LINES WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON, WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT. PLEDGE to the much-loved land that gave us birth! Pledge to the memory of her parted worth! And be it deemed not wrong that name to give, Yes, though too soon attaining glory's goal, Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven! How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn For him!-How oft on far Corunna's plain Shall British exiles weep upon his urn! Peace to the mighty dead ;-our bosom thanks 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, Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand, First of Britannia's host her Highland band Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed! 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 th' invader scorn, * The 42nd Regiment. · STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN ANGOULEME. BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain, For Freedom, and ye have not died in vain ; Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain, And looking on your graves, though trophied not, What though your cause be baffled-freemen cast The patriot's blood 's the seed of Freedom's tree ; Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell, Go to your bloody rites again-bring back No eye may search-no tongue may challenge or reveal! Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime Too proudly, ye oppressors !-Spain was free, From Persecution-show her mask off-torn, Glory to them that die in this great cause; X SONG OF THE GREEKS. AGAIN to the battle, Achaians! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free: The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us. Ah! what though no succour advances, Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances Are stretched in our aid-be the combat our own! Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. |