They slumber low, and in the dust,

Prostrate and fall'n the warrior lies; His faulchion's blade is dim with rust,

And quench'd the ray of beauty's eyes!

Those arms which once blazed through the field
Their brightness never shall resume,
O'er spear and helm, and broken shield,
Low droops the faded sullied plume,

Arise ye! Mighty dead, arise!

Can Vernon, Rutland, Stanley sleep? Whose gallant hearts and eagle eyes, Disdained alike to crouch or weep?

And ye who owned the orbs of light,
The golden tress-the pure fair brow—

In the cold sleep of endless night,

Say, do the Vernon's daughters bow?

No, no, they wake! a seraph guard,
To circle this their loved domain;
Which Time has spared, nor man has marr'd
With sacrilegious hand profane.

Haddon thy chivalry are fled!

The tilt and tourney's brave array, Where knights in steel, from heel to head, Bore love's or honor's prize away.

No hunter's horn is heard to sound,

No dame with swan-like mien glides by,
Accompanied by hawk and hound,
On her fair palfrey joyously.

Thy splendid sun has set in night-
But gentler, holier, more subdued,
Than earth's most brilliant dazzling light,

Thy moonlight garden's solitude.

Y

H. B.

OUR NATIVE LAND.

By Delta.

Moriens dulces reminiscitur Argos.

The halo round the Seraph's head
Too purified for thing of Earth,
Is not more beautifully bright
Than that celestial zone of light,

Which Nature's magic hand hath shed

Around the land which gives us birth.

Oh!-be that country beautified

With woods that wave, and streams that glide, Where bounteous air and earth unfold

The gales of health, and crops of gold;

Let flowers and fields be ever fair;

Let fragrance load the languid air;

Be vines in every valley there;
And olives on each mountain side:-

Or let it be a wilderness

Where heaven and earth oppose in gloom;

Where the low sun all faintly glows
O'er régions of perennial snows;

Still 'tis the country not the less

Of him, who sows what ne'er may bless
His labours with autumnal bloom!

Yes! partial clans, in every clime,

Since first commenced the march of Time, Where'er they rest-where'er they roamAll unforgot,

Have still a spot

Which Memory loves, and heart calls-home!
From where Antarctic oceans roar
Round Patagonia's mountain shore;
To where grim Hecla's cone aspires,
With sides of snow, and throat of fires!

THE END.