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SPENSERIAN.

Even here, on earth, not altogether fade
The good and vile. Men, in their words and deeds,
Live when the hand and heart in earth are laid ;
For thoughts are things, and written thoughts are

seeds-
Our very dust buds forth in flowers or weeds.
Then let me write for immortality
One honest song, uncramp'd by forms or creeds,

That men unborn may read my times and me, Taught by my living words, when I shall cease to be.

MAY.

SHADE-LOVING Hyacinth ! thou com'st again ;
And thy rich odours seem to swell the flow
Of the lark's song, the readbreast's lonely strain,
And the stream's tune—best sung where wild-flowers

blow,
And ever sweetest where the sweetest grow.
Who hath condensed, O broom ! in thy bright flowers
The light of mid-day suns ? What virgin's cheek
Can match this apple bloom—these glowing showers
Of glistering daisies? How their blushes speak

Of rosy hues that red o'er ocean break,
When cloudy morn is calm, yet fain to weep,
Because the beautful are still the frail !
Hark! 'tis the thrush !-he sings beneath the steep,
Where coolness ever charms the fountain'd vale!
How eloquently well he tells his tale,
That love is yet on earth, and yet will be,
Though virtue struggles, and seems born to fail,
Because fall’n man, who might be great and free,
Toils for the wolf, and bribes iniquity.
Thou are not false, sweet bird ! thou dost not keep
The word of promise to our ear alone,
And break it to our hearts ! Maids do not weep
Because thou feign'st ; for thee no victims groan ;
Thy voice is truth, and love is all thy own.
Then, for thy sake, I will not loathe man's face;
Will not believe that virtues are veild sins ;
That bounty may be mean, and kindness base ;
That fortune plays the game which wisdom wins;
That human worth still ends where it begins.
Though man were wholly false, though hope were

none

Of late redemption from his sin-made woes,
Yet would I trust in God and goodness. On
From sun to sun the stream of mercy flows;
And still on humble graves the little daisy grows.

VOL. II.

D

THE POLISH FUGITIVES.

WRITTEN FOR THE HULL POLISH RECORD.

The day went down in fire,

The burning ocean o'erA son and grey-hair'd sire

Walk'd silent, on the shore.

They walk’d, worn gaunt with cares,

Where land and billow meetAnd of that land was theirs

The dust upon their feet.

Yet they, erewhile, had lands

Which plenteous harvests bore; But, spoil'd by Russian hands,

Their own was theirs no more.

They came to cross the foam,

And seek, beyond the deep, A happier, safer home

A land where sowers reap.

Yet, while the playful gold

Laugh'd into purply green The crimson clouds that rollid

The sea and sky between,

The youth his brow upraised

From thoughts of deepest woe, And on the ocean gazed,

Like one who fronts a foe.

The sire was calm and mild,

And brightly shone his eye;How like a stately child,

He look'd on sea and sky !

But on his son's lean cheek,

And in his hands, grasp'd hard, A heart, that scorn'd to break,

With dreadful feelings warr'd.

For he had left behind

A wife, who dungeon'd lay ; And loath'd the mournful wind,

That sobb'd-Away, away!

Five boys and girls had he:

In fetters pined they all ; And when he saw the sea,

On him he heard them call.

Oh, fiercely he dash'd down

The tear—that came, at lengthThen, almost with a frown,

He pray'd to God for strength.

“Hold up !” the father cried,

“If Poland cannot thrive, The mother o'er the tide,

May follow with her five.

“But Poland yet shall fling

Dismay on Poland's foes,
As when the Wizard King

Avenged her ancient woes.

“For soon her cause will be

Roused Europe's battle cry; “To perish or be free!

To conquer or to die !""

His hands clasp'd o'er his head,

The son look'd up for aid; “So be it, Lord !” he said,

And still look'd up, and pray'd,

Till from his eyes, like rain,

When first the black clouds growl,
The agony of pain,

In tears, gush'd from his soul. * The name which the Turks, in their superstitious dread, gave to the great Sobieski.

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