The Arts of England too Ye raised, When GEORGE THE FOURTH was King! Like eagle's towering wing: Whilst Albion's fame spread wide and far, Your very names beloved shall be Than loftiest titles more, They may command the subject-knee,— But GEORGE shall be a holy spell To make a million bosoms swell, Whilst Britain's rocks or records last, Mizraim's Pharaohs in their state 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, Nor let its harsh contents be known, I will not droop to worldly eyes For mine is woe that dwells apart, But when such shades as these I find, Praised be the hand whose skill contrived While Nature at the fraud connived, Within this pensive place of trees, 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? Like that, which, careful that the worm Oh, could I think as bigots think, And could I think that by a creed For where were then the hope of hearts, THE FISHER'S WIFE. BY A YOUNG LADY. O, COULD I calm yon raging sea, "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; That rack me when we part. |