Oh that I could have shed the blood
So creeping in my veins,

By drops, or in one gushing flood,
To wash away the stains

From me and England-to have gone
To death in glory from the throne,
Amid a nation's woe,

That little deems how much I loved
Their welfare, when I most reproved,
And now can never know.

But they had turn'd to fancies wild,
False victims had crept in,
And as the mother chides her child,
I smote, but wept, their sin;
When I had purified the land,

How gladly had I sheath'd the brand,

And sooth'd the desolate ;

But now my unbless'd diadem

Seems dropp'd with blood for pearls to them, A thing to curse and hate.

Gone are my hopes of glory-fled
My dreams of shout and song-
Still must I hide my unwreath'd head
Amid the courtier throng;

Joy lights for me no sparkling eyes,
For me no unbought cheers arise,
And mine may never be:

Ye saints of heaven, for whom I've borne
To be abhorr'd-this cause of scorn

Ye might have spared to me.

The Warrior's Dirge.

There is no time to call my brave,
To win my glory back;

There is no time-the grave, the grave,
Lies close before my track.

Still be it welcome, I've not been
So happy-daughter, wife, or queen-
To mourn with life to part.

Perhaps, too, there may remain a one
Who'll say for me, when I am gone,
"She had an English heart."

The Warrior's Dirge.

LAST

BY JOHN MALCOLM.

of a high and noble name,

We may not shed a tear for thee,

Thy fall was in the noon of fame,

As warrior's fall should be.

O'er thy fair morn, a cloud of night,
Awhile thy youthful errors lay,

But touch'd like that by heaven's own light,
Were early wept away.

Thy steps are miss'd by wood and wave,

Lost to the scenes thy youth loved best,

The torrents weep, the tempests rave
Above thy bed of rest.

The hound howls sadly at thy gate,

The echoes of the chase are o'er,

In vain the long-long night they wait,
The hunter comes no more.

219

No voice is heard amid thy halls,
Except the wild winds' fitful sigh,
The morning beam that gilds thy walls
It cannot glad thine eye.

All lonely bloom the summer flowers,
Thy garden's silent walks along;
The wild bird warbles through its bowers,
Thou canst not hear her song..

Cold is the heart that loves thee now, 'Twas broken ere it ceased to breathe ; Alas! what bids the hero's grow

Must blight the bridal wreath.

From blood the warrior's laurel sprung, 'Midst blood and tears can only bloom; 'Tis but a funeral garland hung

Above his mouldering tomb.

Thou wert not made through wintry years
To wither, till the heart grows old;
I weep until it hath no tears,

To feel the blood run cold.
Who would not wish like thee to die,
And leave a deathless name,
To live like thee while life was joy,
And fall when death was fame?

TH

The Owl.

HERE sat an owl in an old oak tree,
Whooping very merrily;

He was considering, as well he might,

Ways and means for a supper that night:

The Owl.

He look'd about with a solemn scowl,
Yet very happy was the owl,

For, in the hollow of that oak tree,

There sat his wife, and his children three.

She was singing one to rest,

Another, under her downy breast,

'Gan trying his voice, to learn her song; The third (a hungry owl was he)

Peep'd slyly out of the old oak tree,

And peer'd for his dad, and said, "You're long;"
But he hooted for joy, when he presently saw
His sire, with a full-grown mouse in his claw.
Oh, what a supper they had that night!
All was feasting and delight;

Who most can chatter, or cram, they strive,
They were the merriest owls alive.

What then did the old owl do?

Ah! not so gay was his next too-whoo!
It was very sadly said,

For after his children had gone to bed-
He did not sleep with his children three,
For, truly, a gentleman owl was he,
Who would not on his wife intrude,
When she was nursing her infant brood;
So not to invade the nursery,

He slept outside the hollow tree.

So when he awoke at the fall of the dew,
He call'd his wife with a loud too-whoo;
"Awake, dear wife, it is evening gray,
And our joys live from the death of day.”
He call'd once more, and he shudder'd when

No voice replied to his voice again;

221

Yet still unwilling to believe
That Evil's raven wing was spread,
Hovering over his guiltless head,

And shutting out joy from his hollow tree,
"Ha-ha-they play me a trick," quoth he;
"They will not speak,-well, well, at night
They'll talk enough, I'll take a flight.”
But still he went not in nor out,
But hopp'd uneasily about.

What then did the father owl?

He sat still, until below

He heard cries of pain and woe,

And saw his wife, and children three,
In a young boy's captivity.

He follow'd them with noiseless wing,
Not a cry once uttering.

They went to a mansion tall,

He sat in a window of the hall,

Where he could see

His bewilder'd family;

And he heard the hall with laughter ring

When the boy said, "Blind they'll learn to sing;"

And he heard the shriek, when the hot steel più

Through their eyeballs was thrust in !

He felt it all! Their agony

Was echoed by his frantic cry,

His scream rose up with a mighty swell;
And wild on the boy's fierce heart it fell;
It quail'd him, as he shuddering said,
"Lo, the little birds are dead."

-But the father owl!

He tore his breast in his despair,

And flew he knew not, reck'd not where.