Ladies who owed their freedom to his might
Were grieved to find his heart another's right:

The brood of giants, famous in those times, Fell by his arm, and perish'd for their crimes. Colbrand the strong, who by the Dane was brought, When he the crown of good Athelstan sought, Fell by the prowess of our champion brave, And his huge body found an English grave.

But what to Guy were men, or great or small,
Or one or many ? he despatch'd them all;
A huge dun Cow, the dread of all around,

A master-spirit in our hero found:

'Twas desolation all about her den—

Her sport was murder, and her meals were men.
At Dunmore Heath the monster he assail'd,

And o'er the fiercest of his foes prevail'd.

Nor fear'd he lions more than lions fear

Poor trembling shepherds, or the sheep they shear:
A fiery dragon, whether green or red

The story tells not, by his valour bled;
What more I know not, but by these 't is plain
That Guy of Warwick never fought in vain.

When much of life in martial deeds was spent,
His sovereign lady found her heart relent,
And gave her hand. Then, all was joy around,
And valiant Guy with love and glory crown'd;
Then Warwick Castle wide its gate display'd,
And peace and pleasure this their dwelling made.

Alas! not long a hero knows not rest; A new sensation fill'd his anxious breast. His fancy brought before his eyes a train Of pensive shades, the ghosts of mortals slain; His dreams presented what his sword had done; He saw the blood from wounded soldiers run, And dying men, with every ghastly wound, Breathed forth their souls upon the sanguine ground.

Alarm'd at this, he dared no longer stay,
But left his bride, and as a pilgrim gray,
With staff and beads, went forth to weep and fast
and pray.

In vain his Felice sigh'd-nay, smiled in vain ;
With all he loved he dare not not long remain,
But roved he knew not where, nor said, "I come
again."

The widow'd countess pass'd her years in grief, But sought in alms and holy deeds relief; And many a pilgrim ask'd, with many a sigh, To give her tidings of the wandering Guy.

Perverse and cruel! could it conscience ease,
A wife so lovely and so fond to tease?
Or could he not with her a saint become,
And, like a quiet man, repent at home?

How different those who now this seat possess ! No idle dreams disturb their happiness:

The Lord who now presides o'er Warwick's towers, To nobler purpose dedicates his powers:

No deeds of horror fill his soul with fear,

Nor conscience drives him from a home so dear: The lovely Felice of the present day

Dreads not her lord should from her presence stray;

He feels the charm that binds him to a seat
Where love and honour, joy and duty, meet.

But forty days could Guy his fair afford; Not forty years would weary Warwick's lord : He better knows how charms like hers control All vagrant thoughts, and fill with her the soul; He better knows that not on mortal strife, Or deeds of blood, depend the bliss of life; But on the ties that first the heart enchain, And every grace that bids the charm remain : Time will, we know, to beauty work despite, And youthful bloom will take with him its flight; But Love shall still subsist, and, undecay'd, Feel not one change of all that Time has made.

ON A DRAWING OF THE ELM TREE,

UNDER WHICH THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON stood sevERAL TIMES DURING THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

Is there one heart that beats on English ground,
One grateful spirit in the kingdoms round:
One who had traced the progress of the foe,

And does not hail the field of Waterloo ?

Who o'er that field, if but in thought, has gone,
Without a grateful wish for Wellington ?

Fell not

Within that field of glory rose a Tree (Which a fair hand has given us here to see), A noble tree, that, pierced by many a ball, decreed in time of peace to fall: Nor shall it die unsung; for there shall be In many a noble verse the praise of thee, With that heroic chief-renown'd and glorious tree!

Men shall divide thee, and thy smallest part
Shall be to warm and stir the English heart;
Form'd into shapes as fancy may design,
In all, fair fame and honour shall be thine.
The noblest ladies in the land with joy
Shall own thy value in the slightest toy;
Preserved through life, it shall a treasure prove,
And left to friends, a legacy of love.

And thou, fair semblance of that tree sublime, Shalt a memorial be to distant time; Shalt wake a grateful sense in every heart, And noble thoughts to opening minds impart; Who shall hereafter learn what deeds were done, What nations freed by Heaven and Wellington.

Heroic tree we surely this may callWounded it fell, and numbers mourn'd its fall; It fell for many here, but there it stood for all.

ON RECEIVING FROM A LADY A PRESENT OF A RING.

A RING to me Cecilia sends ·

And what to show? - that we are friends;

That she with favour reads my lays,

And sends a token of her praise;

Such as the nun, with heart of snow,

Might on her confessor bestow;

Or which some favourite nymph would pay,

Upon her grandsire's natal day,

And to his trembling hand impart

The offering of a feeling heart.

And what shall I return the fair

And flattering nymph?-A verse?—a prayer?
For were a Ring my present too,

I see the smile that must ensue ;

The smile that pleases though it stings,

And says

"No more of giving rings:

Remember, thirty years are gone,

Old friend! since you presented one!"

Well! one there is, or one shall be,

To give a ring instead of me;
And with it sacred vows for life
To love the fair the angel-wife;
In that one act may every grace,
And every blessing have their place
And give to future hours the bliss,
The charm of life, derived from this;