In battle brave, in this more valiant still,

Nor did they crave, 'twas of thine own free will.

'Tis great to give, the liberal hand is blessed,
But to forgive, is greatest, noblest, best.

The man in this, loses his human leaven,
The highest bliss, upon this side of heaven.

Back home again, the Exiles now return,
Right noble men, for France's fame who burn.

The ties bind fast, which now your hands have bound,
And they shall last, whole generations round.

Then round your throne, will gather loyal men,
Your power to own, and none rebel again.

And France shall reap, rich harvest from the peace,
In kine and sheep, in gold, in grain, and fleece.

And time shall heal, the wounds sedition made,
A common weal, all classes shall pervade.

And high and low, their ancient quarrel o'er,
Together flow, like river on the shore.

And God shall bless, the peace of class with class,
Where none oppress, where none their orbits pass.
September 2, 1859.

AS TO AN INVASION OF ENGLAND, BY

FRANCE.

England invade, what when?

Five times ten thousand men

Ready the foe to meet,

With welcome rough would greet.

Each with his bayonet set,

His foeman as he met,

Would plunge it in his breast,

Or do his very best.

Before their foes could land,

They'd meet them on the strand,

Dash down into the tide,

Their Captains at their side.

Treading the briny foam,

For honour and for home,
For daughters, wives, and sons,
Bravely they'd wield their guns.

No Englishman, I think,

Would from the battle shrink,

Who would, we'd brand his name,
With characters of shame.

Courage and common sense,
Are England's best defence,
And flesh, and bone, and nerve,
Instead of bulwarks serve.

The French we do not hate,
We rather loved of late,
But we could never brook,
A Frenchman's saucy look.

John Bull is rather slow,
To quarrel with a foe,
But when he has begun,
'Tis rather serious fun.

When once his wrath is hot,
Then danger stops him not,
He'll do his fiery work,

On Frenchman, Russian, Turk.

September 5, 1859.

RYDAL.

Rydal's charms unrivalled are,
Travel wide or travel far,
'Tis a beauty of its own,
Girding like an emerald zone.

Narrow 'tis from shore to shore,
With fair islands studded o'er,
Fair as stars when winter reigns,
Nor a cloud the sky profanes.

In the air are many sounds,
Bleating sheep and baying hounds,
Scream of heron, song of lark,

Flapping sails upon the bark.

Hounds, sheep, oars, and singing bird,
In one chorus all are heard,
Each its tribute glad to lend,
In one harmony they blend.

Now upon the purple lake,
See a cloud its shadow make,

Sweeps it onward to the shore,
Soon pursued by many more.

See the hills which gird it round,
And the blue horizon bound,
To the very summits green
Lend their beauty to the scene.

See the yellow rustic church,
Peeping through the elm and birch,
Standing in a sheltered nook,
Just below yon silver brook.

And association too,

Lends its charms unto the view,

With his name, his fame allied,

Wordsworth, England's boast and pride.

September 8, 1859.

Tenants for life on earth,

At death heaven ours in fee,

Through Christ our Master's worth,
Who died upon the tree.