Return, sweet Peace, ethereal form benign!
Fair blue-ey'd seraph! balmy power divine!
Descend once more! thy hallow'd blessings bring,
Wave thy bright locks, and spread thy downy wing!
Luxuriant plenty laughing in thy train,
Shall crown with glowing stores the desert-plain;
Young smiling Hope, attendant on thy way,
Shall gild thy path with mild celestial ray.
Descend once more, thou daughter of the sky!
Cheer ev'ry heart, and brighten ev'ry eye;
Justice, thy harbinger, before thee send,
Thy myrtle-sceptre o'er the globe extend:
Thy cherub-look again shall soothe mankind;
Thy cherub-hand the wounds of discord bind;
Thy smile of heaven shall ev'ry muse inspire,
To thee the bard shall strike the silver lyre.
Descend once more! to bid the world rejoice—
Let nations hail thee with exulting voice;
Around thy shrine with purest incense throng,
Weave the fresh palm, and swell the choral song
Then shall the shepherd's flute, the woodland reed,
The martial clarion and the drum succeed;
Again shall bloom Arcadia's fairest flowers,
And music warble in Idalian bowers.
Where war and carnage blew the blast of death,
The gale shall whisper with Favonian breath;
And golden Ceres bless the festive swain,
Where the wild combat redden'd o'er the plain.
These are thy blessings, fair benignant maid!
Return, return, in vest of light array'd!
Let angel-forms and floating sylphids bear
Thy car of sapphire through the realms of air,
With accents milder than Eolian lays,
When o'er the harp the fanning zephyr plays;
Be thine to charm the raging world to rest,
Diffusing round the heaven-that glows within thy
breast!
Oh, Thou! whose fiat lulls the storm asleep!
Thou, at whose nod subsides the rolling deep!
Whose awful word restrains the whirlwind's force,
And stays the thunder in its vengeful course;
Fountain of life! Omnipotent Supreme!
Robed in perfection! crown'd with glory's beam!
Oh! send on earth thy consecrated dove,
To bear the sacred olive from above;
Restore again the blest, the halcyon time,
The festal harmony of nature's prime !
Bid truth and justice once again appear,
And spread their sunshine o'er this mundane sphere;
Bright in their path, let wreaths unfading bloom,
Transcendant light their hallow'd fane illume;
Bid war and anarchy for ever cease,
And kindred seraphs rear the shrine of peace;
Brothers once more, let men her empire own,
And realms and monarchs bend before the throne;
While circling rays of angel-mercy shed
Eternal halos round her sainted head!
WALLACE'S INVOCATION TO BRUCE.
[ADVERTISEMENT. —“ A Native of Edinburgh, and Member of the Highland Society of London," with a view to give popularity to the project of rearing a suitable National Monument to the Memory of Wallace, lately offered Prizes for the three best poems on the subject of that Illustrious Patriot inviting Bruce to the Scottish Throne. The following Poem obtained the first of these prizes. It would have appeared in the same form in which it is now offered to the Public, under the direction of its proper Editor, the giver of the Prize: but his privilege has, with pride as well as pleasure, been yielded to a Lady of the Author's own Country, who solicited permission to avail herself of this opportunity of honouring and further remunerating the genius of the Poet; and, at the same time, expressing her admiration of the theme in which she has triumphed.
It is a noble feature in the character of a generous and enlightened people, that, in England, the memory of the patriots and martyrs of Scotland has long excited an interest not exceeded in strength by that which prevails in the country which boasts their birth, their deeds, and their sufferings.]
"Great patriot hero! Ill requited chief!"
THE morn rose bright on scenes renown'd,
Wild Caledonia's classic ground,
Where the bold sons of other days
Won their high fame in Ossian's lays,
And fell-but not till Carron's tide
With Roman blood was darkly dyed.
The morn rose bright-and heard the cry Sent by exulting hosts on high,
And saw the white-cross banner float
(While rung each clansman's gathering note)
O'er the dark plumes and serried spears
Of Scotland's daring mountaineers;
As, all elate with hope, they stood,
To buy their freedom with their blood.
The sunset shone-to guide the flying,
And beam a farewell to the dying!
The summer moon, on Falkirk's field,
Streams upon eyes in slumber seal'd;
Deep slumber-not to pass away
When breaks another morning's ray,
Nor vanish, when the trumpet's voice
Bids ardent hearts again rejoice:
What sunbeam's glow, what clarion's breath,
May chase the still cold sleep of death?
Shrouded in Scotland's blood-stain'd plaid,
Low are her mountain-warriors laid;
They fell, on that proud soil whose mould
Was blent with heroes' dust of old,
And, guarded by the free and brave,
Yielded the Roman-but a grave!
Nobly they fell; yet with them died
The warrior's hope, the leader's pride.
Vainly they fell-that martyr host—
All, save the land's high soul, is lost.
Blest are the slain! they calmly sleep,
Nor hear their bleeding country weep!
The shouts of England's triumph telling,
Reach not their dark and silent dwelling;
And those surviving to bequeath
Their sons the choice of chains or death,
May give the slumberer's lowly bier
An envying glance-but not a tear.
But thou, the fearless and the free,
Devoted Knight of Ellerslie!
No vassal-spirit, form'd to bow
When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow;
No shade of fear, or weak despair,
Blends with indignant sorrow there!
The ray which streams on yon red field,
O'er Scotland's cloven helm and shield,
Glitters not there alone, to shed
Its cloudless beauty o'er the dead;
But, where smooth Carron's rippling wave
Flows near that deathbed of the brave,
Illuming all the midnight scene,
Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien.
But other beams, O Patriot! shine
In each commanding glance of thine,
And other light hath fill'd thine eye
With inspiration's majesty,
Caught from th' immortal flame divine,
Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine !
Thy voice a prophet's tone hath won,
The grandeur Freedom lends her son;
Thy bearing a resistless power,
The ruling genius of the hour!
And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride,
Whom Carron's waves from thee divide,
Whose haughty gesture fain would seek
To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek,
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