III.
They wander'd beneath the shade,

Her eye was dimm'd with a tear,
For ah! the

poor

little maid
Was thrilling with love and fear.
Oh! oh! if Lubin would but sue,
Oh! oh! what could Fanny do?

IV.
Sweetly along the grove

The birds sang all the while,
And Fanny now said to her love,

With a frown that was half a smile-
"Oh! oh! why did Lubin sue?
“Oh! oh! why did Lubin sue?"

Viver en Cadenas.

FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.

I. From life without freedom, oh! who would not

fly? For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die? Hark!-hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the

brave, The death-song of tyrants and dirge of the slave. Our country lies bleeding-oh! fly to her aid ; One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade. From life without freedom, oh! who would not

fly?

For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?

II.

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains !
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.
And oh! even if freedom from this world be

driven,
Despair not-at least we shall find her in heaven.
In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.

HERE'S THE BOWER.

1.
Here's the bower she loved so much,
And the tree she planted ;

8

VOL. V.

Here's the harp she used to touch

Oh! how that touch enchanted ! Roses now unheeded sigh;

Where's the hand to wreathe them? Songs around neglected lie;

Where's the lip to breathe them?
Here's the bower she loved so much,

And the tree she planted ;
Here's the harp she used to touch-

Oh! how that touch enchanted!

Spring may bloom, but she we loved

Ne'er shall feel its sweetness! Time, that once so fleetly moved,

Now bath lost its fleetness.' Years were days, when here she stray'd,

Days were moments near her;
Heaven ne'er form'd a brighter maid,

Nor Pity wept a dearer!
Here's the bower she loved so much,

And the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she used to touch-

Oh ! how that touch enchanted !

HOLY BE THE PILGRIM'S SLEEP.

Holy be the Pilgrim's sleep,“

From the dreams of terror free;
And may all, who wake to weep,

Rest to-night as sweet as he !
Hark! hark ! did I hear a vesper

swell ? No, no—it is my loved Pilgrim's prayer :

,
No, no—'twas but the convent bell,
That tolls upon the midnight air.

Holy be the Pilgrim's sleep!
Now, now again the voice I hear;
Some holy man is wand'ring near.

O Pilgrim! where hast thou been roaming ?
Dark is the way, and midnight's coming.
Stranger, I've been o'er moor and mountain,
To tell my beads at Agnes' fountain.
And, Pilgrim, say, where art thou going?
Dark is the way, the winds are blowing.
Weary with wand'ring, weak, I falter,
To breathe my vows at Agnes' altar.
Strew, then, oh! strew his bed of rushes;
Here he shall rest till morning blushes.

Peace to them whose days are done,

Death their eyelids closing ;
Hark! the burial-rite's begun-

'Tis time for our reposing.

1

Here, then, my Pilgrim's course is o'er :
'Tis my master! 'tis my master! Welcome here

once more ;
Come to our shed-all toil is over;
Pilgrim no more, but knight and lover.

I CAN NO LONGER STIFLE.

I.
I can no longer stifle,
How much I long to rifle

That little part

They call the heart
Of you, you lovely trifle !
You can no longer doubt it,
So let me be about it,

Or on my word,

And by the Lord,
I'll try to do without it.