Yes they can meet his eye, That only beams with patient courage now; And that eye did not shrink What tho' suspended sense Was by their damned cruelty revived, What tho' ingenious vengeance lengthened life To fell protracted death What tho' the hangman's hand In the last agony, the last sick pang, He called to mind his deeds Done for his country in the embattled field, He thought of that good cause for which he died And it was joy in death! Go Edward triumph now! Cambria is fallen, and Scotland's strength is crush'd; On Wallace, on Llewellyn's mangled limbs The fowls of Heaven have fed. Unrivalled, unopposed, Go Edward full of glory to thy grave! Something childish, but very natural. Written in GERMANY. If I had but two little wings, And were a little feathery bird, To you I'd fly, my dear! But thoughts like these are idle things And I stay here. But in my sleep to you I fly, I'm always with you in my sleep, The world is all one's own. But then one wakes, and where am I? Sleep stays not though a Monarch bids, Yet while 'tis dark one shuts one's lids And still dreams on. CORDOMI HOME-SICK. Written in GERMANY. "Tis sweet to him who all the week And sweet it is in summer bower, One's own dear children feasting round But what is all to his delight Who having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back Before the door of his own home! Home-sickness is no baby pang, This feel I hourly more and more, There's healing only in thy wings Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore. -N CORDOMI. To a FLOWER. By JOSEPH HUCKS. Child of the Spring! fair opening Flower ! I love thine early bloom; To snatch thee from yon sheltering bower, Let no rude hand presume. Yet, yet protected from the blast, But when revolves the varying year, When nature's rougher skies are fled, Again thou'lt lift thy gentle head, |