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Still shall I think of you, maidens of Edinburgh!

Still at remembrance my bosom shall swell; Oft shall the thought, o'er the wide ocean wandering,

Mourn for the maids whom I now bid farewel.

SONG

Written for and sung at an entertainment given at Annapolis, to lieut.

George Mann and Dr. Harwood, of the U. S. navy.

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NOW the war-blast is blown, and the thunders are

still, And the blue gleam of steel lies asleep in the sheath, And to peace and to mirth the full bumpers.we fill,

While the ear shrinks no more at the echo of death.

Yet still, not ungrateful, the deeds of the brave

Our heart's strongest impulse shall eagerly tell, And on those who have sunk in a watery grave

With a sorrowing tear still shall memory dwell.

The sons of our fathers have prov'd to the world That the blood in their veins beats for freedom as

high, And wherever the red-striped flag is unfurl'd,

Like them they can conquer, like them they can die.

Though shackles awhile may the eagle entwine

And forbid him the strong-sinew'd wing to display, Yet break but the bands that his ardour confine

And he mingles his fight with the blaze of the day.

Behold where in Afric's far regions a band,

Tho' few, yet determin'd, all peril defy, Their prospect by day but the hot gleaming sand,

Their bed the hard desert, their shelter the sky.

Yet still they urge forward,-'tis glory that calls

Whose sovereign impulse leads onward the brave, And the cluster'd stars rise o'er Derna's proud

walls, And the wan crescent fades, and descends in the

wave.

Then fill up the bumper-a tribute of fame,

Though small, yet'tis all that we now have to give, Yet while memory holds seat in our bosums, the

name

Of EATON, and MANN, and O'BANNEN shall live.

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TRANSLATION

OF THE CVIII. SONNET OF CAMOENS.

THOU stream of Tajo, who with regal sway,
Thro' these green meadows hold'st thy easy way,
Where herbs, and flow'rs, and flocks, all hail thy

tide,
And Nymphs and Shepherds, linger on thy side;
Ah, stream beloy’d! in vain I wish to tell,
If on thy banks I shall return to dwell-
Perhaps, for ever from thy shores I roam
In endless exile from my native home-
Grief swells my eyes, and scarce the scene I view,
To bid a long, perhaps a last adieu!

1

PEACE, ye sorrows of my soul,

While my much lov'd fair is nigh!Cease thy trickling stream to roll,

Thou welling fountain of mine eye!

Hours enough to grief are paid;

Days and weeks and months of woeOh then while I view the maid,

Let me one short rapture know!

Ere the sun of love be set,
Let it warm once more my

heart! Ere we part—no more to meet

Let me dream we shall not part!

I will hope, though hope be dead;

I will smile, though anguish tear; Joy to-day his wings shall spread

With the morrow comes despair!

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