Culloden.

These shelter'd glens and dusky hills,
Yon isles that gem the western wave,
Sent forth their strength like mountain rills,
To bleed, to die,—but not to save.

Away we rush'd, for chiefs were there;
And where should we, their clansmen, be
But by their side?-the worst to dare,
Aye changeless, in fidelity.

And yon young regal warrior, too,
So gaily in our tartans dress'd,
Was in our van; there proudly flew
The heather o'er his dancing crest.

Then came the Southron, hand to hand,
And wide and wasting was the fray;
But Victory smiled on Scotia's brand,

And swept their trembling ranks away.
We chased them o'er the border streams:
Then England heard our slogan shout,
And saw with dread the boreal gleams
Of Highland claymores flashing out.

The fox wax'd strong: our chieftains frown'd
In council on each other: then

We basely left our vantage ground,

And turn'd us home like beaten men. Yet England's blue-eyed yeomen bold, Though vaunting in their long array, Confess'd it was no play to hold,

Or strike, the mountain deer at bay.

At length Culloden's boding heath,

Despairing, saw our clansmen stand, While, flaming like the sword of death, Before us gleam'd the Saxon brand.

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It smote us merciless; it slew

The flower of many a warrior clan,
Till down yon bank the crimson dew,
To mingle with the hill-stream ran.

;

Our chieftains sought their native hills
Our prince was hunted like the deer;
The captives pour'd their blood in rills;
Nor dared a vassal raise the spear.
Come, come away! you've now the tale,
That cost our country tears of blood:
The Saxon conquer'd, and the Gael

Lies mouldering 'neath the verdant sod.

The Shipwreck of Camoëns.

"On his return from banishment, Camoëns was shipwrecked at the mouth of the river Gambia. He saved himself by clinging to a plank, and of all his little property succeeded only in saving his poem of the 'Luciad,' deluged with the waves as he brought it in his hand to shore." *-SISMONDI.

"I saw him beat the surges under him,

And ride upon their backs; he trod the water,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swoln that met him."-Tempest.

CLOU

LOUDS gather'd o'er the dark blue sky,
The sun wax'd dim and pale,

And the music of the waves was changed

To the plaintive voice of wail;

* He is described with his sword in his hand upon the authority of his own

words:

"N'huma mao livros, n'outra, ferro et aco,

N'huma mao sempre a espada, n'outra a pena."

The Shipwreck of Camoëns.

And fearfully the lightning flash'd

Around the ship's tall mast,

While mournfully through the creaking shrouds

Came the sighing of the blast.

With pallid cheek the seamen shrank

Before the deepening gloom;

For they gazed on the black and boiling sca

As 'twere a yawning tomb;

But on the vessel's deck stood one

With proud and changeless brow: Nor pain, nor terror was in the look He turn'd to the gulf below.

And calmly to his arm he bound
His casket and his sword;
Unheeding, though with fiercer strength
The threatening tempest roar'd;

Then stretch'd his sinewy arms, and cried:
"For me there yet is hope;

The limbs that have spurn'd a tyrant's chain
With the stormy wave may cope.

"Now let the strife of nature rage,
Proudly I yet can claim,

Where'er the waters may bear me on,
My freedom and my fame."

The dreaded moment came too soon,
The sea swept madly on,

Till the wall of waters closed around,
And the noble ship was gone.

Then rose one wild, half-stifled cry;
The swimmer's bubbling breath
Was all unheard, while the raging tide
Wrought well the task of death;

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But 'mid the billows still was seen

The stranger's struggling form;

And the meteor flash of his sword might seem Like a beacon 'mid the storm.

For still, while with his strong right arm

He buffeted the wave,

The other upheld that treasured prize
He would give life to save.

Was, then, the love of pelf so strong,
That e'en in death's dark hour,
The base-born passion could awake
With such resistless power?

No! all earth's gold were dross to him,
Compared with what lay hid,

Through lonely years of changeless woe,
Beneath that casket's lid;

For there was all the mind's rich wealth,
And many a precious gem

That, in after years, he hoped might form
A poet's diadem.

Nobly he struggled, till o'erspent,

His nerveless limbs no more

Could bear him on through the waves that rose

Like barriers to the shore;

Yet still he held his long-prized wealth,

He saw the wish'd-for land

A moment more, and he was thrown
Upon the rocky strand.

Alas! far better to have died

Where the mighty billows roll, Than lived till coldness and neglect Bow'd down his haughty soul:

To the Cricket.

Such was his dreary lot, at once
His country's pride and shame;
For on Camoëns' humble grave alone
Was placed his wreath of fame.

To the Cricket.

SP

BY THE REV. THOMAS COLE.

PRIGHTLY cricket, chirping still
Merry music, short and shrill:

In my kitchen take thy rest

As a truly welcome guest;

For no evils shall betide

Those with whom thou dost reside.
Nor shall thy good-omen'd strain
E'er salute my ear in vain.
With the best I can invent
I'll requite the compliment;
Like thy sonnets, I'll repay
Little sonnets, quick and gay.

Thou, a harmless inmate deem'd,
And by housewives much esteem'd,
Wilt not pillage for thy diet,
Nor deprive us of our quiet;
Like the horrid rat voracious,
Or the lick'rish mouse sagacious;
Like the herd of vermin base,
Or the pilfering reptile race:

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