I knew not why in slumber
His heart should tremble so;
Or lock'd in love's embraces,
How doubt and fear could grow.

Till o'er the bounding billow
The angry chieftains came;
They seized my wretched lover,
They mock'd my anguish'd claim;
In iron bands then bound him,
I flew his fate to share;
They tore him from my clasping,
And threw me to despair.

Are white men unrelenting,
So far to cross the sea;
Their chieftain's wrongs revenging,
To tear my love from me?
Are Otaheitan bosoms

No refuge for the brave;
Can exile nor repentance

A wretched lover save?

No more the Heiva's dancing
My mournful steps will suit ;
As when to the torchlight glancing,
And beating to the flute.
No more my braided tresses

With smiling flowers shall bloom;
Nor blossom rich in beauty
Shall lend its sweet perfume.

All by the sounding ocean

I sit me down and mourn, In hopes his chiefs may pardon him, And speed my love's return.

Can he forget his Peggy,

That soothed his cares to rest? Can he forget the baby

That smiles upon her breast? I wish the fearful warning

Would bind my woes in sleep! And I were a little bird to chase

My lover o'er the deep! Or if my wounded spirit

In the death canoe would rove, I'd bribe the wind and pitying wave To speed me to my love!

P. M. JAMES.

WALCHEREN EXPEDITION;

OR,

AN ENGLISHMAN'S LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF HIS COUNTRYMEN.

YE brave enduring Englishmen,
Who dash through fire and flood,
And spend with equal thoughtlessness
Your money and your blood,

I sing of that black season

Which all true hearts deplore,
When ye lay,
Night and day,

Upon Walcheren's swampy shore.

"Twas in the summer's sunshine
Your gallant host set sail
With valour in each longing heart,
And vigour in the gale:

The Frenchman dropp'd his laughter,
The Fleming's thoughts grew sore,
As ye came
In your fame

To the dark and swampy shore.

But foul delays encompass'd ye,
More dangerous than the foe,
As Antwerp's town and its guarded fleet
Too well for Britons know;
One spot alone ye conquer'd,
With hosts unknown of yore,
And your might,
Day and night,

Lay still on the swampy shore.

In vain your dauntless mariners
Mourn'd every moment lost,
In vain your soldiers threw their eyes
In flame to the hostile coast;
The fire of gallant aspects
Was doom'd to be no more,
And your fame

Sunk with shame

On the dark and swampy shore.

Ye died not in the triumphing
Of the battle-shaken flood,
Ye died not on the charging field
In the mingle of brave blood;
But 'twas in wasting fevers,

For full three months and more,
Britons born,

Pierced with scorn,

Lay at rot on the swampy shore.

No ship came o'er to bring relief,

No orders came to save;

But Death stood there and never stirr'd,
Still counting for the grave.

They lay down, and they linger'd,
And died with feelings sore,
And the waves

Pierced their graves

Through the dark and swampy shore.

Oh England! Oh my countrymen !
Ye ne'er shall thrive again
Till freed from councils obstinate

Of mercenary men:
So toll for the six thousand
Whose miseries are o'er,
Where the deep,
To their sleep,

Bemoans on the swampy shore.

LEIGH HUNT.

THE OLDE AND NEW BARONNE*.

A BROTHER bard, I trow, who has mickle witte in his pate, [waste were great; Has sung of a worshipful squire, whose means and He lived in golden daies when Elizabeth ruled the state,

And kept a noble house at the olde bountiful rate. Like an olde courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier.

I I

See the Olde and Young Courtier.-Reliques Anc. Poet. Vol. ii.

VOL. III.

But, lest our sonnes should say 'past times were better than these,' [reader please, We'll look still further backe, if the courteous A hundred years or twain after William crossed the seas, [and little ease. When our fathers lived, I guesse, in great fear Like olde villaines of their lorde, And their lorde's old villaines.

The baronne, proud and fierce, then kept his castle wa', [see nothing at a' From whence, though high and steep, ye could But a danke and dismalle moore, and a wide bridge made to draw [faugh! Over a moate so green, and so stinking, ye criedLike an old baronne of the lande, And the lande's old baronne.

His chambers large and dimme, with gaudy painting dight,

But like no earthly thing e'er seen of mortal wight, With chimnies black with smoke, and windows of greate height,

That let in store of winde,but marvellous little light.
Like an old baronne of the lande,
And the lande's olde baronne.

There in a hall so wide, and colde as any stone,
He fed, in freezing state, idle fellows a hundred
and one,
[armour on,
With black and bushy beards and bloode red
Who, when he gives the worde, to rapine and
slaughter are gone.

Like an olde baronne of the lande,
And the lande's olde baronne.