164

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

And see the Scottish exile tann'd

By many a far and foreign clime,
Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep
In memory of his native land,

With love that scorns the lapse of tine.
And ties that stretch beyond the deep.

Encamp'd by Indian rivers wild,
The soldier resting on his arms,
In BURNS's carol sweet recalls

The scenes that blessed him when a cnud,
And glows and gladdens at the charms
Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls.

O deem not, midst this worldly strife,
An idle art the Poet brings:
Let high philosophy control
And sages calm the stream of life,
'Tis he refines its fountain-springs,
The nobler passions of the soul.

It is the muse that consecrates
The native banner of the brave,
Unfurling at the trumpet's breath,
Rose, thistle, harp; 'tis she elates
To sweep the field or ride the wave,
A sunburst in the storm of death.

And thou, young hero, when thy pall
Is cross'd with mournful sword and plume,
When public grief begins to fade,

And only tears of kindred fall,

Who but the bard shall dress thy tomb,
And greet with fame thy gallant shade?

Such was the soldier-BURNS, forgive
That sorrows of mine own intrude
In strains to thy great memory due.
In verse like thine, oh! could he live,
The friend I mourn'd-the brave, the good-
Edward that died at Waterloo !"

Farewell, high chief of Scottish song!
That couldst alternately impart
Wisdom and rapture in thy page,

And brand each vice with satire strong,
Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,
Whose truths electrify the sage.

Farewell! and ne'er may envy dare
To wring one baleful poison drop
From the crush'd laurels of thy bust:
But while the lark sings sweet in air,
Still may the grateful pilgrim stop,
To bless the spot that holds thy dust.

• Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track: "Twas Autumn,—and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers

sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to

part;

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us,-rest, thou art weary and worn; And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

LINES

WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.

AT the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,
I have mused in a sorrowful mood,

On the wind-shaken weeds that imbosom the bower,
Where the home of my forefathers stood.

All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode,

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree : And travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode To his hills that encircle the sea.

Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green,

One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,
To mark where a garden had been.
Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,

All wild in the silence of nature, it drew,
From each wandering sunbeam, a lonely embrace,
For the night-weed and thorn overshadow'd the place,
Where the flower of my forefathers grew.