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Dauntlessly aside she flings
Lifted axe and thirsty knife;
Fondly to his heart she clings,
And her bosom guards his life!
In the woods of Powhattan,

Still 'tis told by Indian fires,
How a daughter of their sires
Saved the captive Englishman.

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Returning from the cruel fight

How pale and faint appears my knight!

He sees me anxious at his side;

Why seek, my love, your wounds to hide?

Or deem your English girl afraid

To emulate the Indian maid?"

Be mine my husband's grief to cheer,

In peril to be ever near ;
Whate'er of ill or woe betide,
To bear it clinging at his side ;
The poisoned stroke of fate to ward,
His bosom with my own to guard :
Ah! could it spare a pang to his,
It could not know a purer bliss!
'Twould gladden as it felt the smart,
And thank the hand that flung the dart!





WINTER and summer, night and morn,

I languish at this table dark;
My office window has a corn-

er looks into St. James's Park.
I hear the foot-guards' bugle-horn,
Their tramp upon parade I mark;
I am a gentleman forlorn,

I am a Foreign-Office Clerk.

My toils, my pleasures, every one,

I find are stale, and dull, and slow;
And yesterday, when work was done,
I felt myself so sad and low,
I could have seized a sentry's gun

My wearied brains out out to blow.

What is it makes my blood to run?

What makes my heart to beat and glow?

My notes of hand are burnt, perhaps?

Some one has paid my tailor's bill?

No: : every morn the tailor raps;

My IO U's are extant still.

I still am prey of debt and dun;
My elder brother's stout and well.
What is it makes my blood to run?

What makes my heart to glow and swell?

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At half-past four I had the cab;
I drove as hard as I could go.
The London sky was dirty drab,

And dirty brown the London snow.
And as I rattled in a cant-

er down by dear old Bolton Row,

A something made my heart to pant,

And caused my cheek to flush and glow.

What could it be that made me find
Old Jawkins pleasant at the Club?
Why was it that I laughed and grinned.
At whist, although I lost the rub?

What was it made me drink like mad
Thirteen small glasses of Curaço?
That made my inmost heart so glad,
And every fibre thrill and glow?

She's home again! she's home, she's home! Away all cares and griefs and pain; I knew she would-she's back from Rome; She's home again! she's home again! "The family's gone abroad," they said, September last-they told me so; Since then my lonely heart is dead, My blood I think's forgot to flow.

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I WAS a timid little antelope;

My home was in the rocks, the lonely rocks.

I saw the hunters scouring on the plain ;
I lived among the rocks, the lonely rocks.

I was a-thirsty in the summer-heat;

I ventured to the tents beneath the rocks.

Zuleikah brought me water from the well;
Since then I have been faithless to the rocks.

I saw her face reflected in the well;

Her camels since have marched into the rocks.

I look to see her image in the well;
I only see my eyes, my own sad eyes.
My mother is alone among the rocks.

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