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

With Pythian words unsought, unwilled,
Love the surviving gift of Heaven,
The choicest sweet of Paradise

In lise'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 selt 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 handa.

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 as the head of his squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers.

DOMESTIC TALE.

'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, Phænix-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,
T'aat felt Heav'n's ardent breath, and smiled below
Its 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 tombe
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 clusťring 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 oár 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 warın—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 Or manly worth, that lacked the wreath of fame.

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

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