We've little to call our own,

Not even our hearts or hands; Which had better be pulseless stone, Than be crushed by Slavery's bands!

The love 'neath the pine-tree's shade,
No matter how fond it be,

In silence had better have laid,
Than be shattered so ruthlessly.

All under the pine-tree's shade,
In anguish I bend the knee,

And

pray that my sorrowful maid,

In Heaven may come back to me!

To England, These:

STILL One great clime, in full and free defiance,
Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime,
Above the far Atlantic. She has taught

Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag,

The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag,

May strike to those whose red right hands have bought Rights cheaply earned with blood.

-BYRON.

A HOMELY EPISTLE FROM BROTHER JONATHAN TO JOHN BULL.

Оí, Johnny Bull! my cotton friend, what is the matter now

The thickening war-clouds gathering upon your burly brow?

Oh, are you like your Irish boys, whene'er they see a fight,

Just tumble in, because they want to keep the shindy right?

Or have you got some ancient grudge, and wish to have it out,

And through your double face have helped to bring this war about?

Or is your aristocracy afraid the rights of man

Will put your titled privilege beneath their iron ban?

And, therefore, when you thought that we had quite enough to do,

You'd just step in, and show us how you'd put us Yankees through!

And laugh to see your rival clipped upon the land and main

Your tyrant flag be dominant o'er all the sea again!

But, Johnny, did it e'er occur, my sometime friend,

to you,

Your French ally might chance to know a cunning trick or two?

That he, to get you in a fix, might very friendly

seem,

That he all latitude might have for his ambitious scheme?

Besides, I think that Waterloo will be avenged

some day,

And English blood, and honor, too, a terrible reck

oning pay!