She wept to think her recreant race
Should ever have lost that glorious place!
"How happy," exclaim'd this child of air,
"Are the holy spirits who wander there,

"Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall;
"Though mine are the garden of earth and sea,
"And the stars themselves have flowers for me,
"One blossom of heaven out-blooms them all!

"Though sunny the Lake of cool Cashmere, "With its plane-tree isle reflected clear,106 "And sweetly the founts of that valley fall; "Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, "And the golden floods that thitherward stray,1 "Yet oh! 'tis only the blest can say

107

"How the waters of heaven outshine them all! "Go, wing thy flight from star to star,

"From world to luminous world, as far

"As the universe spreads its flaming wall."

Robert Rumble.

Robert Rumble, a poet of lyric renown,
Hey, scribble-by, scribble, ho!

Was invited to dine with a squire out of town,
With his hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!

His
nag had a string halt, as well as his lyre,
So he mounted and rode to the house of the squire,
Who was one of those kind-hearted men that keep

hounds

Just to hunt off the vermin from other men's grounds,

With my hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!

The huntsmen that morning had bought an old hack, Hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!

To cut up, as a delicate lunch for the pack,

With my hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho! But who can describe Robert Rumble's dismay, When the squire, after dinner, came smirking to say, That instead of the dog-horse, some hard-hearted wag Had cut up, by mistake, Robert Rumble's lean nag, With his hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!

'But comfort yourself,' said the squire to the bard, Hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!

There's the dog-horse still standing alive in the yard,'
With my hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!

Then they saddled the dog-horse, and homeward he set,
So suspiciously eyed by each dog that he met,
That you'd swear, notwithstanding his cavalry airs,
They suspected the steed he was on should be theirs,
With my hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!

Arriv'd safe at home, to his pillow he jogs,
Hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!

And dreams all the night about critics and dogs,
With his hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!

His nag seem'd a Pegasus, touch'd in the wind,
And the curs were all wits of the true cynic kind,

Who, when press'd for a supper must bite ere they sup,
And who ate Robert Rumble's poor Pegasus up,
With a hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!

Spirit of joy.

Spirit of joy! thy altar lies

In youthful hearts, that hope like mine, And 'tis the light of laughing eyes

That leads us to thy fairy shrine. There, if we find the sigh, the tear,

They are not those to sorrow known, But breath so soft, and drops so clear,

That bliss may claim them for her own. Then give me, give me, while I weep, The sanguine hope that brightens wo, And teaches e'en our tears to keep

The tinge of rapture while they flow, And teaches e'en our tears to keep

The tinge of rapture while they flow.

The child who sees the dew of night
Upon the spangled hedge at morn,
Attempts to catch the drops of light,

But wounds his finger with the thorn.
Thus, oft the brightest joys we seek

Dissolve when touch'd, and turn to pain; The flush they kindle leaves the cheek, The tears they waken long remain. But give me, give me, while I weep, The sanguine hope that brightens wo, And teaches e'en our tears to keep

The tinge of rapture while they flow.

Says Sammy the tailor to me.

Says Sammy, the tailor, to me,
As he sat with his spindles crossways,
""Tis bekase I'm a poet, you see,
That I kiver my head with green baize!"
So, says I, "for a sample I begs,"
And I'm shot if he din't produce, sir,
Some crossticks he wrote on his legs,
And a pastern ode to his goose, sir,
Oh, this writing and reading!
'Tis all a fine conjuration,

Made for folks of high breeding,
To bother themselves and the nation!

There's Dick, who sold wine in the lane,
And old Dicky himself did not tope ill;
But politics turned his brain,
And a place he call'd Constantinople.
He never could sit down to dine,

But he thought of poor Turkey, he said, sir,
And swore while he tippled his wine,
That the Porte was ne'er out of his head, sir,
Oh, this writing and reading! &c.

The grocer, Will Fig, who so fast Through his ciphers and figures could run ye, By gum! he has nothing, at last,

But the ciphers to show for his money.

The barber, a scollard, well known
At the sign of a wig hanging from a tree,
Makes ev'ry head like his own,
For he cuts them all up into geometry!
Oh, this writing and reading! &c.

Oh Liberty.

Though sacred the tie that our country entwineth,
And dear to the heart her remembrance remains,
Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth,
And sad the remembrance that slavery stains.
Oh, thou! who wert born in the cot of the peasant,
But diest of languor in luxury's dome,

Our vision, when absent-our glory when present,
Where thou art, oh Liberty! there is my home.

Farewell to the land where in childhood I wander'd, In vain is she mighty, in vain is she brave! Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squander'd, And fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave. But hail to thee, Albion! who meets the commotion Of Europe as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam; With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean, Hail Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.