(SPANISH PATRIOT'S SONG.)
Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Bursts the bold enthusiast strain,
Like morning's music on the air,
And seems, in every note, to swear,
By Saragossa's ruined streets,
By brave Gerona's deathful story,
That while one Spaniard's life blood beats,
That blood shall stain a conqueror's glory!
(SPANISH AIR CONCLUDED.)
But ah! if vain the patriot Spaniard's zeal,
If neither valour's force, nor wisdom's lights,
Can break nor melt the blood-cemented seal,
That shuts to close the book of Europe's rights,
What song shall then in sadness tell
Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,
Of buried hopes remembered well,
Of ardour quenched, and honour faded;
What muse shall mourn the breathless brave,
In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine;
What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave?-
Oh! Erin, thine.
(MELANCHOLY IRISH AIR, SUCCEEDED BY A LIVELY ONE.)
Blest notes of mirth! ye spring from sorrow's lay,
Like the sweet vesper of the bird that sings
In the bright sunset of an April day,
While the cold shower yet hangs upon his wings.
Long may the Irish heart repeat
An echo to those lively strains;
And when the stranger's ear shall meet
That melody on distant plains,
Oh! he will feel his heart expand
With grateful warmth, and, sighing, say-
Thus speaks the music of the land,
Where welcome ever lights the stranger's way;
Where still the woe of others to beguile,
Is e'en the gayest heart's most lov'd employ;
Where Grief herself will generously smile
Thro' her own tears, to share another's joy!
Addressed to Ronald Macdonald, Esq. Laird of Staffa. Written in the Album, at Ulva.
BY WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.
STAFFA! sprung from high Macdonald,
Worthy branch of old Clanronald;
Staffa king of all kind fellows,
Well befal thy hills and valleys,
Lakes and inlets, deeps and shallows,
Cliffs of darkness, caves of wonder,
Echoing the Atlantic's thunder,
Mountains, which the grey
mist covers,
Where the chieftain's spirit hovers,
Pausing, as his pinions quiver,
Stretch'd to quit our land for ever.
Each kind influence rest above thee,
All thou lov'st, and all who love thee.
Warmer heart, 'twixt this and Jaffa,
Beats not than in breast of Staffa.
THE scene was more beautiful far to my eye;
Than if day in its pride had arrayed it;
The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arched sky
Looked pure as the Spirit that made it :
The murmur rose soft as I silently gazed
On the shadowy wave's playful motion,
From the dim distant isle till the beacon fire blazed
Like a star in the midst of the ocean.
No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast
Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers;
The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest,
The fisherman sunk to his slumbers:
One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope,
(All hushed was the billow's commotion,)
And I thought that the beacon looked lovely as hope,
That star of life's tremulous ocear.
The time is long past and the scene is afar;
Yet, when my head rests on its pillow,
Will memory sometimes rekindle the star
That blazed on the breast of the billow.
In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies,
And death stills the heart's last emotion
Oh then may the seraph of Mercy arise,
Like a star on eternity's ocean!
Left in a Chaise by a Candidate on his Canvass.
How happy is the Peer's unchanging lot,
Forgetting voters, and by votes forgot;
For him no more the well-paid sexton rings,
For him no more the venal poet sings;
Peers, ravish'd with the whistling of a name,
Leave wretched commoners to toil for fame;
The golden key awaits their ready hand,
The blushing ribbon, and the milk-white wand.
Far other thoughts my restless soul employ,
Far humbler visions, and more vulgar joy;
Eight station'd coursers bear me from afar,
Twelve different steeds successive whirl my car,
From town to town, from house to house I fly,
Yet "where's our candidate?" the voters cry-
So from each corner of some festive hall,
At merry Christmas eager children call;
Still in the middle stands the fool confest,
By all invited, and of all the jest-
What strange vicissitudes of woe and bliss!
Each toothless wife, each tender maid I kiss ;
Now with loud curses badger'd from the door,
Now for ever! boys, and butchers roar;
Alas! in vain, for ****
Loud shakes his purse in every voter's ears
* sneaks forth with promises and lies,
Points to the church, the army, and excise-
Can Poverty from gold withdraw his hand?
A gauger's rod what voter can withstand?
Retire! presumptuous man! in time retire!
Say, if thou can'st, to what thou would'st aspire
With friendship, love, and philosophic ease,
Form'd to be pleas'd, and wishing still to please;
Say, could'st thou add one real pleasure more,
To all the blessings thou enjoy'dst before?
Could'st thou retard, by all that man can say,
Thy country's ruin for a single day?
Retire! presumptuous man! in time retire!
Leave knaves to plunder, and let fools admire.
ON A LATE EXAMINATION OF WITNESSES IN A CERTAIN ASSEMBLY.
BY WILLIAM CAREY, ESQ.
How just are they, how circumspect and wise,
Who doubt their ears, and disbelieve their eyes!
Who burning, shrinking in the noon-tide ray,
Light up their rush-lights and deny the day!
But Fool and Sage in this great truth agree,
None are so blind as those who will not see;
And God, we read in Rome's indignant strains,
First blinds the men whose ruin he ordains.
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