"Tis I am Peter, and this is Paul, And that ane sae fair to see But a twelmonth sin* syne to Paradise came, O, I will hae the sna white boy, 'And gin I were there and in thy propine +, O, what wad ze do wi me?' 'Tis I wad cleed thee in silk and gowd ‡, Beneath the sod where now I stand, And thy cruel penknife is still in my heart, ANONYMOUS. BALLAD. 'SEE, Warder, yonder banner wave Along the frosty air; "Tis the white cross of Edric brave, Heaven grants him to my prayer! 'Down with the bridge!'-To meet her knight She flew in joyous mood; Nor mark'd the child, who follow'd light, 'My Adela! three tedious years I've sigh'd for this bless'd hour! Still blooms our boy?'-'Like rain my tears * Ago. ↑ Gift or management. Gold. § Such. 'Bar well the gate, for foes are nigh: And bring my child.'- "Tis late, The livelong night the Warder thought The livelong day the mother sought At length she found him by the wall, She found him-and she shared his pall- MISS MITFORD. THE OTAHEITAN MOURNER. [Peggy Stewart was the daughter of an Otaheitan chief, and married to one of the mutineers of the Bounty. On Stewart's being seized and carried away in the Pandora Frigate, Peggy fell into a rapid decay, and in two months died of a broken heart, leaving an infant daughter, who is still living.] FROM the isle of the distant ocean My white love came to me; I led the weary stranger Beneath the spreading tree. I strew'd his pillow there, Before I knew his language, Or he could talk in mine, O, then 'twas lovely watching And learn the white man's greeting, I taught my constant white love To summer groves I led him, Where the crested seabirds go, We heard the dash of the distant spray, And saw through the deeps the sunbeams play, In the coral bowers below. And when my lover, weary, To our woodland couch would creep, Would often envy me. Yet when my white love's forehead I knew not why the cold drops Should start and quiver there. I knew not why in slumber How doubt and fear could grow. Till o'er the bounding billow Are white men unrelenting, No refuge for the brave; No more the Heiva's dancing 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, 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 |