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FELICIA HEMANS. 



The fame of Felicia shall fondly be sounded, 



The fairest of bards now sleeps cold in the grave : 



The hills round St. Asaph, where her lays have resounded, 

 Frown dark as the ocean though far from the wave. 



For Scotland no more shall her soul-touching finger, 

 Steal sweet o'er the strings and wild melody pour ; 



No more round her cottage the villagers linger, 



While strains from her harp warble soft round the shore. 



No more her lyre swells, with raptur'd emotion : 

 Her glad gleams of fancy for ever are fled : 



No longer her minstrelsy charms the rude ocean 

 That rolls near the fresh earth that pillows her head. 



Yet vigour and youth with bright visions had fired her, 

 And rose-buds of health have blown deep in her cheek : 



The songs of the old bards of Helen inspired her, 

 And urged her to wander like laurels to seek. 



Yes oft she has sung of brave England and glory; 



Or, sighing, repeated the lover's sweet lay : 

 And oft she has sung of the bards famed in story, 



Whose wild notes of rapture have long passed away. 



Her grave shall be screened from the blast and the billow ; 

 . Around it a fence shall posterity raise : 

 Erin's children shall wet with their tears her cold pillow : 

 Britain's daughters lament her and carol her praise. 



SEMPER FIDELIS, 

 New Inn Hall, 

 Oxford, A.DAS35. 



THE SPANISH MOTHER'S FAREWELL TO HER SON. 



" Manuel ! I do not shed a tear 



Our parting to delay : 

 I dare not listen to my fear, 



I dare not bid thee stay ! 





" The heart may shrink, the spirit fail, 

 But Spaniards must be free ! 



And ' pride' and duty shall prevail 

 O'er all, my son, for thee. 



