LINES

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON, WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST

OF MARCH, THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT.

PLEDGE to the much-loved land that gave us birth! Invincible romantic Scotia's shore!

Pledge to the memory of her parted worth!

And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore !

And be it deem'd not wrong that name to give,
In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's sigh!
Who would not envy such as Moore to live?
And died he not as heroes wish to die?

Yes, though too soon attaining glory's goal,
To us his bright career too short was given;

Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul

Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven!

How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain

One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn For him!-How oft on far Corunna's plain Shall British exiles weep upon his urn!

Peace to the mighty dead;—our bosom thanks
In sprightlier strains the living may inspire!
Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia's ranks,

Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire!

Triumphant be the thistle still unfurl'd,

Dear symbol wild! on Freedom's hills it grows, Where Fingal stemm'd the tyrants of the world, And Roman eagles found unconquer'd foes.

Joy to the band* this day on Egypt's coast,

Whose valor tamed proud France's tricolor, And wrench'd the banner from her bravest host, Baptized Invincible in Austria's gore!

Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand,
When, bayonet to bayonet opposed,

First of Britannia's host her Highland band

Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed!

Is there a son of generous England here

Or fervid Erin ?-he with us shall join,

To pray that in eternal union dear,

The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!

Types of a race who shall th' invader scorn,
As rocks resist the billows round their shore;
Types of a race who shall to time unborn
Their country leave unconquer'd as of yore!

*The 42d regiment.

STANZAS

TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST
KILLED IN RESISTING THE REGENCY AND

THE DUKE OF ANGOULEME

BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell-
Beside your cannons conquer'd not, though slain,
There is a victory in dying well

For Freedom, and ye have not died in vain ;
For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain
To honor, ay embrace your martyr'd lot,

Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain,

And looking on your graves, though trophied not,

As holier hallow'd ground than priests could make the

spot!

What though your case be baffled--freemen cast
In dungeons-dragg'd to death, or forced to flee;
Hope is not wither'd in affliction's blast-
The patriot's blood 's the seed of Freedom's tree;

And short your orgies of revenge shall be,
Cowl'd Demons of the Inquisitorial cell!

Earth shudders at your victory,—for ye

Are worse than common ñiends from Heaven that fell, The baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of Hell!

Go to your bloody rites again-bring back
The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen,
Recording answers shriek'd upon the rack;
Smile 'er the gaspings of spine-broken men ;-
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den ;-

Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal
With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again,
To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel
No eye may search-no tongue may challenge or reveal!

Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime

Too proudly, ye oppressors!-Spain was free,
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime
Been winnow'd by the wings of Liberty;
And these even parting scatter as they flee
Thoughts-influences, to live in hearts unborn,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution-show her mask off-torn,
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn.

Glory to them that die in this great cause;
Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,
Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause :-
No!—manglers of the martyr's earthly frame !
Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame.
Still in your prostrate land there shall be some
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame.
Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb,
But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.

SONG OF THE GREEKS

AGAIN to the battle, Achaians!

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree

It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free:

For the cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves May be wash'd out in blood from our forefathers' graves Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succor advances,

Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

Are stretch'd in our aid-be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone;
For we've sworn by our Country's assaulters,
By the virgins they dragg'd from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That, living, we shall be victorious,

Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not;

The sword that we've drawn we will sheath not!
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.
Earth may hide-waves ingulf-fire consume us,
But they shall not to slavery doom us:

If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves;
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,

And new triumphs on land are before us,

To the charge!-Heaven's banner is o'er us.

This day shall ye blush for its story,

Or brighten your lives with its glory.

Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair,

Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair? Accursed may his memory blacken,

If a coward there be that would slacken

Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves

worth

Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth. Strike home, and the world shall revere us

As heroes descended from heroes.