“Oh!’twas a deed of Murder’s deepest grain, Could Broderick’s soul so true to wrath remain? A friend long true, a once fond lover fell!— Where Love was fostered could not Pity dwell? “Unhappy youth! while yon pale crescent glows To watch on silent nature’s deep repose, Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb, Foretells my fate, and summons me to come! Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand, Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand! “Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame Forsake its languid melancholy frame! Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close, Welcome the dreamless night of long repose! Soon may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourne Where, lulled to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn!” [76] Warwick Castle. [77] Miss Broderick: she murdered her lover, Errington.—See Campbell’s “Life and Letters,” by Dr. Beattie. SONG. Oh, how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind; And if that one should be False, unkind, or found too late, What can we do but sigh at fate, And sing, Woe’s me—Woe’s me! Love’s a boundless burning waste, Where Bliss’s stream we seldom taste, And still more seldom flee Suspense’s thorns, Suspicion’s stings; Yet somehow Love a something brings That’s sweet—e’en when we sigh, “Woe’s me!” STANZAS ON THE THREATENED INVASION 1803. Our bosoms we’ll bare for the glorious strife, And our oath is recorded on high, To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life, Or crushed in its ruins to die! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land! ’Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust— God bless the green Isle of the brave! Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers’ dust, It would rouse the old dead from their grave! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land! In a Briton’s sweet home shall a spoiler abide, Profaning its loves and its charms? Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side? To arms! oh, my Country, to arms! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land! Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen!—No! His head to the sword shall be given— A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe, And his blood be an offering to Heaven! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land! EXILE OF ERIN.[78] There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad devotion, For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of “Erin go bragh!”[79]