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Fir’d by thee, mid dangers glooming,

What their ardent spirits dare,
Lineaged Thane, or lowly ploughman,

Largs, and Loncarty declare!
Yet not to them did conquest yield
A respite from the bloody field;
Invasion's still-returning tide,
O’erwhelm’d their marches far and wide;
And ever as with doleful breath,

Of bugles shook their thickets green,
The ministers of kingly wrath

Stalk'd proudly o'er the ravag'd scene ;
Then the tyrant false and jealous,

Scotia, had become thy lord,
But that brave, indignant Wallace

Wildly snatch'd thy dropping sword.
What earthly power shall well reward
His country's champion, saviour, guard ?
What palms what trophies are his

due ? Behold! a blood-stain'd block in view ! This is the guerdon, mighty chief!

A common triumph Scotia scorns,
Her's is the awful « joy of grief,"

But vengeance wakes when Scotia mourns!
Ever shall the tragic story

Honours 'on the lyre beston,
Tears, the poet's truest glory,

Tears, extatic tears shah flow! • Far from the proud usurper's arts Thy dearest exil'd son departs,

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For an account of the exile of Robert the first amongst the western islands, and the surprisal of the small English Garrison

And o'er the sea-rock sadly bent,
Gives all his royal sorrows vent.
Listening the midnight water's roar

()! Bruce what transport shook thy breast ! When Freedom on the dusky shore

Wav'd her red torch at thy behest.
Still the great design concealing,

Gathering, kindling, rushing on,
Till the Scottish sabre wheeling

Dealt another Marathon!

O Scotia, nurse of heartfelt song,
Whether thy lonely straths among,
Thou viewest, reclin’d on Fortha's urn,
The glorious plains of Bannockburn!
Or musing o'er some crumbling tower,

Mid pendent cliffs and dashing streams,
While Even gilds the dewy hour,

Thou visitest the Poet's dreams; Burne in mists o'er fatal Flodden,

Or thy pausing footsteps trace Where on distant, drear Culloden,

* Set the star of Banquo's sace!

Be mine to sing that lovelier scene,
When Albion sought thee for his queen.
By charter seald in Heaven he rode
Imperial monarch of the flood !

When to the border meads he pressed,

in his own paternal Castle of Turnberry in Ayrshire, See all the Scotch Historians.

* The Royal House Stuart are said to be descendants of Banquo, thane of Lochaber, who was murdered by the tyrant Macbeth

* Where Tweed imbibes the classic rills,
And folded to his glowing breast
Thee, Genius of

a thousand hills !

of defiance,
Rage and ruin, none but he
Worthy is of thine alliance,
Whose embrace is Liberty !

P. c. LONDON, 1807,


To a Lady singing and playing on the Harp.

What though the Thracian Minstrel's lyre,
His frenzied

eye, and ardent fire,
Could charm the marble rock to roam ;
Una, thy strains of magic art
Can more of extacy in part,
Can melt with potent spell the frozen heart,

And lure it from its home.

* The Yed, Yarrow, &c. are here denominated, “ classic rills."




Come, fill the bowl, let mirth and glee

Our cares and sorrows drown; Let blithesome mirth and revelry

The jovial evening crown.

Prepare the garland for my head;

Let freshest flowers unite. No pangs

of woe, no cares I dread, When Bacchus crowns the night.

Come, Cupid, come; our pleasure share

And futter round the bowl ;
And, while your pinions fan the air,

With love inspire my soul.

Bring myrtle wreaths, and ivy bring,

To bind my temples round; And as of love and wine I sing,

With roses strew the ground.

Thus free from care my life shall pass !

For sorrow, woe, and pain
I feel not when I fill my glass,
And love inspires my brain.

X, Y.



This most amiable and unfortunate victim to maternal solicitude,

was carried off in the second week of her confinement by the malignant and fatal influence of the scarlet fever, which her eldest son caught at school, and thus communicated to his Family.


In holy hope 'mid sorrows chasten'd gloom,
If the rais'd eye be lifted from the tomb,
With awful trust in Him who died to save,
And conquering burst the bondage of the grave,
Yet ere the trembling glance reposes there,
And hails the Angel in her native sphere;
To earth the tributary tears descend,
For her, the wife, the mother, and the friend;
For her endear'd by every sacred claim,
Beauty's fair form, and virtue's fairer frame:

Ask not her charms ’mid fashions giddy train,
Ask not her worth, 'mid folly's fleeting reign,
Or where the great, or where the proud repose,
With all that monumental fame bestows;
No, seek it there in misery's lonely cell,
Where pining want, or infant sorrows dwell,

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