Fair Liberty say! shall the land of Achilles
  Reluctantly cherish a dastardly slave,
  Who can crouch at the foot of a despot, whose will is
  As fickle as wind, and as rude as the wave? 
  Shall the ashes of heroes enshrouded in glory,
  Be spurn’d in contempt by a barbarous horde,
  While their sons idly tremble like boys at a story,
  And shudder to gaze on the point of a sword?

  Shall Greece, still as lovely as maiden in sorrow,
  By Freedom’s bright ray ne’er be beam’d on again? 
  Shall the sun of Engia ne’er rise on the morrow
  That lightens her thraldom or loosens her chain? 
  Oh say, shall the proud eye of scorn fall unheeded,
  The hand, taunting, point to “the land of the brave,”
  And say that Achaia’s fair daughters e’er needed
  An arm to protect them—­a hero to save.

  Rise! courage alone your base station can alter,
  Let Beauty, let Liberty, spirit you on,
  And while fetters and stripes are their portion who falter,
  Remember that Freedom’s the stake to be won.

J.O.B.

    [7] For an Engraving of the Maze, see mirror, vol. vi. page 105.

* * * * *

ESCAPE OF CHARLES II.

(For The Mirror.)

In No. 376, of the mirror, is a communication from W.W. respecting the pension granted by Charles II. to the Pendrils, for aiding him in his escape, after the fatal battle of Worcester.  There was another family who enjoyed a pension from the same monarch, named Tattersall, one of whom conveyed Charles from Brighton in his open fishing-boat.  A descendant is now living at that place, but the family, through ignorance and neglect, have ceased to enjoy the grant.

The house in which the king rested at Brighton, is now an inn, in West Street, called the King’s Head, and is kept by a Mr. Eales.

H. Berger.

* * * * *

LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY’S ALBUM.

(For The Mirror.)

  The star is set that lighted me
  Thro’ Fancy’s wide domain,
  And the fairy paths of poesy,
  I now may seek in vain.

  ’Tis but when Sorrow’s clouds appear,
  In frowning darkness o’er me,
  The light of Song bursts forth to cheer
  The gloomy path before me.

  As o’er the dusky waves at night,
  Oft Mariners behold
  That ocean-form, St. Ermo’s light,
  When tempests are foretold.

  Two reasons in my mind arise. 
  Why Song is now denied me;—­
  No light can venture near thine eyes,
  Nor Grief—­when thou’rt beside me!

E.

* * * * *

MINSTREL BALLAD.

Written on A flyleaf of A volume of one of the “Waverley novels.”