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And see the Scottish exile tanned,
By many a far and foreign clime,

Bend o'er his homeborn verse and weep,
In memory of his native land,
With love that scorns the lapse of time,

And ties that stretch beyond the deep.

Encamped by Indian rivers wild
The soldier resting on his arms,

In Burns's carrol sweet recalls
The scenes that blest him when a child,
And glows and gladdens at the charms

Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls.

O deem not midst this worldly strife,
An idle art the poet brings,

Let high Philosophy control
And sages calm the stream of life,
'Tis he refines its fountain springs,

The nobler passions of the soul.

It is the muse that consecrates
The native banner of the brave,

Unfurling at the trumpet's breath,
Rose, thistle, harp; 'tis she elates
To sweep the field or ride the wave,

A sunburst in the storm of death.

And thou, young hero, when thy pall
Is crossed with mournful sword and plume,

When public grief begins to fade,
And only tears of kindred fall,
Who but the Bard shall dress thy tomb,

And greet with fame thy gallant shade?

Such was the soldier,-Burns forgive
That sorrows of mine own intrude,

In strains to thy great memory due.
In verse like thine, Oh! could he live,
The friend I mourned—the brave, the good

Edward that died at Waterloo !*

Farewell, high chief of Scottish song,
That could'st alternately impart

Wisdom and rapture in thy page,
And brand each vice with satire strong,
Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,

Whose truths electrify the sage.

Farewell, and ne'er may envy dare
To ring one baleful poison drop

From the crushed laurels of thy bust
But while the lark sings sweet in air
Still may the grateful pilgrim stop,

To bless the spot that holds thy dust.

* Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron in the attack of thc Polish Lancers.





'Twas sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung, And lights were o'er the Helvetian mountains flung, That

gave the glacier tops their richest glow,
And tinged the lakes like molten gold below.
Warmth flushed the wonted regions of the storm,
Where, Phenix-like, you saw the eagle's form,
That high in Heav'n's vermilion wheeled and soared.'
Woods nearer frowned, and cataracts dashed and roared,
From heights brouzed by the bounding bouquetin;
Herds tinkling roamed the long-drawn vales between,
And hamlets glittered white, and gardens flourished
'Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air! [green.
The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare,
And roving with his minstrelsy across
The scented wild weeds, and enamelled moss.
Earth's features so harmoniously were link'd,
She seemed one great glad form, with life instinct,
That felt Heav'n's ardent breath, and smiled below
ts flush of love, with consentaneous glow.

A Gothic church was near; the spot around
Was beautiful, even though sepulchral ground;
For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom,
But roses blossomed by each rustic tomb.
Amidst them one of spotless marble shone-
A maiden's grave—and 'twas inscribed thereon,

That young and loved she died whose dust was there :
“ Yes,” said my comrade, "young she died, and fair!
Grace formed her, and the soul of gladness played
Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid :
Her fingers witched the chords they passed along,
And her lips seemed to kiss the soul in 'song :
Yet wooed, and worshipped as she was, till few
Aspired to hope, 'twas sadly, strangely true,
That heart, the martyr of its fondness burned
And died of love that could not be returned.

Her father dwelt where yonder Castle shines O’er clust'ring trees and terrace-mantling vines. As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride Waves o’er each walk where she was wont to glide,And still the garden whence she graced her brow, As lovely blooms, though trode by strangers now. How oft from yonder window o'er the lake, Her song

of wild Helvetian swell and shake, Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear, And rest enchanted on his oar to hear ! Thus bright, accomplished, spirited, and bland, Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land, Why had no gallant native youth the art To win so warm--so exquisite a heart? She, midst these rocks inspired with feelings strong By mountain-freedom-music-fancy-song, Herself descended from the brave in arms, And conscious of romance-inspiring charms, , Dreamt of heroic beings; hoped to find Some extant spirit of chivalric kind; And scorning wealth, looked cold e'en on the claim Of manly worth, that lacked the wreath of fame.

Her younger brother, sixteen summers old, And much her likeness both in mind and mould,

Had gone, poor boy! in soldiership to shine,
And bore an Austrian banner on the Rhine.
'Twas when, alas ! our empire's evil star
Shed all the plagues, without the pride of war;
When patriots bled, and bitterer anguish crossed
Our brave, to die in battles foully lost.
The youth wrote home the rout of many a day;
Yet still he said, and still with truth could say,
One corps had ever made a valiant stand, -
The corps in which he served,-Theodric's band.
His fame, forgotten chief, is now gone by,
Eclipsed by brighter orbs in glory's sky;
Yet once it shone, and veterans, when they show
Our fields of battle twenty years ago,
Will tell you feats his small brigade performed,
In charges nobly faced and trenches stormed.
Time was, when songs were chanted to his fame,
And soldiers loved the march that bore his name;
The zeal of martial hearts was at his call,
And that Helvetian, Udolph's, most of all.
'Twas touching, when the storm of war blew wild,
To see a blooming boy, almost a child,-
Spur fearless at his leader's words and signs,
Brave death in reconnoitring hostile lines,
And speed each task, and tell each message clear,
In scenes where war-trained men were stunned with fear.

Theodric praised him, and they wept for joy In yonder house,-when letters from the boy Thanked Heav'n for life, and more, to use his phrase, Than twenty lives—his own commander's praise. Then followed glowing pages, blazoning forth The fancied image of his leader's worth, With such hyperboles of youthful style As made his parents dry their tears and smile:

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