"Help me, Mary!" cried Euphemia, turning to Miss Beaufort; "I know that nobody is a poet in this house but myself. They must be mine, and I will have them." "Surely, Mr. Lascelles," said Mary, compassionating the poor girl's anxiety, "you will not be so rude as to detain them from their right owner?" "Oh! but I will," cried he, mounting on a table to get out of Euphemia's reach, who, half crying, tried to snatch at the paper. "Let me alone, Miss Phemy. I will read them; so here goes it." Miss Dundas laughed at her sister's confused looks, whilst Lascelles prepared to read in a loud voice the following verses. They had been hastily written in pencil by Thaddeus a long time ago; and having put them, by mistake, with some other papers into his pocket, he had dropped them next day, in taking out his handkerchief at Lady Dundas's. Lascelles cleared his throat with three hems, then raising his right hand with a flourishing action, in a very pompous tone began-- "Like one whom Etna's torrent fires have sent Far from the land where his first youth was spent; Who, inly drooping on a foreign shore, Broods over scenes which charm his eyes no more: And while his country's ruin wakes the groan, Yearns for the buried hut he called his own. So driv'n, O Poland! from thy ravaged plains, So mourning o'er thy sad and but loved remains, A houseless wretch, I wander through the world, From friends, from greatness, and from glory hurl'd! "Oh! not that each long night my weary eyes Sink into sleep, unlull'd by Pity's sighs; Not that in bitter tears my bread is steep'd-- Tears drawn by insults on my sorrows heap'd; Not that my thoughts recall a mother's grave-- Recall the sire I would have died to save, Who fell before me, bleeding on the field, Whilst I in vain opposed the useless shield. Ah! not for these I grieve! Though mental woe, More deadly still, scarce Fancy's self could know! O'er want and private griefs the soul can climb,-- Virtue subdues the one, the other Time: But at his country's fall, the patriot feels A grief no time, no drug, no reason heals. "Mem'ry! remorseless murderer, whose voice Kills as it sounds; who never says, Rejoice! To my deserted heart, by joy forgot; Thou pale, thou midnight spectre, haunt me not! Thou dost but point to where sublimely stands A glorious temple, reared by Virtue's hands, Circled with palms and laurels, crown'd with light, Darting Truth's piercing sun on mortal sight: Then rushing on, leagued fiends of hellish birth Level the mighty fabric with the earth! Slept the red bolt of Vengeance in that hour When virtuous Freedom fell the slave of Power! Slumber'd the God of Justice! that no brand Blasted with blazing wing the impious band! Dread God of Justice! to thy will I kneel, Though still my filial heart must bleed and feel; Though still the proud convulsive throb will rise, When fools my country's wrongs and woes despise;