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Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust, It would raise the old dead from their grave.

Then rise, &c.

In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide,

Profaning its loves and its charms ? Shall a Frenchman insult a loved fair at our side ? To arms—0 my Country, to arms !

Then rise, &c. Shall tyrants enslave us, my countrymen ?-No

Their heads to the sword shall be given; Let a death-bed repentance await the proud foe And his blood be an offering to Heaven !

Then rise, &c.

CAROLINE.

PART I.

I'll bid my hyacinth to blow,

I'll teach my grotto green to be;
And sing my true love, all below

The holly bower and myrtle tree.

There, all his wild-wood scents to bring,

The sweet South Wind shall wander by ;
And with the music of his wing,

Delight my rustling canopy.
Come to my close and clustering bower,

Thou spirit of a milder clime!
Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower,
of mountain heath and moory thyme.

L

With all thy rural echoes, come,

Sweet coprade of the rosy day, Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum,

Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay. Where'er thy morning breath has played,

Whatever isles of ocean fanned, Come to my blossom woven shade,

Thou wandering wind of fairy land ! For sure from some enchanted isle,

Where Heav'n and love their sabbath bold, Where pure and happy spirits smile,

Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould: From some green Eden of the deep,

Where pleasure's sigh alone is heaved, Where tears of rapture lovers weep,

Endeared, undoubting, undcceived;

From some sweet paradise afar,

Thy music wanders, distant, lost; Where nature lights her leading star,

And love is never, never crossed.

Oh! gentle gale of Eden bowers,

If back thy rosy feet should roam, To revel with the cloudless hours,

In nature's more propitious home

Name to thy loved Elysian groves,

That o’er enchanted spirits twine, A fairer form than cherub loves,

And let the name be Caroline.

CAR O L I N E.

PART II.
Gem of the crimson coloured even,"

Companion of retiring day,
Why at the closing gates of heaven,

Beloved star, dost thou delay?
So fair thy pensile beauty burns,

When soft the tear of twilight flows, So due thy plighted step returns,

To chambers brighter than the rose; To peace, toʻpleasure, and to love

So kind a star thou seem'st to be, Sure some enamoured orb above

Descends and burns to meet with thee, Thine is the breathing, blushing hour,

When all unbeavenly passions fly; Chased by the soul subduing power

Of love's delicious witchery. Oh! sacred to the fall of day,

Queen of propitious stars, appear! And early rise, and long delay,

When Caroline herself is here Shine on her chosen green resort,

Where trees the sunward summit crown; And wanton flowers, that well may court

An angel's feet to tread them down. Shine on her sweetly scented road,

Thou star of evening's purple dome! That lead'st the nightingale abroad,

And guid’st the pilgrim to his home.

Shine, where my charmer's sweeter breath

Embalms thy soft exhaling dew; Where dying winds a sigh bequeath

To kiss her cheek of rosy hue. Where, winnowed by the gentle air,

Her silken tresses darkly flow, And fall upon her brows so fair,

Like shadows on the mountain snow. Thus, ever thus, at day's decline

In converse sweet to wander far, Oh! bring with thee my Caroline,

And thou shalt be my ruling star!

O DE

TO THE

MEMORY OF BURNS.

Soul of the Poet! wheresoe'er
Reclaimed from earth thy genius plume

Her wings of immortality;
Suspend thy harp in happier spnere,
And with thine influence illume

The gladness of our jubilee.
And fly like fiends from secret spell,
Discord and strife, at Burns's name,

Exorcised by his memory;
For he was chief of bards that swell
The heart with songs of social flame,

And high delicious revelry.

And Loye's own strain to him was giv'n
To warble all its ecstasies,

With Pythian words unšought, unwilled,
Love the surviving gift of Heaven,
The choicest sweet of Paradise
In life's else bitter

cup

distilled.

Who that has melted o'er his lay
To Mary's soul in Heav'n above,

But pictured sees in fancy strong,
The landscape and the livelong day
That smiled

upon

their mutual love,-
Who that has felt forgets the song?

Nor skilled one flame alone to fan-
His country's high souled peasantry

What patriot pride he taught !-how much
To weigh the inborn worth of man!
And rustic life and poverty

Grow beautiful beneath his touch.

Him in his clay-built cot* the muse
Entranced and showed him all the forms

Of fairy-light and wizard gloom,
(That only gifted Poet view,)
The Genii of the floods and storms,

And martial shades from glory's tomb.

On Bannock field what thoughts arouse
The Swain whom Burns's song inspires ?

Beat not his Caledonian veins,
As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs,
With all the spirit of his sires,

And all their scorn of death and chains ?

* Burns was born in a Clay cottage, which his father had built with his own hands.

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