Of bench and woolsack, tub and chair,

We'll build a glorious pyre,

And tons of rebel parchment there
Shall crackle in the fire.

With them shall perish, cheek by jowl,
Petition, psalm, and libel,
The colonel's canting muster-roll,
The chaplain's dog-ear'd Bible.

We'll tread a measure round the blaze
Where England's pest expires,
And lead along the dance's maze
The beauties of the friars:
Then smiles in every face shall shine,

And joy in every soul.

Bring forth, bring forth the oldest wine, And crown the largest bowl.

And as with nod and laugh ye sip
The goblet's rich carnation,
Whose bursting bubbles seem to tip
The wink of invitation;

Drink to those names,-those glorious names,—
Those names no time shall sever,-

Drink, in a draught as deep as Thames,
Our church and king for ever!

THE SPANISH ARMADA.

ATTEND all ye who list to hear

Our noble England's praise! I tell of the thrice famous deeds She wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible Against her bore in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, The stoutest hearts of Spain.

It was about the lovely close
Of a warm summer day,
There came a gallant merchant-ship
Full sail to Plymouth Bay;

Her crew had seen Castile's black fleet

Beyond Aurigny's Isle,

At earliest twilight, on the waves,
Lie heaving many a mile;
At sunrise she escaped their van,
By God's especial grace;
And the tall Pinta, till the noon,

Had held her close in chase.
Forthwith a guard at every gun
Was placed along the wall;
The beacon blazed upon the roof
Of Edgecombe's lofty hall,
And many a fishing-bark put out,
To pry along the coast,

And with loose rein and bloody spur,
Rode inland many a post.

With his white hair unbonneted,
The stout old Sheriff comes;
Behind him march the halberdiers,
Before him sound the drums.

His yeomen round the market-croza
Make clear an ample space,
For there behoves him to set up
The standard of her grace.
And haughtily the trumpets peal.
And gayly dance the bells,
As slow upon the labouring wind
The royal blazon swells.
Look how the lion of the seas
Lifts up his ancient crown,
And underneath his deadly paw

Treads the gay lilies down!

So stalk'd he when he turn'd to flight,
On that famed Picard field,
Bohemia's plume, Genoa's bow,
And Cæsar's eagle shield;

So glared he when at Agincourt
In wrath he turn'd to bay,

And crush'd and torn beneath his claws

The princely hunters lay.

Ho! strike the flag-staff deep, Sir Knight,
Ho! scatter flowers, fair maids-
Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute--

Ho! gallants, draw your blades;
Thou sun, shine on her joyously;
Ye breezes, waft her wide;
Our glorious Semper eadem-
The banner of our pride.

The freshening breeze of eve unfurl'd
That banner's massy fold-
The parting gleam of sunshine kiss'd
That haughty scroll of gold;
Night sank upon the dusky beach,

And on the purple sea

Such night in England ne'er had beer.
Nor e'er again shall be.

From Eddystone to Berwick bounds,
From Lynn to Milford Bay,

That time of slumber was as bright

And busy as the day;

For swift to east and swift to west,

The warning radiance spread-
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone--

It shone on Beachy Head.

Far on the deep the Spaniard saw,
Along each southern shire,
Cape beyond cape, in endless range,
Those twinkling points of fire;
The fisher left his skiff to rock

On Tamar's glittering waves,
The rugged miners pour'd to war
From Mendip's sunless caves.

O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's caka,
The fiery herald flew ;

He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge,
The rangers of Beaulieu.

Right sharp and quick the bells all night

Rang out from Bristol town,

And ere the day three hundred horse
Had met on Clifton down;

The sentinel on Whitehall Gate

Look'd forth into the night,
And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill
The streak of blood-red light.

'Then bugle's note and cannon's roar

The death-like silence broke,
And with one start, and with one cry,

The royal city woke.

At once on all her stately gates

Arose the answering fires;
At once the wild alarum clash'd

From all her reeling spires;
From all the batteries of the Tower,

Peal'd loud the voice of fear;

And all the thousand masts of Thames

Sent back a louder cheer;

And from the farthest wards was heard

The rush of hurrying feet,

And the broad streams of flags and pikes
Dash'd down each roaring strect;
And broader still became the blaze,
And louder still the din,

As fast from every village round

The horse came spurring in:

And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath
The warlike errand went,

And roused in many an ancient hall,
The gallant 'squires of Kent.
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills,
Flew those bright couriers ferth;

High on bleak Hempstead's swarthy moor,
They started for the north;

And on, and on, without a pause,

Untired they bounded still;

All night from tower to tower they sprangThey sprang from hill to hill,'

Till the proud Peak unfurl'd the flag

O'er Darwin's rocky dales-
Till like volcanoes flared to heaven,
The stormy hills of Wales-

Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze
On Malvern's lonely height,
Till stream'd in crimson on the wind
The Wrekin's crest of light-

Till broad and fierce the star came forth
On Ely's stately fane,

And tower and hamlet rose in arms
O'er all the boundless plain-
Till Belvoir's lordly terraces

The sign to Lincoln sent,
And Lincoln sped the message on,
O'er the wide vale of Trent-
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burn'd
On Gaunt's embattled pile,

And the red glare on Skiddaw roused
The burghers of Carlisle !

A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTE.

On! weep for Moncontour.

Oh! weep for the hour
When the children of darkness
And evil had power;
When the horsemen of Valois
Triumphantly trod

On the bosoms that bled

For their rights and their God. Oh! weep for Moncontour.

Oh weep for the slain

Who for faith and for freedom
Lay slaughter'd in vain.
Oh! weep for the living,
Who linger to bear
The renegade's shame,

Or the exile's despair.

One look, one last look,

To the cots and the towers, To the rows of our vines,

And the beds of our flowers, To the church where the bones Of our fathers decay'd, Where we fondly had deem'd

That our own should be laid. Alas! we must leave thee,

Dear desolate home,
To the spearmen of Uri,

The shavelings of Rome,
To the serpent of Florence,
The vulture of Spain,
To the pride of Anjou,

And the guile of Lorraine.
Farewell to thy fountain,
Farewell to thy shades,
To the song of thy youths,

And the dance of thy maids.
To the breath of thy garden,
The hum of thy bees.
And the long waving line
Of the blue Pyrenees.
Farewell, and for ever.
The priest and the slave
May rule in the halls

Of the free and the brave;
Our hearths we abandon ;-

Our lands we resign; But, Father, we kneel To no altar but thir e.

MR. MOIR was born about the beginning of the present century. He was a physician, and resided at Musselburgh, near Edinburgh. Under the signature of DELTA [4], he was for many years one of the principal poetical contributors to Blackwood's Magazine; and he published, besides one or two volumes of poems, Outlines of the Ancient History of

A LOVER TO HIS BETROTHED. SUMMER was on the hills when last we parted, Flowers in the vale, and beauty on the sky; Our hearts were true, although our hopes were thwarted;

Forward, with wistful eye,

[sweet

Scarce half-resign'd we look'd, yet thought how "Twould be again in after months to meet.

And months have pass'd: now the bright moon is shining

O'er the gray mountains and the stilly sea,
As, by the streamlet's willowy bend reclining,
I pause remembering thee,

Who to the moonlight lent a softer charm
As through these wilds we wandered arm in arm.
Yes! as we roam'd the sylvan earth seem'd glowing
With many a beauty unremark'd before:
The soul was like a deep urn overflowing
With thoughts, a treasured store;
The very flowers seem'd born but to exhale,
As breath'd the West, their fragrance to the gale.
Methinks I see thee yet-thy form of lightness,

An angel phantom gliding through the trees, Thine alabaster brow, thy cheek of brightness, Thy tresses in the breeze

Floating their auburn, and thine eyes that madɔ, So rich their blue, heaven's azure like a shade.

Methinks even yet I feel thy timid fingers,

With their bland pressure thrilling bliss to mine; Methinks yet on my cheek thy breathing lingers As, fondly leant to thine,

I told how life all pleasureless would be,
Green palm-tree of earth's desert! wanting thee.
Not yet, not yet had disappointment shrouded

Youth's summer calm with storms of wintry strife; The star of Hope shone o'er our path unclouded, And Fancy colour'd life

With those elysian rainbow-hues, which Truth Melts with his rod, when disenchanting youth. Where art thou now? I look around, but see not The features and the form that haunt my dreams! Where art thou now? I listen, but for me, not The deep rich music streams

Medicine, The Autobiography of Mansis Waugh, A Memoir of John Galt, and other works in prose. In his poems he alludes to frequent domestic misfortunes. Casa's Dirge, Wee Willie, and other pieces, breathe a pure and simple pathos, and his writings, generally, are characterized by much delicacy and grace.

Of that entrancing voice, which could bestow
A zest to pleasure, and a balm to wo:-

I miss thy smile, when morn's first light is bursting
Through the green branches of the casement tree.
To list hy voice my lonely ear is thirsting,
Beside the moonlit seå:

Vain are my longings, my repinings vain;
Sleep only gives thee to my arms again.

Yet should it cheer me, that nor wo hath shatter'd
The ties that link our hearts, nor Hate, nor Wrath,
And soon the day may dawn, when shall be scatter'd
All shadows from our path;

And visions be fulfill'd, by Hope adored,
In thee, the long-lost, to mine arms restored.
Ah! could I see thee!- -see thee, were it only
But for a moment looking bliss to me!
Ah! could I hear thee!-desolate and lonely
Is life deprived of thee:

I start from out my revery, to know
That hills between us rise, and rivers flow!
Let Fortune change-be fickle Fate preparing
To shower her arrows, or to shed her balm,
All that I ask for, pray for, is the sharing
With thee life's storm or calm;

For, ah! with others' wealth and mirth would be
Less sweet by far than sorrow shared with thee!
Yes! vainly, foolishly, the vulgar reckon

That happiness resides in outward shows:
Contentment from the lowliest cot may beckon
True Love to sweet repose:

For genuine bliss can ne'er be far apart,
When soul meets soul, and heart responds to heart
Farewell! let tyrannous Time roll on, estranging
The eyes and heart from each familiar spot:
Be fickle friendships with the seasons changing,
So that thou changest not!

WEE WILLIE.

FARE-THEE-WELL, our last and fairest,
Dear wee Willie, fare-thee-well!
He, who lent thee, hath recall'd thee
Back with him and his to dwell.
Fifteen moons their silver lustre
Only o'er thy brow had shed,
When thy spirit join'd the seraphs,
And thy dust the dead.

Like a sunbeam, through our dwelling
Shone thy presence bright and calm!
Thou didst add a zest of pleasure;

To our sorrows thou wert balm;Brighter beam'd thine eyes than summer, And thy first attempt at speech Thrill'd our heart-strings with a rapture Music ne'er could reach.

As we gazed upon thee sleeping,

With thy fine fair locks outspread, Thou didst seem a little angel,

Who from heaven to earth had stray'd; And, entranced, we watch'd the vision, Half in hope and half affright, Lest what we deem'd ours, and earthly, Should dissolve in light.

Snows o'ermantled hill and valley,

Sullen clouds begrim'd the sky,
When the first, drear doubt oppress'd us,
That our child was doom'd to die!
Through each long night-watch, the taper
Show'd the hectic of thy cheek;
And each anxious dawn beheld thee

More worn out, and weak.
"Twas even then Destruction's angel
Shook his pinions o'er our path,
Seized the rosiest of our household,
And struck Charlie down in death-
Fearful, awful, Desolation

On our lintel set his sign;
And we turn'd from his sad death-bed
Willie, round to thine!

As the beams of Spring's first morning
Through the silent chamber play'd,
Lifeless, in mine arms I raised thee,

And in thy small coffin laid;
Ere the day-star with the darkness

Nine times had triumphant striven, In one grave had met your ashes, And your souls in Heaven!

rive were ye, the beauteous blossoms

Of our hopes, and hearts, and hearth, Two asleep lie buried under

Three for us yet gladden earth.
Thee, our hyacinth, gay Charlie,
Willie, thee our snow-drop pure,
Back to us shall second spring-time
Never more allure!

Yet while thinking, oh! our lost ones!
Of how dear ye were to us,

Why should dreams of doubt and darkness
Haunt our troubled spirits thus?
Why, across the cold dim churchyard

Flit our visions of despair?

Seated on the tomb, Faith's angel

Says, "Ye are not there!"

Where then are ye? With 'he Saviour Blest, for ever blest, are yc,

Mid the sinless, little children,

Who have heard his "Come to me!"
'Yond the shades of death's dark valley,
Now ye lean upon his breast,
Where the wicked dare not enter,
And the weary rest!

We are wicked-we are weary—

For us pray, and for us plead;
God, who ever hears the sinless,

May through you the sinful heed;
Pray that, through Christ's mediation,
All our faults may be forgiven;
Plead that ye be sent to greet us
At the gates of Heaven!

MIDNIGHT.

"Tis night, and in darkness;-the visions of youth Flit solemn and slow in the eye of the mind; The hopes that excited have perish'd ;-and truth Laments o'er the wreck they are leaving behind. "Tis midnight;-and wide o'er the regions of riot

Are spread, deep in silence, the wings of repose. And man, sooth'd from revel and lull'd into quiet,

Forgets in his slumber the weight of his woes. How gloomy and dim is the scowl of the heaven, Whose azure the clouds with their darkness invest: Not a star o'er the shadowy concave is given,

To omen a something like hope in the breast. Hark! how the lone night-wind up-tosses the forest; A downcast regret through the mind slowly steals; But ah! 'tis the tempests of Fortune, that sorest The desolate heart in its loneliness feels. Where, where are the spirits in whom was my trust;

Whose bosoms with mutual affection would burn? Alas! they are gone to their homes in the dust; The grass rustles drearily over their urn: Whilst I, in a populous solitude languish,

Mid foes who beset me, and friends who are cold: Yes, the pilgrim of earth oft has felt in his an. guish

That the heart may be widow'd before it be old! Affection can soothe but its vot'ries an hour,-Doom'd soon in the flames that it raised to de

part;

But oh! Disappointment has poison and power To ruffle and fret the most patient of heart! How oft 'neath the dark-pointed arrows of malice Hath merit been destined to bear and to bleed ; And they who of pleasure have emptied the chalice, Can tell that the dregs are full bitter indeed! Let the storms of adversity lower,-'tis in vain, Though friends should forsake me and foes should condemn :

These may kindle the breasts of the weak to com

plain,

They only can teach resignation to mine: Fc: far o'er the regions of doubt and of dreaming, The spirit beholds a less perishing span;

And bright through the tempest the rainbow is streaming,

The sign of forgiveness from MAKER to Man!

WEEP NOT FOR HER.

WEEP not for her! Her span was like the sky, Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright, Like flowers that know not what it is to die,

Like long link'd shadeless months of polar light,
Like music floating o'er a waveless lake,
While echo answers from the flowery brake,
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! She died in early youth,
Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues,
When human bosoms seem'd the homes of truth,
And earth still gleam'd with beauty's radiant
dews.

Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze,
Her wine of life was not run to the lees:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! By fleet or slow decay
It never grieved her bosom's core to mark
The playmates of her childhood wane away,

Her prospects wither, and her hopes grow dark.
Translated by her God with spirit shriven,
She pass'd, as 'twere on smiles, from earth to
heaven:

Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! It was not hers to feel

The miseries that corrode amassing years,
'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel,
To wander sad down age's vale of tears,
As whirl the wither'd leaves from friendship's tree,
And on earth's wintry wold alone to be:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! She is an angel now,
And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise,
All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow,
Sin, sorrow, suffering, banish'd from her eyes;
Victorious over death, to her appears
The vista'd joys of heaven's eternal years:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! Her memory is the shrine
Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers,
Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline,

Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers,
Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light,
Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! There is no cause of wo,
But rather nerve the spirit that it walk
Unshrinking o'er the thorny path below,

And from earth's low defilements keep thee back; So, when a few fleet swerving years have flown, She'll meet thee at heaven's gate-and lead thee on: Weep not for her!

FLODDEN FIELD.

"TWAS on a sultry summer noon,

The sky was blue, the breeze was still, And Nature with the robes of June

Had clothed the slopes of Flodden Hill,-As rode we slowly o'er the plain, Mid wayside flowers and sprouting grain; The leaves on every bough seem'd sleeping, And wild bees murmur'd in their mirth, So pleasantly, it seem'd as earth A jubilee was keeping!

And canst thou be, unto my soul

I said, that dread Nortnumbrian field, Where war's terrific thunder roll

Above two banded kingdoms peal'd? From out the forest of his spears Ardent imagination hears The crash of Surrey's onward charging; While curtel-axe and broad-sword gleam Opposed, a bright, wide, coming stream, Like Solway's tide enlarging.

Hark to the turmoil and the shout,

The war-cry, and the cannon's boom! Behold the struggle and the rout,

The broken lance and draggled plume' Borne to the earth, with deadly force, Comes down the horseman and his horse: Round boils the battle like an ocean,

While stripling blithe and veteran stern
Pour forth their life-blood on the fern,
Amid its fierce commotion !

Mown down like swathes of summer flowers,
Yes! on the cold earth there they lie,
The lords of Scotland's banner'd towers,
The chosen of her chivalry!
Commingled with the vulgar dead,
Perhaps lies many a mitred head;
And thou, the vanguard onwards leading
Who left the sceptre for the sword,
For battle-field the festal board,

Liest low amid the bleeding!

Yes! here thy life-star knew decline,

Though hope, that strove to be deceived, Shaped thy lone course to Palestine,

And what it wish'd full oft believed:An unhewn pillar on the plain Marks out the spot where thou wast slain; There pondering as I stood, and gazing On its gray top, the linnet sang. And, o'er the slopes where conflict rang, The quiet sheep were grazing.

And were the nameless dead unsung,

The patriot and the peasant train, Who like a phalanx round thee clung,

To find but death on Flodden Plain? No! many a mother's melting lay Mourn'd o'er the bright flowers wede away: And many a maid, with tears of sorrow,

Whose locks no more were seen to wava, Wept for the beauteous and the brave. Who came not in the morrow!