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"Yes; and here is a song which is both spirited and highly poetical."


Strike the harp! strike the harp! O ye masters of song!
Call forth your high strains that to glory belong.
The valiant depart, go ye minstrels before,
And lead with proud steps to the fight as of yore.
High flames the red signal on Cruachan's bound,
And answering swords gleam in thousands around.
The banner of Albin unfurls in its might,
And flaps like an eagle preparing for flight;
Full spread to the blast see it rushes afar,

And the sons of green Morven must follow to war.
Hide your tears! O ye maids, in your brightness o'ercast,
Nor rend your fair locks till the heroes be past!
Approach not, ye mothers, lamenting afar,

For the sons of green Morven are summoned to war!
ye shores of the ocean, for combats renown'd,
Where the bones of the mighty lie scatter'd around;
Where the Roman was chased from the hill to the plain,
And the haughty Norweyan lies stretched on the Dane:
Again shall ye tell where the valiant have died,
And the spoiler of nations stood check'd in his pride;
Once more shall your echoes redouble from far
The sound of pursuit, and the triumph of war.

"But," continued the nymph, "it is in the simple pathetic that the author most excels, and here is a little piece of that kind which I think affecting and pretty."

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OI am not of this countrie,

And much my heart is wrung,
To wander in a foreign land,
And beg in foreign tongue.

"Tis all to gain a little sum
To bear me o'er the sea;
And hither slowly I am come
To ask your charity.

My home is in the Valteline,
Far inland from the main ;
And every day I wish and pine
To see it once again.

I cannot mend this little store;
My wishing is in vain ;
And I shall ne'er behold it more,
Ah never, ne'er again !

If you have ever been abroad,
Bestow an alms on me!

And think you speed me on my road My native land to see.

My cot still rises to my view,
And will not let me stay;
But I am old, and alms are few,
And long is the delay!

And must I ever thus deplore
My labour spent in vain?
And shall I ne'er behold it more?
Ah never, ne'er again!

Your country is a pleasant land,
But, oh, it is not mine!

I have not here a kindred band
As in the Valteline.

When on my native hills I play'd,
I breathed not English air;


I did not love an English maid
When love was all my care.

But I must die on England's strand,
A prisoner of the main !

And ne'er behold my native land,
Ah, never, ne'er again!


"I am also well pleased with another short poem, which, without being very lofty in the style, is very animated in the conception, and full of lyrical energy."


O thou who didst thy vigils keep,
On lonely tower or heath-clad steep,
Watching the midnight beacon's blaze,
That, streaming to the warrior's gaze,
Told him the invading foe was near,
And bade him grasp the Scottish spear;
O, welcome to this heart again!
Welcome! with all thy radiant train,
Valour with Friendship by his side,
Domestic Love with pinions tied,
And Poesy, the wild and free,
Sweet child of Sympathy and thee!
Too long a stranger to thy shrine,
And heedless of thy songs divine,
I follow'd shadows, false though fair,
That beckoning through the misty air,
Drew me, unwilling and afraid,
To desert paths of deepest shade.
Yet not bereft of thee, sweet Power!
For still, from thine and Virtue's bower,
Thou follow'dst on the devious track,
Suppliant to win thy votary back;

And oft, when slumber seal'd mine eyes,
Thou bad'st a pictured vision rise,
My country's image, fair exprest,
A blooming maid in antique vest;
Such as to Burns his Coila stood,
When smiling in the portal rude,
She caught her poet's startled eye,
Half-closed in musing ecstasy.
Roused by her danger, lo! I burn;
Visions of childhood, ye return,
When wand'ring by the wonted stream,
Sacred to Fancy's wildest dream,
I conn'd your lays, ye bards of old,
Simple and rude, yet strong and bold.
What rushing tremors thrill'd my frame,
When he, the chief of glorious name,
Who thrice the Scottish standard rear'd,
While sceptred tyrants saw and fear'd,
Rose to my view in awful might,
Trampling the proud oppressor's flight;
Or, as with dust and wounds o'erspread,
When faithful ranks retreating bled,
Alone he check'd the foe's career,
And waved his wide-protecting spear!
O thou! in Danger's bosom nurst,
Wallace! of Scottish heroes first;
A warrior raised by Heaven's command:
Hail! guardian genius of the land;
For still thy martial spirit reigns,
Still hovers o'er these hills and plains,
Even in the rude unletter'd hynd,
Breathing the firm undaunted mind.
O, never shall thy glories die;
But still thy name, emblazon'd high
On Scotia's bright historic scroll,
Shall Kindle on the Patriot's soul.

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First on the lisping infant's tongue;
Still to the harp by minstrels sung;
And still, O destiny sublime!
Lightning, to the remotest time,
Shall rouse thy country's sleeping fire,
The watch-word of her vengeful ire,
When hostile feet shall dare to tread
The ashes of her mighty dead.
Such meed is thine, immortal maid!
To whom my contrite vows are paid.

“But here is a sweet and pleasing effusion. It becomes pathetic by the sorrow that we feel in remembering the author. All of his, we trust, shall not die."

FLOWERS born beneath a wintry sky,
When shall ye burst the envious shade?
Or, like the bard, fore-doom'd to die,
Unseen, unhonour'd, must ye fade?

Yet droop not hopeless round his urn,
Untimely though your blossoms fall,
Await with him the year's return,

For you nor he shall perish all.

Sprung through a crevice of the tomb,
A solitary stem may blow,
Gay orphan of the silent gloom,
And point the humble name below.

Some simple, unambitious strain,
Low breathed in beauty's pensive ear,
The soft complaint of tender pain,
Framed in the flowing of a tear;


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