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LINES.

Written on hearing that the Austrians had entered Naples.

Av-down to the dust with them, slaves as they

are

From this hour, let the blood of their dastardly veins,

That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, Be suck'd out by tyrants, or stagnate in

chains!

On, on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales,

Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'erFill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails, From each slave-mart of Europe, and poison their shore.

May their fate be a mock-word-may men of all lands

Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the

poles,

When each sword, that the cowards let fall from their hands,

Shall be forg'd into fetters to enter their souls!

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driv'n, Base slaves! may the whet of their agony be To think-as the dam'd haply think of that heav'n

They had once in their reach-that they might have been free!

Shame, shame-when there was not a bosom,

whose heat

Nver rose o'er the zero of C

-GH'S 's heart, That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat, And send all your pray'rs with yours Liberty's start

When the world stood in hope-when a spirit that breath'd

Full fresh of the olden-time,-whisper'd

about,

And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheath'd,

But waited one conquering cry to flash out!

When around you, the shades of your mighty in fame,

FILICAJAS and PETRARCHS seem'd bursting to view,

And their words and their warnings—like tongues of bright flame,

Over freedom's apostles-fell kindling on you!

Good God! that in such a proud moment of life,

Worth ages of hist'ry—when, had you but hurl'd

One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world

That then-oh! disgrace upon manhood-e'en

then,

You should falter-should cling to your pitiful breath,

Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men,

And prefer the slave's life of damnation to death!

It is strange-it is dreadful!-Shout Tyranny, shout

Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er"

If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out,

And return to your empire of darkness once

more.

For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,

Come, Despot of Russian, thy feet let me kiss

Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee, Than to sully e'en chains by a struggle like this.

DRINK TO HER.

AIR" Heigh ho! my Jacky."

DRINK to her, who long

Hath wak'd the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy.

Oh! woman's heart was made
For minstrels' hands alone;
By other fingers play'd,

It yields not half the tone.
Then here's to her, who long
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song
What gold could never buy.

At Beauty's door of glass,

When Wealth and Wit once stood, They ask'd her "which might pass?” She answer'd "he who could." With golden key, Wealth thought To pass-but 'twould not do: While Wit a diamond brought, Which cut his bright way through! Then here's to her, who long Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy!

The love, that seeks a home

Where wealth or grandeur shines,

Is like the gloomy gnome,

That dwells in dark gold mines.

But oh! the poet's love

Can boast a brighter sphere:

Its native home's above,

Though women keeps it here!
Then drink to her, who long
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song
What gold could never buy!

OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.

AIR-" Kitty Tyrrel."

OH! blame not the bard if he fly to the bowers,* Where pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at

fame;

He was born for much more, and in happier hours,

His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. The string that now languishes loose on the lyre, Might have bent a proud bow* to the warrior's

dart;

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*We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spenser so severely, and, perhaps, truly, describes in this state of Ireland, whose poems he tells us, were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good graces and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify vir tue."

It is conjectured by Wormius that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following: "So that Ireland (called the land of the Ire, for the constant broils therein for 400 years) was now become the land of Concord."-Lloyd's State Worthies, Art. The Lord Gran

dison.

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