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“Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour."
Who steals my purse, steals trash ; 'tis something, nothing.
"Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name,
Robs me of that, which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.”-Shakspere.
J. W. SOUTHGATE, LIBRARY, 164, STRAND.
LONDON WILLIAM STEVENS, PRINTER, BELL YARD,
In days of yore, Britannia's cherished name
Stood first and foremost in the ranks of Fame;
In war, her flag for justice was unfurled ;
In peace, her arts shed lustre o'er the world.
Home of the free, and country of the fair,
The heart expanded, breathing English air.
Genius and Industry their fruits combined
To please the senses and instruct the mind;
And Fortune, smiling with auspicious mien,
Watched o'er her fav’rite child, the Ocean Queen !
Then too was gallantry in word and deed
The leading feature in our nation's creed;
And the soft sex in Albion's happy isle,
Vanquished ev'n heroes with a word or smile ;
Woman was thought not then a trifling toy,
A passive instrument of sensual joy,
A humble plaything for man's idle hours,
But all unworthy of his higher powers.
No ! she was loved, was honoured, and revered,
To ev'ry heart and sympathy endeared ;
Prized as a blessing, as a friend esteemed,
And from her very weakness precious deemed !
No foul-mouthed craven ventured then to slight
Her maiden purity with Slander's blight;
No dark conspiracy, “ without a name,”
Dared to traduce her fair and spotless fame.
Not such Britannia now, in modern times,
Her fame is but co-equal with her crimes ;
No deeds of glory are her portion now,
No crown of laurel wreathes her haughty brow;
Scorned by each petty state, her banner waves
The jest of despots, and the mock of slaves !
And beardless striplings can unpunished brag
Of insults offered to old England's flag.
All, all in Albion bears the stamp of shame,
Where is our gallantry? 'tis but a name!
Woman no longer in all bosoms holds
The heart imprisoned in devotion's folds ;
No longer reigns our idol and our pride,
Her shrine is broken, and her faith deny'd !
The peasant plodding o'er his weary toil,
Forgets his labours in his wife's fond smile;
Ev'n his poor hovel by her presence cheered,
Becomes a home delightful and endeared;
Valued by him all palaces above,
Because it holds the treasure of her love.
He gives no diamonds to his lowly bride,
She does not lie on ermine at his side;
But of his humble couch she has her part,
And needs no jewel but her husband's heart !
Contented still with that secluded spot
Where she can share his mean but tranquil lot.
Nightly through life upon her faithful breast
His weary head can find a peaceful rest;
And when Death's languor o'er his limbs doth creep,
His eyes she closes in their dreamless sleep.
Then would she pray, but for his children's sake,
That the same moment might her life's thread break;