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Cornwallis finks-with honours, years, oppressid
In the calm haven of eternal rest!
Cornwallis! sainted shade ! illustrious chief,
Enroll'd in fame, embalm'd in public grief,
If niortal feelings reach immortal fpheres,
If seraph smiles abforb not patriot's tears,
Hence Thail the muse waft sorrow's facred ligh,
Hence bear the pearly tribute of the eye!
For here, at gratitude's imperious call,
Britons convene, tu consecrate thy fall;
And, though affliction clouds each feeling heart,
Virtue and fame impulfive radiance dart;
As Truth records on Histry's brilliant page,
" Thus fell the firmeft Briton of his age,
In whose bright character at once conspire
The ftatesman's coolness and the hero's fire ;
Who, stedfast to his truft, conspicuous fuone,
The firm defender of his country's throne ;
Guiding his life by virtue's sacred plan,
His moral worth gav dignity to man;
Building on public justice, private fame,
His and Britannia's glory were the same."


[From the General Evening Poft.) WHO deferees the civic wreath?

Who to fill the laurellid chair? Feast from gold, sweet perfumes breathe,

And all that honour gives to fhare ? The Volunteer, the patriot brave, Who toils his country's rights to save! Who deserves the chase to join ?

Who to dwell in woods ferene?
Build his hut, and prune his vine,

And trim his porch with olive's green?
The Volunteer, the patriot brave,
Who toils his country's rights to fave!





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horfe! to horse! the standard flies,

The bugles found the call;
The Gallic navy stems the seas,
The voice of battle's on the breeze,

Arouse ye one and all!
From high Dunedin's towers we come,

A band of brothers true;
Our casques the leopard's spoils surround,
With Scotland's hardy thistle crown’d,

We boast the red and blue.
Though tamely crouch, to Gallia's frown,

Duli Holland's hardy train
Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn,
Thongh gallant Switzers vainly spurn,

And foaming gnaw the chain:
Ob! had they mark'd th' avenging call

Their brethrew's murder gave,
Disunion ne'er their ranks had nown,
Nor patriot valour, desperate growi),

Sought freedom in the grave.
Shall we too bend the stubborn head,

In Freedom's temple born;
Dress our pale cheek in timnid smile,
To hail a master in our ille,

Or brook a victor's scorn ?
No! though destruction o'er the land

Come pouring as a flood-
The fun that sees our falling day
Shall mark our labres' deadly sway,

And set that night in blood.
For gold let Gallia's legions fight,

Or plunder's bloody gain;
Unbrib’d, unbought, our swords we drau,
To guard our King, to fence our law;
Nor shall their edge be vain.


If ever breath of British 'gaie

Shall fan tlie tri-colore;
Or footstep of invader rude,
With rapine foul, and red with blood,

Pollute our happy shore ;
Then, farewell home, and farewell friends!

Adieu each tender tie!
Resolv'd we niingle in the tide,
Where charging 1quadrons furious ride,

To conquer or to die !
To horse! to horfe! the fabres gleam,

High sounds our bugle's call;
Combin'd by honour's sacred tie,
Our word is, “ Laws and Liberty !"

March forward, one and all!


(From the Oracle.] SIR, I AM induced, by the high reputation of your paper;

to offer for insertion the enclosed free translation of an original Gaelic Ode, composed in a remote district of the Northern Highlands of Scotland. I have ventured to modify, and, in some instances, altogether to suppress, the wild imagery and periphrastic expression of the original; but I fear my tranflation will be thought very feeble by the enthusiastic admirers of the ancient language of Caledunia. It will, doubtless, afford pleasure 10 your patriotic readers to see, that the flame which has burtt forth so gloriously in the metropolis glows with equal ardous among our distant mountains. I only fear that you may, object toʻreceiving this Poem, from its fimilarity to so many compositions of merit upon the same noble theme.' This similarity is at present unavoidable. But I have little doubt that the hero of Corsica, to whom we are in


debted for the present subject of the British mufe, will speedily, in his great generofity, and at his own proper expense, furnish her with an opportunity to exchange the themes of hope and exhortation for those of victory and triumph :

Carmina tum melius, cum venerit ipse, canemus. In this confidence I remain, Sir,

Yours, &c.

THOMAS THE RHYMER, Cot below the Cairn,

The Forest of Glenmore is drear,

It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree ;
And the midnight wind to the mountain deer

Is whistling the forest-lullaby ;-
The moon looks through the drifting storm,
But the troubled lake reflects not her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dath against the shelvy strand.
There is a voice among the trees

That mingles with the groaning oak-
That mingles with the stormy breeze,

And the lake waves dashing against the rock;-
There is a voice within the wood,
The voice of the Bard in fitful mood;
His song was louder than the blast,
As the Bard of Glenmore through the forest paft.


from your sleep of death,
Minstrels and Bards of other days !
For the midnight wind is on the heath,

And the midnight meteors dimly blaze;.
The spectre with the bloody hand*
Is wandering through the wild woodland;
The owl and the raven are mute for dread,
And the time is meet to awake the dead !

* The Forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called Lhamd arg, or Red-Hande

66 Souls G 5

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“ Souls of the mighty! wake, and say

To what high strain your harps were ftrung, When Lochlin plough'd her billowy way,

And on your shores her Norsemen fung?
Her Nursemen train'd to spoil and blood,
Skill'd to prepare the raven's food,
All by your harpings doom'd to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty *."
Mute are ye all? No murmurs strange

Upon the midnight breeze fail by;
Nor through the pines, with whistling change,

Mimic the harp's wild harmony!
Mute are ye now !-Ye ne'er were mute,
When Murder with his bloody foot,
And Rapine with his iron hand,
Were hovering near your mountain strand.
" O yet awake, the ftrain to tell;

By ev'ry deed in fong enrollid,
By every chief who fought or fell,

For Albion's weal in baxtle bold ;-
From Coilgach t, first who rolld his car
Through the deep ranks of Roman war,
To him, of veteran memory dear,
Who victor died on Aboukir!

By all their {words, by all their scars,

By all their names, a mighty speil;
By all their wounds, by all their wars,

Arife the mighty ftrain to tell;
For fiercer than the Saxon train,
More favage than the ruthless Dane,
More grasping than all-grasping Rome,
Gaul's ravening legions hither come !”.
The wind is buth'd, and still the lake ;

Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears,
Britles my hair, my finews quake,

At the dread voice of other years,

* Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland received two bloody defeats. p'The Galgacus of Taciras.


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