening shall darken on the earth; and And sitting down by the green well, I'll o'er the sandy plain

pause, and sadly think, Some other steed, with slower step, shall It was here he bowed his glossy neck bear me home again.

when last I saw him drink!”

Yes, thou must go! the wild free breeze, When last I saw thee drink !-away! the the brilliant sun and sky,

fevered dream is o'er; Thy master's home—from all of these my I could not live a day and know that we exiled one must fly:

should meet no more. Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, They tempted me, my beautiful! for hun. thy step become less fleet,

ger's power is strongAnd vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy They tempted me, my beautiful! but I master's hand to meet.

have loved too long. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye Who said that I had given thee up? Who glancing bright,

said that thou wert sold ? Only in sleep shall hear again that step so 'Tis false !—'tis false, my Arab steed! I firm and light;

fling them back their gold ! And when I raise my dreaming arm to Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and check or cheer thy speed,

scour the distant plains; Then must I starting wake, to feel--thou’rt Away! who overtakes us now shall claim sold, my Arab steed.

thee for his pains !

Hon. MRS. NORTON.

THE LIFE-BOAT.

Max the life-boat! man the life-boat !

Hearts of oak, your succour lend; See the shattered vessel stagger

Quick ! O quick! assistance send.
See the ark of refuge launching;

See her hardy crew prepare
For the dangerous work of mercy--

Gallant British hearts are there.

Now the fragile bark is hanging

O'er the billow's feathery height; Now 'midst fearful depths descending,

While we sicken at the sight. Courage ! courage ! she's in safety!

See again her buoyant form, By His gracious hand uplifted

Who controls the raging storm. With her precious cargo freighted,

Now the life-boat nears the shore; Parents, brethren, friends embracing

Those they thought to see no more.

Blessings on the dauntless spirits,

Dangers thus who nobly brave;
Ready life and limb to venture,

So they may a brother save.
Christian ! pause, and deeply ponder:

Is there nothing you can do?
The sinking ship, the storm, the life-boat,

Have they not a voice for you?
Here's a storm, a fearful tempest,

Souls are sinking in despair;
There's a shore of blessed refuge-

Try, O try and guide them there.
O remember Him who saved you,

Whose right hand deliverance wrought;
Who from depths of guilt and anguish

You to peace and safety brought. 'Tis His voice now cheers you onward,

“He that winneth souls is wise!” Launch the gospel's blessed life-boat,Venture all to win the prize.

C. H. PURDAY.

THE FOX AND THE CAT.

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The fox and the cat, as they travelled one What a wretch !" says the cat--"'tis the day,

vilest of brutes; With moral discourses cut shorter the Does he feed upon flesh when there's herway:

bage and roots ?'Tis great,” says the fox, to make jus- Cries the fox, “While our oaks give us tice our guide!”

acorns so good, How god-like is mercy !” Grimalkin re- What a tyrant is this, to spill innocent plied.

blood !" Whilst thus they proceeded, a wolf from Well, onward they marched, and they the wood,

moralized still, Impatient of hunger, and thirsting for Till they came where some poultry picked blood,

chaff by a mill.

[eyes, Rushed forth-as he saw the dull shepherd Sly Reynard surveyed them with gluttonous asleep

And made, spite of morals, a pullet his prize! And seized for his supper an innocent A mouse, too, that chanced from her covert sheep.

to stray,

The greedy Grimalkin secured as her prey! In vain, wretched victim, for mercy you

A spider that sat in her web on the wall, When mutton's at hand,” says the wolf, “I Perceived the poor victims, and pitied their must eat.”

fall : Grimalkin's astonished the fox stood She cried, Of such murders how guiltless aghast,

am I!” To see the fell beast at his bloody repast. So ran to regale on a new-taken fly!

J. CUNNINGHAM.

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DEATH AND BURIAL OF A CHILD AT SEA.

snow.

My boy refused his food, forgot to play, Nor half-blown daisy in his little band :
And sickened on the waters, day by day; Wide was the field around, but 'twas not
He smiled more seldom on his mother's land.
smile;

Enamoured death, with sweetly pensive He prattled less in accents void of guile,

grace, Of that wild land, beyond the golden wave, Was awful beauty to his silent face. Where I, not he, was doomed to be a slave; No more his sad eye looked me into tears ! Cold o'er his limbs the listless langaor grew; Closed was that eye beneath his pale cold Paleness came o'er his eye of placid blue; brow; Pale mourned the lily where the rose had And on his calm lips, which had lost their died,

glow, And timid, trembling, came he to my side. But which, though pale, seemed half unHe was my all on earth. Oh! who can speak

closed to speak, The anxious mother's too prophetic woe, Loitered a smile, like moonlight on the Who sees death feeding on her dear child's cheek,

I gazed upon him still not wild with And strives in vain to think it is not so?

fears Ah! many a sad and sleepless night I passed Gone were my fears, and present was deO'er his couch, listening in the pausing spair ! blast,

But, as I gazed, a little lock of hair, While on his brow, more sad from hour to Stirred by the breeze, played, trembling on hour,

his cheek;Drooped wan Dejection, like a fading flower! O God! my heart !—I thought life still At length my boy seemed better, and I was there. slept

But, to commit him to the watery grave, Oh, soundly !—but methought my mother O'er which the winds, unwearied mourners, wept

rave, O'er her poor Emma; and, in accents low, One, who strove darkly sorrow's sob to stay, Said, “Ah! why do I weep, and weepin vain Upraised the body: thrice I bade him stay; For one so loved, so lost? Emma, thy pain For still my wordless woe had much to Draws to a close ! Even now is rent in twain say, The loveliest link that binds thy breast to And still I bent and gazed, and gazing wept. woe

At last my sisters, with humane constraint, Soon, broken heart, we soon shall meet | Held me, and I was calm as dying saint; again!”

While that stern weeper lowered into the Then o'er my face her freezing hand she crossed,

My ill-starred boy! Deep-buried deep, he And bending kissed me with her lip of frost. slept. I waked; and at my side-oh! still and And then I looked to heaven in agony, cold !

And prayed to end my pilgrimage of pain, Oh! what a tale that dreadful chillness told! That I might meet my beauteous boy again! Shrieking, I started up, in terror wild;- Oh, had he lived to reach this wretched Alas! and had I lived to dread my child? land, Eager I snatched him from his swinging | And then expired, I would have bless'd

the strand ! His limbs were stiff-he moved not-he But where my poor boy lies I may not lie; was dead!

I cannot come, with broken heart, to sigh Oh! let me weep !-what mother would O'er his loved dust, and strew with flowers

his turfTo see her child committed to the deep? His pillow hath no cover but the surf; No mournful flowers, by weeping fond. I may not pour the soul-drop from mine eye ness laid,

Near his cold bed: he slumbers in the wave! Nor pink, nor rose, drooped, on his breast Oh! I will love the sea, because it is his displayed,

grave!

Anox.

sea

bed;

not weep,

AFTER BLENHEIM.

It was a summer evening,

But what they killed each other for, Old Kaspar's work was done,

I could not well make out: And he before his cottage door

But everybody said," quoth he, Was sitting in the sun;

“That 'twas a famous victory. And by him sported on the green His little grandchild, Wilhelmine.

My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by. She saw her brother Peterkin

They burned his dwelling to the ground, Roll something large and round,

And he was forced to fly : Which he beside the rivulet

So with his wife and child he fled; In playing there had found;

Nor had he where to rest his head. He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and with fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide, round.

And many a childing mother then Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

And new-born baby died : Who stood expectant by;

But things like that, you know, must be, And then the old man shook his head, At every famous victory.

And with a natural sigh-
"Tis some poor fellow's skull,” said he,

They say it was a shocking sight Who fell in the great victory.

After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies there I find them in the garden,

Lay rotting in the sun : For there's many here about;

But things like that, you know, must be, And often, when I go to plough,

After a famous victory.
The ploughsbare turns them out:
For many a thousand men,” said he,

Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, Were slain in that great victory.".

And our good Prince Eugene.”

“Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Now tell us what 'twas all about,”

Said little Wilhelmine. Young Peterkin he cries;

Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, And little Wilhelmine looks up

It was a famous victory;
With wonder-waiting eyes :
Now tell us all about the war,

And everybody praised the Duke,
And what they fought each other

Who such a fight did win.”— for."

“But what good came of it at last?".

Quoth little Peterkin.-" It was the English,” Kaspar cried, Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, Who put the French to rout;

But 'twas a famous victory."

SOUTHEY.

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NAPOLEON AND THE SAILOR.

With envy they could reach the white

Dear cliffs of Dover.

NAPOLEON's banners at Boulogne

Armed in our island every freeman;
His navy chanced to capture one

Poor British seaman.
They suffered him—I know not how-

Unprisoned on the shore to roam;
And aye was bent his longing brow

On England's home.
His eye, methinks, pursued the flight

Of birds to Britain half way over;

A stormy midnight watch, he thought,

Than this sojourn would have been dearer,
If but the storm his vessel brought

To England neare
At last, when care had banished sleep,

He saw one morning-dreaming-doat-
An empty hogshead from the deep (ing,

Come shoreward floating.

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