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Cornwallis finks-with honours, years, opprefs'd-
In the calm haven of eternal reft!

Cornwallis! fainted fhade! illuftrious chief,
Enroll'd in fame, embalm'd in public grief,
If mortal feelings reach immortal spheres,
If feraph fmiles abforb not patriot's tears,
Hence fhail the mufe waft forrow's facred figh,
Hence bear the pearly tribute of the eye!
For here, at gratitude's imperious call,
Britons convene, to confecrate thy fall;
And, though affliction clouds each feeling heart,
Virtue and fame impulfive radiance dart;
As Truth records on Hift'ry's brilliant page,
"Thus fell the firmeft Briton of his age,
In whofe bright character at once confpire
The ftatefman's coolness and the hero's fire;
Who, ftedfaft to his truft, confpicuous fhone,
The firm defender of his country's throne;
Guiding his life by virtue's facred plan,
His moral worth gav dignity to man;
Building on public juftice, private fame,
His and Britannia's glory were the fame."

THE VOLUNTEER.

[From the General Evening Poft.]

WHO deferves the civic wreath?

Who to fill the laurell'd chair?
Feast from gold, sweet perfumes breathe,
And all that honour gives to share?
The Volunteer, the patriot brave,
Who toils his country's rights to fave!

Who deferves 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!

C. L.

WAR

WAR SONG FOR THE EDINBURGH CAVALRY

ASSOCIATION.

BY MR. WALTER SCOTT.

To horfe! to horfe! the standard flies,
The bugles found the call;
The Gallic navy stems the feas,
The voice of battle's on the breeze,
Aroufe ye one and all!

From high Dunedin's towers we come,
A band of brothers true;

Our cafques the leopard's fpoils furround,
With Scotland's hardy thiftle crown'd,
We boast the red and blue.

Though tamely crouch, to Gallia's frown,
Dull Holland's hardy train;

Their ravifh'd toys though Romans mourn,
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn,
And foaming gnaw the chain:

Oh! had they mark'd th' avenging call
Their brethren's murder gave,
Difunion ne'er their ranks had mown,
Nor patriot valour, defperate grown,
Sought freedom in the grave.
Shall we too bend the stubborn head,
In Freedom's temple born;
Drefs our pale cheek in timid fmile,
To hail a mafter in our ifle,

Or brook a victor's fcorn?
No! though deftruction o'er the land
Come pouring as a flood—
The fun that fees our falling day
Shall mark our fabres' deadly fway,
And fet that night in blood.

For gold let Gallia's legions fight,
Or plunder's bloody gain;
Unbrib'd, unbought, our fwords we draw,
To guard our King, to fence our law;

Nor fhall their edge be vain.

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If ever breath of British 'gale
Shall fan the 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!

Refolv'd we mingle in the tide,

Where charging iquadrons furious ride,
To conquer or to die!

To horfe! to horfe! the fabres gleam,
High founds our bugle's call;
Combin'd by honour's facred tie,
Our word is, "Laws and Liberty !”—-
March forward, one and all!

SIR,

GAELIC ODE.

[From the Oracle.]

I AM induced, by the high reputation of your paper,

to offer for infertion the enclosed free tranflation of an original Gaelic Ode, compofed in a remote diftri&t of the Northern Highlands of Scotland. 1 have ventured to modify, and, in fome inftances, altogether to fupprefs, the wild imagery and periphraftic expreffion of the original; but I fear my tranflation will be thought very feeble by the enthufiaftic admirers of the ancient language of Caledonia. It will, doubtlefs, afford pleasure 10 your patriotic readers to fee, that the flame which has burtt forth fo glorioufly in the metropolis glows with equal ardour among our distant mountains. I only fear that you may, object to receiving this Poem, from its fimilarity to fo many compofitions of merit upon the fame noble theme. This fimilarity is at prefent unavoidable. But I have little doubt that the hero of Corfica, to whom we are in

debted

debted for the prefent fubject of the British mufe, will fpeedily, in his great generofity, and at his own proper expenfe, furnith her with an opportunity to exchange the themes of hope and exhortation for thofe of victory and triumph:

Carmina tum melius, cum venerit ipfe, canemus.

In this confidence I remain, Sir,

Yours, &c.

THOMAS THE RHYMER.

Cot below the Cairn.

THE HIGHLAND BARD'S INCANTATION.

THE Foreft of Glenmore is drear,

It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree ;
And the midnight wind to the mountain deer
Is whiftling the foreft-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 dash against the shelvy ftrand.
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 fong was louder than the blast,

As the Bard of Glenmore through the foreft paft.
"Wake ye from your fleep of death,
Minstrels and Bards of other days!
For the midnight wind is on the heath,
And the midnight meteors dimly blaze;
The fpectre 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 Foreft of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called Lhamdearg,

or Red-Hand.

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"Souls

"Souls of the mighty! wake, and say

To what high ftrain your harps were ftrung,
When Lochlin plough'd her billowy way,
And on your fhores her Norfemen flung?
Her Norsemen 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 Kapine with his iron hand,,

Were hovering near your mountain strand.
"O yet awake, the ftrain to tell;
By ev'ry deed in song enroll'd,
By every chief who fought or fell,
For Albion's weal in battle bold;
From Coilgach †, first who roll'd his car
Through the deep ranks of Roman war,
To him, of veteran memory dear,
Who victor died on Aboukir !

;

66 By all their fwords, by all their scars,
By all their names, a mighty fpeil;
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 grafping than all-grafping Rome,
Gaul's ravening legions hither come!"
The wind is hush'd,, and still the lake ;
Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears,
Briftles my hair, my finews quake,

At the dread voice of other years,

* Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland received two bloody defeats.

+ The Galgacus of Tacitus.

When

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