THE NATIONAL NORWEGIAN SONG.

FROM S. P. WOLFF.

By W. H. Leeds.

LAND of our fathers thou art fair,
To us thy sea-zoned coast is dear;
And dear thy rocks up-piled on high,
Which storms and years alike defy !—
Remains of a primeval land,
That midst the raging tempests stand
As mailed giants on whose brow
Wide gleams the helmet's silver glow.

When Thor first Norway's shores beheld,
His throne he stationed there, and dwelled
Amidst the spirits who delight

With cloud and storm to wage the fight.
As through the welkin rolled his car,
He heard them chaunt his praise afar;
With boding voice of awe they hailed
The power that o'er thy foes prevailed.

'Twas here that roamed the North's brave child,

Undaunted through the troublous wild;

Not death could e'er his soul appal,
But beckoned him to Odin's hall,
Like a fair maid with Freia's face,
Full rushing to his fond embrace,
Whilst in his life's last throb of pain
His lips would breathe the victor strain.

Dear to our hearts the legend lore
Of which is thine so rich a store:
When howls the storm the plain along,
It seems some ancient warrior's song;
When foams the dashing water fall,
We hear a voice to battle call-
The clang of arms-the glorious fray-
The Skald's bold, courage stirring lay.

Still in thy manly sons we trace

Old Norway's former hero-race;

The spirit flashes from their eye,
While toil they brave, and death defy;
And in thy maiden's eye of blue
Beneath young Siofna's virgin hue,
While Ydun's ever-youthful spring

Doth o'er their cheek its rose-tints fling.

Hail! thou our glorious father-land! With pride we view thy lofty strandIts summer vales and winter woods, Its crystal lakes, and torrent-floods. Unshaken by the storms that rage Around, it stands from age to age; And rears its giant crest sublime, Unchanging to the end of time !

An Address to the lost Wig of John Bell, Esquire.

By a Tyro.

BEFORE I yet assume the band,
Or dare to tread on lawyer-land,
(A rich champaign that's never bleak
Nor bare to those who boldly speak;
Where neither cold, nor rain, nor drought
Can ever turn the crops to nought :)—
Before I venture on a brief,-
Before I hang a single thief,-

Or plunge my goose-quill into ink,

Or purse my mouth and seem to think,

While clients stare, and rustics wonder,

Like young pigs when they shrink from thunder,— I'll call on thee, renowned wig!

(In self-importance justly big)

Beneath whose ample curls men sit,

Disfigured by thy weight of wit :—

(For thou still dost the lawyer fire,
As Phoebus' rays bards' brains inspire;
Making mere man thrice vast and learn'd,
Like water into vapour turned.)—

-Spirit of wisdom, cramped and curled !
Type of the thoughts that fill the world!
(Tortured to every quirk and shift
That lawyers into fortune lift :)

What garland, wrought of barren bays ?→→
What "order," rich with martial rays?—
What knightly cross, or riband red?
What key,-what collar ever shed
Such honours on man's honoured head?
Vittoria's splendours !—what are they
To Eldon's powder waxing grey ?

What black King Charles's black peruke?

What Villiers' locks, though twice a duke' ?
What Malborough's waggon-load of hair?

Or Lely's loves all frizz'd and fair?—

And thou-Great wig!-white-powdered-flowing

O'er eyebrows knit and foreheads knowing,

Upon what skull, on law intent,

Did'st perch, thou, King of wigs !-content,

When wisest BELL, (so keen and kind)
Left law but left no peer behind,—

Not one so sage, and yet so meek,
Of all the tribes that love to speak?
Before what jaded judge, (who sits,
And sighs, and nods, and yawns by fits,)
Dost thou now shake thy Gorgon terrors,
Doubling some damned defendant's errors?