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But redder yet that light shall glow,
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn ;
level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On ye brave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet !
Campbell MY NATIVE LAND.
My native land,-land of my heart !
O'er thee yet lingers memory's spelt; And though from thee I ever part,
On thy wild shores my heart will dwell ; For there, in youth's bright dawn, I wove The sweet—the glittering dream of love.
My native land, my happy home !
Endeared by friendship's holy tie, To other brighter realms I roam,
But far behind is love's deep sigh; And feeling's burning, magic wand, Will conjure up my native land.
My native land,-my earthly heaven!
My heart yet lingers on thy shore ; And though misfortune's blast be driven,
And ruin's wild o'erwhelming roar On this lone heart may lower a while, A thought of thee will light Hope's smile.
My native land,-proud freedom's land!
The burning tears yet dim my eyes,
On the fleet breeze the vessel Aies,
My native land, land of the brave !
Where Bruce—where Wallace fought and bled !. Who fearless stemmed the
gory wave Of tyranny,—who dauntless led Proud freedom's ranks, till, blazing high O'er Scotia's bills, gleamed Victory.
'Twas on thy shores bright Fancy's fire
First gleamed like lightning o'er the deep ;,
To emulate their fame who sleep
The glow of heaven doth brighter gleam,
Dear Scotia ! on thy'mountain strand,
That sun which gilds my native land !
E'en Hope was gone when thy loved shore
Receded from my eager view : Her torch she dashed amid the roar
Of Ocean's waves! Her last adieu Yet in my ear doth lingering dwell! My native land, farewell 1-farewell!
Lochiel ! Lochiel I beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight; They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown; Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.' But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 'Tis thine, oh Glenullin 1 whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning : no rider is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led !
Lochiêl, Lochiel,"beware of the day!
Ob, man ! before thy feverish brain
What thousand visions rise,
Each loveliest-till it dies.
Before some heart untried;
And scorns the world beside !
The hours too swift roll on;