Pledge to the memory of her parted worth!

And first amid the brave, remember Moore !

And be it deemed not wrong that name to give,

In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's sigh!

Who would not envy such as Moore to live?

And died he not as beroes wish to die?

Yes, though too soon attaining glory's goal,
To us his bright career too short was giv’n;
Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul

Rose on the flames of victory to Heav'n!

How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain

One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn
For him!—how oft on fair Corunna's plain
Shall British exiles weep upon his urn!

Peace to the mighty dead!—our bosom thanks
In sprightlier strains they living may inspire!
Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia's ranks,
Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire!
Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled,

Dear symbol wild! on freedom's hills it grows,
Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world,
And Roman eagles found unconquered foes.

Joy to the band this day on Egypt's coast
Whose valour tamed proud France's tricolor,
And wrenched the banner from her bravest host.
Baptized Invincible in Austria's gore!

Joy for the day on red Vimeria's strand,

When bayonet to bayonet opposed

First of Britannia's hosts her Highland band

Gave but the death shot once, and foremost closed!

*The 42d Regiment.

Is there a son of generous England here
Or fervid Erin ?-he with us shall join,
To pray that in eternal union dear,

The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!

Types of a race who shall the invader scorn,
As rocks resist the billows round their shore;
Types of a race who shall to time unborn
Their country leave unconquered as of yore!

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 embosom the bower,
Where the home of my forefathers stood.
All ruined and wild is their roofless abode,
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree;
And travelled by few is the grass covered 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 overshadowed the place,
Where the flower of my forefathers grew.

Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all

That remains in this desolate heart!
The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall;
But patience shall never depart !

Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal anu bright,
In the days of delusion by fancy combined,
With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight,
Abandon my soul like a dream of the night,
And leave but a desert behind.

Be hushed, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns
When the faint and the feeble deplore;
Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems
A thousand wild waves on the shore!

Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain,
May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate!

Yea! even the name I have worshipped in vain
Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again ;
To bear is to conquer our fate.

Composed and recited at a meeting of North Britons, in London, on Monday, the 8th of August, 1803.

OUR bosoms we'll bare to the glorious strife,

And our oath is recorded on high,

To prevail in the Cause that is dearer than life,
Or, crushed in its ruins to die.

Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right-hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land.

'Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust. God bless the green Isle of the brave!

Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust,
It would raise the old dead from their grave.
Then rise, &c.

In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide,
Profaning its loves and its charms?

Shall a Frenchman insult a loved fair at our side?
To arms-O my Country, to arms!—

Then rise, &c.

Shall tyrants enslave us, my countrymen ?—No→
Their heads to the sword shall be given;
Let a death bed repentance await the proud foe
And his blood be an offering to Heaven!
Then rise, &c.

CAROLINE.

PART I.

I'LL bid my hyacinth to blow,
I'll teach my grotto green to be;
And sing my true love, all below
The holly bower and myrtle tree.

There, all his wild-wood scents to bring,
The sweet South Wind shall wander by;
And with the music of his wing,

Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clustering bower,
Thou spirit of a milder clime!

Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower,
Of mountain heath and moory thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come,
Sweet comrade of the rosy day,
Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum,
Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay.

Where'er thy morning breath has played,
Whatever isles of ocean fanned,
Come to my blossom woven shade,
Thou wandering wind of fairy land!

For sure from some enchanted isle,
Where Heav'n and love their sabbath hold,
Where pure and happy spirits smile,
Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould:

From some green Eden of the deep,
Where pleasure's sigh alone is heaved,
Where tears of rapture lovers weep,
Endeared, undoubting, undeceived;

From some sweet paradise afar,

Thy music wanders, distant, lost; Where nature lights her leading star, And love is never, never crossed.

Oh! gentle gale of Eden bowers,

If back thy rosy feet should roam, To revel with the cloudless hours,

In nature's more propitious home

Name to thy loved Elysian groves,
That o'er enchanted spirits twine,
A fairer form than cherub loves,
And let the name be Caroline.