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When musing sorrow weeps the past,

And mourns the present pain ; How sweet to think of peace at last,

And feel that death is gain !

'Tis not that murm’ring thoughts arise,

And dread a father's will ; 'Tis not that meek submission flies,

And would not suffer still.

It is that heaven-taught faith surveys,

The path to realms of light; And longs her eagle plumes to raise,

And lose herself in sight.

It is that hope with ardour glows,

So see Him face to face, Whose dying love no language knows

Sufficient art to trace.

It is that harassed conscience feels

The pangs of struggling sin;
Sees, though afar, the hand that heals,

And ends her war within.

Oh! let me wing my hallowed flight

From earth-born woe and care ;
And soar beyond these realms of night,

My Saviour's bliss to share.




The shout grew loud.
A varied scene the changeful vision showed,
For, where the ocean mingled with the cloud,
A gallant navy stemmed the billows broad.
From mast and stern St George's symbol flowed,
Blent with the silver cross to Scotland dear;
Mottling the sea their landward barges rowed,

And flashed the sun on bayonet, brand, and spear, And the wild beach returned the seaman's jovial cheer.



It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight!
The billows foamed beneath a thousand pars ;
Fast as they land the red-cross ranks unite,
Legions on legions brightening all the shores,
Then banners rise, and cannon's signal roars,
Then peals the warlike thunder of the drum,
Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish pours,

And patriot hopes awake, and doubts are dumb,
For, bold in freedom's cause, the bands of ocean come!

A various host they came-whose ranks display
Each mode in which the warrior meets the fight;
The deep battalion locks its firm array,
And meditates his aim the marksman light :
Far glance the lines of sabres, flashing bright,
Where mounted squadrons shake the echoing mead-
Lacks not artillery breathing flame and night,

Nor the feet ordnance whirled by rapid steed,
That rivals lightning's flash, in ruin and in speed.

A various host-from kindred realms they came,
Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown
For yon fair bands shall merry England claim,
And with their deeds of valour deck her crown.
Her's their bold port, and her's their martial frown,
And ber's their scorn of death in freedom's cause,

Their eyes

of azure, and their locks of brown, And the blunt speech that bursts without a pause, And freeborn thoughts, which league the soldier with the


And oh! loved warriors of the minstrel's land !

your bonnets nod, your tartans wave!
The rugged form may mark the mountain band,
And harsher features, and a mien more grave;
But ne'er in battle-field throbbed heart so brave
As that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid ;
And when the pibroch bids the battle rave,

And level for the charge your arms are laid, Where lives the desperate foe, that for such onset staid ?

Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings,
Mingling wild mirth with war's stern minstrelsy
His jest, while each blithe comrade round him flings,
And moves to death with military glee:
Boast, Erin, boast them ! tameless, frank, and free,
In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known,
Rough Nature's children, humorous as she;

And he, yon chieftain-strike the proudest tone
Of thy bold harp, green isle !-the hero is thine own.

Sir W, Scott.


The dove let loose in eastern skies,

Returning fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies

Where idle warblers roam.

But high she shoots through air and light,

Above all low delay,
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her


So grant me, God, from earthly care,

From pride and passion free,
Aloft through faith and love's pure air,

To hold my course to thee.

No lure to tempt, no art to stay

My soul, as home she springs ; Thy sunshine on her joyful way,

Thy freedom on her wings.


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