Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the patriotism of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same. What are monuments of bravery, Where no public virtues bloom? What avail in lands of slavery, Trophied temples, arch and tomb? Pageants!-Let the world revere us And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom's holy cause. Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Sydney's matchless shade is yours,— Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a hundred Agincourts! We're the sons of sires that baffled Crown'd and mitred tyranny:— They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights-so will we! ADELGITHA. THE ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded, When forth a valiant champion bounded, And slew the slanderer of her fame. She wept, deliver'd from her danger; But when he knelt to claim her glove"Seek not," she cried, "oh! gallant stranger, For hapless ADELGITHA's love. "For he is in a foreign far land Whose arm should now have set me free; And I must wear the willow garland For him that 's dead, or false to me." Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!". He raised his vizor-At the sight She fell into his arms and fainted; It was indeed her own true knight! H SONG. DRINK ye to her that each loves best, And if you nurse a flame That 's told but to her mutual breast, We will not ask her name. Enough, while memory tranced and glad Paints silently the fair, That each should dream of joys he's had, Or yet may hope to share. Yet far, far hence be jest or boast But drink to them that we love most, |