Thou hast called me thy angel, in moments of bliss,Still thy Angel I'll be, mid the horrors of this,Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too!

LINES,

WRITTEN TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, 1801,
THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT.

T. Campbell.

PLEDGE to the much lov'd 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, tho' too soon attaining glory's goal,
To us his bright career too short was giv❜n;

Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul

Rose on the flames of victory to Heav'n!

How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain

One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn

For him!-How 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 valour tam'd proud France's tricolor,
And wrench'd the banner from her bravest host,
Baptiz'd Invincible in Austria's gore!

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

First of Britannia's hosts her Highland band
Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost clos'd!

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 420 Highland Regiment.

HARP OF SORROW.

Montgomery.

I GAVE my Harp to Sorrow's hand,
And she has ruled the chords so long,
They will not speak at my command
They warble only to her song.

Of dear, departed hours,

Too fondly loved to last,

The dew, the breath, the bloom of flowers, Snapt in their freshness by the blast:

Of long, long years of future care,
Till lingering Nature yields her breath,
And endless ages of despair,

Beyond the judgment-day of death

The weeping minstrels sings,

And while her numbers flow,

My spirit trembles with the strings,
Responsive to the notes of woe.

Would gladness move a sprightlier strain,

And wake this wild Harp's clearest tones,

The chords, impatient to complain,

Are dumb, or only utter moans.

And yet to sooth the mind

With luxury of grief,

The soul to suffering all resign'd

In Sorrow's music feels relief.

Thus o'er the light Æolian lyre
The winds of dark November stray,
Touch the quick nerve of every wire,
And on its magic pulses play;~

Till all the air around,

Mysterious murmurs fill,

A strange bewildering dream of sound, Most heavenly sweet,-yet mournful still.

O! snatch the Harp from Sorrow's hand,
Hope! who hast been a stranger long;
O! strike it with sublime command,
And be the Poet's life thy song.

Of vanish'd troubles sing,

Of fears for ever fled,

of flowers that hear the voice of Spring, And burst and blossom from the dead;—

Of home, contentment, health, repose,
Serene delights, while years increase;
And weary life's triumphant close

In some calm sunset hour of peace;

Of bliss that reigns above,
Celestial May of Youth,
Unchanging as JEHOVAH's love,

And everlasting as His truth:

Sing, heavenly Hope!-and dart thine hand

O'er

my frail Harp, untun'd so long: That Harp shall breathe, at thy command, Immortal sweetness through thy song.

Ah! then this gloom controul,
And at thy voice shall start
A new creation in my soul,

A native Eden in my heart.

THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.

SWEET to the morning traveller

The sky-lark's early song,

Whose twinkling wings are seen at fits
The dewy light among.

And cheering to the traveller

The gales that round him play, When faint and heavily he drags Along his noon-tide way.

And when beneath the unclouded sun

Full wearily toils he,

The flowing water makes to him

A pleasant melody.

Southey

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