I would not risk thy peace, or mar thy fate,
To reach e'en Switzerland—infuriate.

LXXXIV.

As yet no fury blurs Colonia-No!

Her days of anarchy, thank Heaven, are gone !
And, when her river's ice, and paths are snow,

And it were cheerless to be left alone;

A prudent pause.

We'll prize the haven we have wisely won ;
We'll join those joyous bands which know no fear,

Till spring returns ;—then up the Rhine we'll run,
When fled the pinching cold, the winter's sear,
And soft Favonius reinspires the year.

LXXXV.

But ere the Rambler close his lengthen'd lay,

He'd offer up an anxious ardent prayer,
Aspiration for That Britons, ever open as the day,

May spurn those hateful hellhounds ?, who would dare,
By deeds of darkness, to deform what's fair

England,

And beautiful !-So, ere the knell can toll,

For myriads slain, or goaded to despair, Oh! let us sue for Freedom to the Pole!

A universal prayer.

One kindling spark from Kosciusko's soul !

a

1 Nothing is farther from the author's intention than to appear the abettor of revolt; for he does not allow that the struggle now making by the Poles can in justice be considered as coming under that head. The feelings of good will towards a brave people, is, we believe, almost universal throughout Europe ; and the desire to see them unshackled from foreign yoke is as generous as it is sincere. Let us then hope that the nation, who had, during one thousand years, been ranked amongst the independent kingdoms of the world, and who can boast of a Sigismond I., who was styled “ The Conqueror of the Russians, Wallachians, and Prussians," and“ Father of his Country ;” of a John Sobieski, a second Vespasian, at once brave, liberal, and just, and of many other distinguished men ;-let us hope, I repeat, that, with such proud recollections to elevate and sustain, Poland may prove herself worthy of her great fame. The eyes of all Europe are on her commander-in-chief Radziwill: But are they not also on Nicholas ? whose humanity is proverbial amongst his countrymen, and whose magnanimity will be yet more exalted, should he throw a veil over what is past (finding an excuse for the disaffected in that love of freedom, which every noble soul must appreciate), and look forward to more happi- , ness to himself, and advantage to his empire, from the gratitude and friendship of a generous race, in whose wishes he had acquiesced, than he ever could have derived, in the short-lived tranquillity occasioned by his being able for a season to stem that mighty torrent, which at no distant period must have again burst forth; for I am not aware that there is a single instance on record of disappointed hope, in a powerful people determined to be free. Had certain nations we shall not now name reasoned thus a few years ago : “ Le mond n'eut pas vu le scandale du partage de la Pologne par des gouvernements constitutionnels.”—Des Destinées Futures de l'Eu

a

LXXXVI.

A lady sues for tales of

woe.

Stay, stay, Fitz-Raymond, I must yet entreat,

E’re frost can cripple what now freely flows,
That, in thy choicest tones thou wouldst repeat,

Those touching Rhenish Tales-of wails or woes;

How agony's fell throb oft overthrows
The most angelic minds. Poor Madelane's mien

Has woke in me a sympathy which grows
All paramount : to pause o'er each sad scene,
Where miscreant man has wrung—where misery's been.

TALES OF SORROW.

THE BROKEN HEART.

a

You ask me again why those dark weeds of woe ?
Why constant my tears, how my

hair white as snow ?
Untimely recluse—from a life's busy care,
How my days are consum'd in an endless despair ?
Go! tell these vain mortals, who lightly repine,
That they ne'er knew a sorrow, an anguish like mine :
Go! say that this bosom ne'er heaves but to sigh,

a

No, nor harbours one hope, save the hope soon to die;
For I lov'd, and I lost the dear lord of my heart,
A pang the most poignant that grief can impart:
For the pledge of our love, too, was torn from my arms,
And the

poor

widow'd wretch left a prey to alarms.
I once too was beauteous, was jocund, was young;
Brave Rheinhard enraptur'd whilst Hildegarde sung :
My harp too harmonious, how sweet then to me,
As oft my lov'd babe would cling close to my knee.
With each long warbled note, as I gaz’d on my boy,
Did I breathe a soft prayer-- 'twas the offspring of joy ;
But
my vows and

my prayers were cast all to the wind,
Tho' fervent, tho' grateful, tho' pure from the mind.
For sure had they reach'd the great record on high,
Th’ Almighty had spar'd me this heart-rending sigh.
Th’ Almighty in mercy, benignant and mild,
Had sav'd a fond mother, her comfort her child ;
Nor left her thus loudly, thus lonely to weep,
By the smooth winding shore, the rude surge-beaten steep,
Or oft by the brink, where the rivulet runs slow,
To count drop by drop the round tears as they flow :

a

Sometimes too bereft of her reason to roam,

Sad pilgrim! afar from her friends and her home :
At the dead hour of night, to wade cold through the storm,
And waste in wild sorrow so fragile a form!

POOR ADELAIDE.

For others' ills she said there was a balm,

Some sweet oblivious essence, which the hand
Of Time could lay upon the anguish'd breast ;
But none e'er sorrow'd like

poor Adelaide!
In early childhood, just as the
Had caught the glow which springs from sympathy ;
When she 'gan listen with a dear delight
To the heroic deeds her sire had done :

young soul

:

When she would weep to think how he had bled,
And lain the long chill night amongst the dead :
When she would prattle on his trembling knee;
The while her soft blue eyes and gentle voice,

Gave to the kind old man foretaste of heaven !

That parent died, -yet still to her remaind
A mother, fitted for so fair a charge ;
A sister lovely, good, and woman grown;
A brother, whose high forehead bore the stamp
Of every manly virtue --frank and generous !

,
And
years

roll'd on, and all the world look'd gay To Adelaide! for Adelaide but saw

The world as it did seem to be, but was not ;