THE TROUBADOUR. GLOWING with love, on fire for fame, A Troubadour that hated sorrow, Beneath his Lady's window came, And thus he sung his last good-morrow: My arm it is my country's right, "My heart is in my true-love's bower; Gaily for love and fame to fight "Befits the gallant Troubadour." And while he march'd with helm on head And harp in hand, the descant rung, As faithful to his favourite maid, The minstrel-burthen still he sung. "For love to die, for fame to fight, "Becomes the valiant Troubadour.” Alas! upon the bloody field He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, But still, reclining on his shield, Expiring sung the exulting stave: "My life it is my country's right, 66 My heart is in my lady's bower; "For love and fame to fall in fight "Becomes the valiant Troubadour." FROM THE FRENCH. IT chanced that Cupid on a season, By Fancy urged, resolved to wed, But could not settle whether Reason What does he then ?-Upon my life, "Twas bad example for a deity He takes me Reason for his wife, And Folly for his hours of gaiety. Though thus he dealt in petty treason, He loved them both in equal measure; Fidelity was born of Reason, And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure. R SONG, FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND. O, DREAD was the time, and more dreadful the omen, When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in vain, And, beholding broad Europe bow'd down by her foemen, PITT closed in his anguish the map of her reign! Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave spirit To take for his country the safety of shame; O, then in her triumph remember his merit, And hallow the goblet that flows to his name. |