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"Ah, sweet, my own Juanna,

That I cannot surely know,

Though, with half the wives of Cadiz,
Men say that it is so;

But with some like your poor mother

All hope of cure is o'er;
They whom they loved as lovers,
As husbands they adore."

THE DEATH-MARCH OF WELLINGTON.

"WHOM bear you thus with heavy tread,
"With arms reversed, and brows deprest ?"
"Comrade, we bear the mighty dead

"In glory to his place of rest.

"A nation throngs the city's ways,

"In grief for him whose race is run; "On, in dark state, beneath their gaze, "Comrade, we bear great Wellington." March-slowly march-hark! in the hush, I hear Assaye's hurrah, and Badajos's cheer.

Yes-o'er him let the trumpet wail,

And round him roll your muffled drums;

In this last hour, who now shall fail

In open grief for him who comes?

Its solemn swell the Dead March pour,

In grief for him whose deeds are done;
Grief, let the mighty cannon roar,

As on we bear great Wellington.

March-silent march-hark! in the hush, I hear Vittoria's shout, and Salamanca's cheer.

On-bear him on to where they sleep,

Our greatest, whom we name with pride ;

Lay him by Moore, in slumber deep;
Lay him by Abercrombie's side.
Nay-place him by the only one

Who fixed, with him, red victory's smile!

Room for the dead, by him who won
For us Trafalgar and the Nile!

On-bear him on-hark! in the hush, I hear
Toulouse's charge and St. Sebastian's cheer.

Throw wide the doors; dust unto dust;
O'er him the yawning marble close;
Give him to death with trembling trust,
Calm in his last stern cold repose.
In reverent silence, in the gloom

Brooding beneath the mighty dome,
Conqueror, to share the conquer'd's doom,
Leave him to fame in his last home.
March-comrades, march-hark! in the hush, I hear
Quatre Bras' hurrah, and Waterloo's fierce cheer.

A SUMMER THOUGHT.

IN thy circle, painted flower,
What a world of wonder lies!
Yet men pass thee, hour by hour,
With no marvel in their eyes;
Dost thou not the beauty know

In thy bright-streak'd round that's dwelling?
When our tongues thy praises show,
Is no pride thy bright robes swelling?
Dost thou feel no joy in living,
Wantoning thus in sun and shower?
Thou canst pleasure still be giving;
Lies no pleasure in the power?
Deck'd in nature's tiring room
By the months, in hues the brightest
Flung from off her magic loom,
Thou the very air delightest,
And the very hours to view thee,
Ere by death thy glory's blighted,
Ere decay hath crept unto thee,
Did they dare, would pause delighted;

Ah, that men, with noteless eyes,
Thus to pass thee should have power,
Marvelling not at all that lies

In thy circle, painted flower!

A SPRING SONG.

SWALLOW, Swallow, hither wing;
Hither, swallow, bringing spring;
From the lake hath gone the teal;
Fled the widgeon from the stream;
Now no more our bursting woods
Hear the swooping merlin's scream;
Come, thou dawn of summer, come,
Hither leaves and shadows bringing,
Bladed furrows-nested eaves,
Sweetest songs the south is singing;
Bringing violets, bringing spring,
Hither, swallow, hither wing,

Swallow, swallow, hither wing,
Dearest playmate of the spring;
Come, the celandine no more
Dreads the gusty wrath of March;
Golden tasselled is the birch;
Emerald fringes hath the larch;
Come, thou news of summer, come,
Trills and hedge-row twitterings bringing,
Quivering mountings of the lark,
Shrillest songs the ousel's singing;
Snowing orchards, flight of spring,
Hither, swallow, hither wing.

WHY IS SORROW?

WHY is sorrow? sunshine's made
Brighter still by cloud and shade;
So the cares that man annoy,
When their passing power is o'er,

K

130

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!

Fairer make the face of joy,
Dearer than it was before;
Sorrows into pleasures fade;
Brightest sunshine's born of shade.

Why is trouble? darksome night,
Passing, adds to day's delight;
"Tis by absence of a good

That its perfect worth is shown;
Health's rich value's understood
Only when we've sickness known;
Pain, when past, makes pleasure here
Felt in full and doubly dear.

Therefore, welcome strife and peace;
Calm is sweet when tempests cease;
Forth from Winter comes the Spring;
Of the snows are violets born;
Ice and hail, June's roses bring,
Frosts and mists, the golden corn;
Barest boughs will burst to leaves;
He shall laugh who deepest grieves.

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN !

YES, "God save the Queen!" aye, and well may we say it,

Ungrudgingly, lovingly, long may it start,

Not alone from our lips, when we shout or we pray it, But shouted, or sung, or said, straight from the heart. She reigns for her people-no fav'rite, no party,

Between her and them has there ever been seen; "Tis my love for the people that makes me so hearty Whenever I cry, as now, "God save the Queen!"

Look abroad through the world-see, wherever your sight still

From country to country sets eyes on a throne,

Tis the same reign of bayonets, defying all right still; "Tis a rule that is kept up by terror alone;

Then, at home, looking round, here what still are we seeing?

What is seen, and long may it by all eyes be seen— A nation its limbs from their old shackles freeing, Uncheck'd to its glad cry of "God save the Queen!"

She, than all the despots around her far wiser,

Is rightly contented ourselves we should rule; Unlike those crowned idiots, who doubtless despise her, She wants not our will to her own still to school; In fact, she don't need it-the two are one only;

Her wishes and ours but the same still have been; So who wonders, among us, he'd find himself lonely Who would not cry with us all, "God save the Queen!"

As a ruler we prize, as a women we love her;

Temptations beset most the souls born so high;
But though she knows no rule but God's is above her,
When did she obedience to that rule deny?
A daughter-her parents but knew her to bless her;
A wife-what a model to all wives she's been !

A mother-O well may her children caress her,

And well may we, with them, pray "God save the Queen!"

Yes, long may she live-God, for our sake preserve her;
No better can rule when she passes from earth;
She's all we could wish her; we should not deserve her
If, while she is with us, we knew not her worth.
Then, as Queen and as daughter, as true wife and mother,
As ruler and woman, dear to us, we mean

Still to pray that, of rulers, we long have no other

Than she for whom here we cry, "God save the Queen!"

And when she is gone-for death will not be sparing
The best of good monarchs, however, they're dear,—
May the child of hers next that her sceptre is bearing,
Be loved as his mother is, while he is here;

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