THE POETRY OF FLC WERE. 
But woodbines flaunt when blue bells lade, 
Where Don reflects the skies; 
And many a youth in Shirecliffs' shade 
Will ramble where my boyhood play’d; 
Though Alfred dies. 
Then panting woods the breeze will feel 
And bowers, as heretofore, 
Beneath their load of roses reel: 
But I through woodbine lanes shall steal 
No more, no more. 
Well, lay me by my brother’s side, 
Where late we stood and wept; 
For I was stricken when he disdr”” 
1 felt the arrow as he sigh’d 
His last, and 
