The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return.

Oh, how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind!

A stoic of the woods,--a man without a tear.

Men of England! who inheritRights that cost your sires their blood.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I, No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

The popularity of that baby-faced boy, who possessed not even the elements of a good actor, was a hallucination in the public mind, and a disgrace to our theatrical history.

What millions died that Caesar might be great!