But the storm was beginning to lower,

Adversity clouded his beam,

And honour and faith were the brag of an hour,

And loyalty's self but a dream :--

To him thou hadst banished thy vows were restored,— And the first that had scoffed, were the first that adored!

What tumult thus burthens the air?

What throng that encircles his throne?

'Tis the shout of delight, 'tis the millions that swear

His sceptre shall rule them alone!

Reverses shall brighten their zeal,

Misfortune shall hallow his name,

And the world that pursues him shall mournfully feel,
How quenchless the spirit and flame

That Frenchmen will breathe, when their hearts are on fire,
For the hero they love, and the chief they admire!

Their hero has rushed to the field;

His laurels are covered with shade

But where is the spirit that never should yield,
The loyalty never to fade?

In a moment, desertion and guile

Abandoned him up to the foe;

The dastards that flourished and grew at his smile,
Forsook and renounced him in woe;

And the millions that swore they would perish to save, Beheld him a fugitive, captive, and slave!

The

savage,

all wild in his glen,

Is nobler and better than thou;
Thou standest a wonder, a marvel to men,-

Such perfidy blackens thy brow!
If thou wert the place of my birth

At once from thy arms would I sever;
I'd fly to the uttermost ends of the earth,
And quit thee for ever and ever;—
And thinking of thee, in my long after-years,
Should but kindle my blushes and waken my tears.

Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul!

Oh, shame to thy children and thee!
Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall,
How wretched thy portion shall be !
Derision shall strike thee forlorn,

A mockery that never shall die;
The curses of hate and the hisses of scorn
Shall burthen the winds of thy sky;

And, proud o'er thy ruin, for ever be hurled
The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world!

Byron.

UNCERTAINTY OF LIFE.

Man like a flower at morn appears,
And blooms perhaps a few short years ;
The flatterer, Hope, still leads him on,
In quest of pleasure, finding none;
Or, if he finds it for a day,
It soon takes wings and flies away.

Oft things which promise passing fair,
Deceive and yield him nought but care,
Care, ever varying, ever new,
Must still our fallen race pursue;
Comes joy? care with it comes along,
And spoils the syren's sweetest song.

See pleasure with bewitching charms,
Man grasps it in his eager arms ;
The vision swift dissolves in air,
He

grasps-but finds it is not there; The airy phantom still he views, And still as vainly he pursues.

A better hope the Christian cheers,
Which joyful through life's gloom appears;

VOL. I.

M

Firm on a rock his hope he builds,
Which to no storm nor tempest yields;
Let earth dissolve-he will not fear
And why? his hope is not fixed here.

He looks to heaven, where every joy
Is pure, unmixed, without alloy;
Joys such as mortals never knew,
Nor raptured fancy ever drew,
Joys which shall never pass away,
Though heaven and earth should both decay.

Though worldly pleasures here should fail,
And sorrows for a while prevail;
Though friends forsake, and death remove
The dearest objects of our love;

Yet there remains a heavenly rest

For those whom Christ the Lord has blest.

And shall the world's deceitful smile,
Us of this glorious hope beguile?
Shall we earth's empty pleasures prize,
And heaven seem little in our eyes?
It must not be-vain dreams away,
We look for joys which ne'er decay.

END OF VOLUME FIRST.

Anon.

Ann Mocheis

1839

THE

POETICAL

MELANGE.

The enjoyment of poetry demands no laborious intellectual intensity. It is upon the hours of our pleasure she descends,-it is our recreation she exalts. Thus, she makes our relaxations become the most dignified moments of our existence.'

Rev. C. Wolfe.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

EDINBURGH:

PUBLISHED BY GEORGE A. DOUGLAS,
19. CASTLE STREET;

AND SOLD BY

CHARLES TILT, LONDON; AND W. CURRY JUN. AND COMPANY,
DUBLIN.

MDCCCXXVIII.

CHE