High, high above the tree-tops,

The lark is soaring free;

Where streams the light through broken clouds

His speckled breast I see:

Beneath the might of wicked men

The poor man's worth is dying;

But, thank'd be God! in spite of them,
The lark still warbles flying!

The preacher prays, "Lord, bless us !"
"Lord, bless us!" echo cries;
"Amen!" the breezes murmur low;
"Amen!" the rill replies:

The ceaseless toil of woe-worn hearts
The proud with pangs are paying;
But here, O God of earth and heaven!
The humble heart is praying?

How softly, in the pauses

Of song, re-echoed wide,

The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay,

O'er rill and river glide!

With evil deeds of evil men

Th' affrighted land is ringing; But still, O Lord! the pious heart

And soul-toned voice are singing!

Hush! hush! the preacher preacheth :
"Woe to the oppressor, woe!"
But sudden gloom o'ercasts the sun
And sadden'd flowers below:
So frowns the Lord!—but, tyrants, ye
Deride his indignation,

And see not in his gather'd brow
Your days of tribulation!

Speak low, thou heaven-paid teacher !
The tempest bursts above:

God whispers in the thunder: hear
The terrors of his love!

On useful hands, and honest hearts,
The base their wrath are wreaking ;
But, thank'd be God! they can't prevent
The storm of heav'n from speaking.

A SONG IN EXILE.

YES, with groans my lyre is strung;
Tears, from Poland's ruin wrung,
Flow in music from my tongue,

Poland's tears and Liberty's.

England saw our setting sun!
Britons! was it wisely done?
You gave Warsaw to the Hun!

Why not London, Englishman?

Lo! while Russia's iron tread,

Where we fell or whence we fled,

Shakes the dust of Poland's dead!
Europe trembles guiltily!

Tyrant twice we overthrew

Hordes of thine, to tyrants true!
Twice we smote and twice we slew,

Recreant France! thy conquerors.

Yet, with us was Europe sold;
Gaul's delay, and England's gold,

Frighted France and Britain cold,

Bribed the Goth to purchase her.

Poland fell-and they may fall,
Crush'd on Freedom's funeral pall;
But the Lord is Lord of all;

Thou, O Father, tremblest not!

Hopeless, homeless, do we roam?
Be Revenge our hope and home!
Thoughts that quench, in gory foam,
Moscow's fiery funeral !

VOL. II.

E

Dig thou wide, Polonia's God,

Dig thou deep, where freemen trod,
Russia's grave and Tyranny's.

ON AN ORIGINAL SKETCH,

DRAWN WITH A PENCIL ON A WALL, BY MY SON FRANCIS.

I SAW a head, a young but lifeless face-
On its dark hair, and two white wings, reposed,

As on a pillow. Tears had left their trace

Down each sad cheek; beneath dim eyes halfclosed,

The calm lips smiled; and like a sky arose,
Amid thick curls, the forehead domed for thought.
It lay, as if the soul-though worn with woes,
And bathed in parting tears-serenely sought
For strength in sleep, before it wing'd its flight
From darkness, doubt, and dust, to dwell with God,

in light.

SONG.

THEY sold the chairs, they took the bed, and went ;
A fiend's look after them the husband sent;

His thin wife held him faintly, but in vain ;
She saw the alehouse in his scowl of pain.

Upon her pregnant womb her hand she laid,

Then stabb'd her living child! and shriek'd, dis

may'd—

“Oh, why had I a mother!" wildly said That saddest mother, gazing on the dead.

Slowly she turn'd, and sought the silent room— Her last-born child's lone dwellingplace and tomb! Because they could not purchase earth and prayer, The dear dead boy had long lain coffin'd there !

But that boy hath a sister-where is she?
Dying, where none a cherub fall'n may see:—
"Mother! O come!" she sobs, with stifled groan,
In that blest isle, where pity turns to stone.

Before the judge, the childless stood amazed,

With none to say, "My Lord! the wretch is crazed.” Crowds saw her perish, but all eyes were dry;

Drunk, in the crowd, her husband saw her die!