And see the Scottish exile tanned
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 time,
And ties that stretch beyond the deep.

Encamped by Indian rivers wild,
The soldier resting on his arins,
In BURNS'S carol sweet recalls

The scenes that blessed him when a child,
And glows and gladdens at the charmis
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 crossed 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 mourned-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 crushed 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

VALEDICTORY STANZAS TO J. P. KEMBLE, Esq.

Composed for a Public Meeting, held June 1817.

RIDE of the British stage,

PRID

A long and last adieu !

Whose image brought the heroic age
Revived to Fancy's view.

Like fields refreshed with dewy light
When the sun smiles his last,
Thy parting presence makes more bright
Our memory of the past;

And memory conjures feelings up

That wine or music need not swell,

As high we lift the festal cup

To Kemble-fare thee well!

His was the spell o'er hearts
Which only Acting lends-
The youngest of the sister Arts,
Where all their beauty blends :
For ill can Poetry express

Full many a tone of thought sublime,
And Painting, mute and motionless,
Steals but a glance of time.
But by the mighty actor brought,
Illusion's perfect triumphs come-
Verse ceases to be airy thought,
And Sculpture to be dumb.

Time may again revive,

But ne'er eclipse the charm,
When Cato spoke in him alive,
Or Hotspur kindled warm.

What soul was not resigned entire
To the deep sorrows of the Moor-
What English heart was not on fire
With him at Agincourt?

And yet a Majesty possessed

His transport's most impetuous tone,
And to each passion of his breast
The Graces gave their zone.

High were the task-too high,
Ye conscious bosoms here!
In words to paint your memory
Of Kemble and of Lear;
But who forgets that white discrowned head,
Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguished glare—
Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed,

In doubt more touching than despair,
If 'twas reality he felt?

Had Shakespeare's self amidst you been,
Friends, he had seen you melt,

And triumphed to have seen!

And there was many an hour
Of blended kindred fame,
When Siddons' auxiliar power
And sister magic came.
Together at the Muse's side

The tragic paragons had grown-
They were the children of her pride,

The columns of her throne,

And undivided favour ran

From heart to heart in their applause,

Save for the gallantry of man,

In lovelier woman's cause.

Fair as some classic dome,
Robust and richly graced,
Your Kemble's spirit was the home
Of genius and of taste-
Taste like the silent dial's power,
That when supernal light is given,
Can measure inspiration's hour
And tell its height in Heaven.
At once ennobled and correct,
His mind surveyed the tragic page,
And what the actor could effect,
The scholar could presage.

These were his traits of worth

And must we lose them now!

And shall the scene no more show forth His sternly pleasing brow!

Alas the moral brings a tear!

'Tis all a transient hour below;

And we that would detain thee here,
Ourselves as fleetly go !

Yet shall our latest age
This parting scene review-
Pride of the British stage,
A long and last adieu !