She settles on her dying young,
And welcomes social death!

"My glorious bird," exclaims the maid,
Who her brave fav'rite survey'd,
While she expir'd above:
"I will not at thy lot repine,
But rather pray it may be mine,
To die with those I love!"





THE PANTHER.


BALLAD THE SIXTH.


Maternal love! thou wond'rous power,
By no base fears controul'd,
Tis truly thine, in danger's hour,
To make the tender bold!

And yet, more marvellous! thy sway,
Amid the pathless wild,
Can humanize the beast of prey!
And make the savage mild!