BRITISH VOLUNTEERS.

AT the call of the bugle, and the roll of the drum, With the bold front of heroes, our trained Rifles come, All marshalled and marching to strains that inspire, And fan in each bosom the true martial fire.

Defenders of Britain-her chosen, her own,

Of danger she spake, and to arms you have flown;
And bright eyes are beaming, and proud hearts beat high,
For the brave Volunteers marching gallantly by.

Your movement is crowned with a glorious success,
Our good Queen approves, and your country will bless
Her brave sons and true in the Volunteer ranks;
She gives you the boon of a proud mother's thanks.

Let fort after fort darkly frown on the steep-
Let steel-plated Warriors keep guard on the deep;
Let Armstrong's dread thunders incessantly roar,
And his dark tubes of death vomit flame on our shore.

Oh, stronger than all, for defence of her coast,
Her Volunteer patriots-her glory and boast;
No foot of invader her soil shall profane,

True hearts and true rifles she trusts not in vain.

THE FIRST AND SECOND

ADVENTS OF GARIBALDI-1851-2.

YE blest celestial twain,

From your bright spheres descending,

He called ye not in vain,

His soul's devotion tending.

To liberty and truth,

With burning adoration,
In manhood as in youth

He made full dedication

Of soul, of heart, and arm;

Low at your twin shrines kneeling,

Her strongest, holiest charm.

Each gave his mission sealing.

No pomp, no pride of war,

No herald-blazoned banner,

No trumpet from afar

Proclaimed his march-in manner

A simple, earnest man,

His deeds in toil and danger,

Admiring nations scan;

To them earth holds no stranger;

ADVENTS OF GARIBALDI.

We count his trophies o'er,

High chieftain-lion-hearted, His name shall never more

From glory's scroll be parted.

Not less-we love him more
Since, from his rocky dwelling,
By lone Caprera's shore,

He came, with heart high swelling,
To find how changed the scene.

The glorious twain ascending

To their bright spheres again,
Their gaze still downward bending,
With love and sorrow fraught,

Italia's Liberator

In toils of statecraft caught,
By Gallia's dark Dictator.

One thing thou lackest-say
Why wears thy noble spirit
The bonds of Rome, whilst aye
Thou seek'st to disinherit

The Pontiff of his lands?

Oh! rend her chains asunder,

And cast away her bands.

Harmless the Papal thunder,

103

Thy sovereign found it so,
Not excommunication

His kingdom could o'erthrow,
Or check its liberation.

The freedom of the mind,
The truth of God free spoken,
With a free press combined.
Then-not till then, is broken
The Papacy's strong power,
That holds Italia under.
Oh God! to see the hour

She tears her bonds asunder,
And springs to light and life,
United, free, victorious,
The conqueror in the strife,
Her patriot-hero glorious!

GARIBALDI A CAPTIVE.

YE minist'ring spirits of grace,
That wait on the good and the true,
To comfort, support, and solace-
Earth fails us-we call upon you;
Bright "tears, such as angels may weep,"
As ye gaze on the captive, bestow,
And lull his worn senses to sleep,
With airs that from Paradise flow.

Oh! soul of high honour-Oh! heart Strong, chivalrous, truthful, and warm, Diffusing o'er every part

Of his being and presence a charm! At the altar of Freedom he stood,

And vowed his fair country to save From tyranny, priestcraft, and blood, Or sleep on the bed of the brave.

His deeds they are known to the world, And history will blazon his fame;

On Liberty's standard unfurled

Italia has written his name.

H