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And Love's own strain to him was giv'n
With Pythian words unsought, unwilled,
In lise's else bitter cup distilled.
Who that has melted o'er his lay
But pictured sees in fancy strong,
Who that has selt forgets the song?
Nor skilled one flame alone to fan-
What patriot pride he taught !—how much
Grow beautiful beneath his touch.
Him in his clay-built cot* the muse
Of fairy-light and wizard gloom,
And martial shades from glory's tomb.
On Bannock field what thoughts arouse
Beat not his Caledonian veins,
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,
Bend o'er his homeborn verse and weep,
And ties that stretch beyond the deep.
Encamped by Indian rivers wild
In Burns's carrol sweet recalls
Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls.
O deem not midst this worldly strife,
Let high Philosophy control
The nobler passions of the soul.
It is the muse that consecrates
Unfurling at the trumpet's breath,
the field or ride the wave, A sunburst in the storm of death.
And thou, young hero, when thy pall
When public grief begins to fade,
And greet with fame thy gallant shade?
Such was the soldier, -Burns forgive
In strains to thy great memory due.
Edward that died at Waterloo !*
Farewell, high chief of Scottish song,
Wisdom and rapture in thy page,
Whose truths electrify the sage.
From the crushed laurels of thy bust ;
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.
'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,
A Gothic church was near; the spot around
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,