The Arts of England too Ye raised,
And future bards shall sing,
How Science most sublimely blazed

When GEORGE THE FOURTH was King!
How fearless over land and sea,
Flew out thy flag, Discovery,

Like eagle's towering wing:

Whilst Albion's fame spread wide and far,
Matchless in learning as in war.

Your very names beloved shall be

Than loftiest titles more,

They may command the subject-knee,—
King, Kaiser, Emperor ;—

But GEORGE shall be a holy spell

To make a million bosoms swell,
And countless hearts adore;

Whilst Britain's rocks or records last,
Beyond all Kings to come, or past!

Mizraim's Pharaohs in their state
Found but a hapless doom,
Of all the piles they left to fate

Their proudest was a tomb!

But GEORGE OF ENGLAND hath not hid

His greatness in a pyramid,

His wealth in earth's dark womb;

Far nobler fanes have graced his regal sway, Uprear'd in marble,-what He found of clay!

LINES

COMPOSED IN THE ENGLISH BURIAL GROUND AT

OPORTO.

BY EDWARD QUILLINAN, ESQ.

I WEAR a smile upon my lip,

I teach my voice a careless tone,
My cup of woe I lightly sip,

Nor let its harsh contents be known,

I will not droop to worldly eyes
As if my grief their pity craves,
Though here I breathe my lonely sighs,
Within this solemn field of graves.

For mine is woe that dwells apart,
And human sympathy rejects;
Too sacred to the jealous heart
To seek compassion's cold respects.

But when such shades as these I find,
Where Nature fondly smiles on death,
It checks the pulse and soothes the mind
To humour Sorrow's plaintive breath.

Praised be the hand whose skill contrived
To make a Golgotha so fair,

While Nature at the fraud connived,
And lent her robe for Death to wear.

Within this pensive place of trees,
This green Elysium for the dead,
If I might now my fancy please,
I'd choose my own sepulchral bed.

I think my spirit less forlorn

Would feel, if it were certain now

That when my heart should cease to mourn 'Twould sleep beneath a greenwood bough.

Is this a fancy weak and vain?
Well, be it so, I own it mine :
'Tis not, at least, a zeal insane
On dust and ashes to refine,

Like that, which, careful that the worm
Should find no stranger's corse with ours,
Obliges Luther's sons to form
Apart, as here, funereal bowers.

Oh, could I think as bigots think,
Whose zeal forgets that God is just,
That e'en the lifeless clay must shrink
From contact with sectarian dust;

And could I think that by a creed
Unsound the good were lost to Heaven;
Then would my anguish far exceed
All pangs that e'er my breast have riven.

For where were then the hope of hearts,
The sole support of bleeding love,
That friends on earth whom sorrow parts
May meet in tranquil realms above?

THE FISHER'S WIFE.

BY A YOUNG LADY.

O, COULD I calm yon raging sea,
Whose mountain waves toss fearfully
Their giant crests of foam!
For HE is in his slender bark,
Breasting that world of waters dark;
Kind Ocean, waft him home!

"Tis awful at such hour to wake, And dare the tempest for his sake, Trembling with hope and fear; To listen to the sea-gull's scream— I see the white sail gleam!

I see,

My husband, thou art near!

He'll chide me for my fond distress,

And with a kind and gay caress

Buoy up my sinking heart;
Yet he will tempt the wave again,
And call the anxious terrors vain

That rack me when we part.