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Impatient in my dread reserve,
Restless in battle-fields to serve,
I burn our freedom to preserve

Thus with bright gleams.-Hurrah !

Rest, but a little longer rest,
In a short space thou shalt be blest,
Within

my
ardent

grasp comprest,
Ready for fight.—Hurrah !

Then let me not too long await-
I love the gory field of fate,
Where Death's rich roses blow elate

In bloody bloom.--Hurrah !

Then out, and from thy bondage fly,
Thou treasure of the freeman's eye!
Come, to the scene of slaughter hie,

Our nuptial home.-Hurrah!

Thus be our glorious marriage tie, -
Wedded beneath heaven's canopy;
Bright as a sunbeam of the sky
Glitters

my

bride.- Hurrah !

Then, forth for the immortal strife,
Thou German soldier's new-made wife!
Glows not each heart with tenfold life

Embracing thee ?--Hurrah !

While in thy scabbard at my side,
I seldom gazed on thee, my bride-
Our hands now joined, we 'll ne'er divide;

Ever in sight.-Hurrah!

Thee sparkling to my lips I press,
And thus my ardent vows profess-
O cursed be he beyond redress

Who parts us now!-Hurrah !

“ Come joy into thy polished eyes,
Let thy bright glances flashing rise-
Our marriage day dawns in the skies,

My Bride of Steel.-Hurrah!
Blackwood's Magazine.

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LINES WRITTEN AT THE HOT-WELLS, BRISTOL.

BY LORD PALMERSTON.

Whoe’er, like me, with trembling anguish brings
His dearest earthly treasure to these springs;
Whoe’er, like me, to soothe distress and pain,
Shall court these salutary springs in vain ;
Condemned, like me, to hear the faint reply,
To mark the fading cheek, the sinking eye,
From the chill brow to wipe the damps of death,
And watch in dumb despair the shortening breath;
If chance should bring him to this humble line,
Let the sad mourner know his pangs were mine,
Ordained to love the partner of my breast,
Whose virtue warmed me, and whose beauty blessed;
Framed every tie that binds the heart to prove,
Her duty friendship, and her friendship love;
But yet remembering that the parting sigh
Appoints the just to slumber, not to die,
The starting tear I checked—I kissed the rod,
And not to earth resigned her - but to God.

TO THE POET WORDSWORTH.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

Thine is a strain to read among the hills,

The old and full of voices; by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills

The solitude with sound; for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken

To the calm breast, in some sweet garden's bowers, Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken,

And bud and bell with changes mark the hours; There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,

When night hath hushed the woods, with all their birds,
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet

As antique music, linked with household words ;
While in pleased murmurs woman's lip might move,
And the raised eye of childhood shine in love !

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews

Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground,
Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse

A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around,
From its own glow of hope, and courage high,
And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.

True bard and holy!—Thou art even as one

Who by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,

Sees where the springs of living waters lie!
Thou mov’st through nature's realm, and touched by thee,

Clear healthful waves flow forth, to each glad wanderer free. Literary Magnet.

BY T. HOOD, ESQ.

I remember, I remember
The house where was born,
The little window, where the sun
Came peeping in, at morn; .
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily cups -
Those flowers made of light;
The lilacs, where the robins built,
And where my brother set
The labernum, on his birth-day, -
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air would rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing ;
-My spirit flew in feathers, then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember
The fir trees, dark and high;
I used to think their slender spires
Were close against the sky!
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 't is little joy
To know I'm further off from heaven,

Than when I was a boy!
Friendship's Offering.

THE STATUE OF THE DYING GLADIATOR.

BY E. CHINNERY, ESQ.

Will then no pitying sword its succour lend
The Gladiator's mortal throes to end !
To free the' unconquered mind, whose generous power
Triumphs o'er nature in her saddest hour !

Bowed low, and full of death, his head declines,
Yet o'er his brow indignant valour shines;
Still glares his closing eye with angry light,
Now glares, now darkens, with approaching night.

Think not with terror heaves that sinewy breast,
'T is vengeance visible, and pain supprest;
Calm in despair, in agony sedate,
His proud soul wrestles with o'ermastering fate;
That
pang

the conflict ends !-- he falls not yet,
Seems every nerve for one last effort set,
At once by death, death's lingering power to brave,
He will not sink, but plunge into the grave;
Exhaust his mighty heart in one last sigh,
And rally life's whole energy to die !

Unfeared is now that cord which oft ensnared
The baffled rival whom his falchion spared;
Those clarions mute, which on the murderous stage
Roused him to deeds of more than martial rage ;
Once poised by peerless might, once dear to fame,
The shield which could not guard, supports his frame;
His fixed

eye
dwells
upon

the faithless blade,
As if in silent agony he prayed :-
“Oh might I yet, by one avenging blow,
Not shun my fate, but share it with my foe!"
Vain hope! the streams of life-blood fast descend,
That giant arm's upbearing strength must bend;

H

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