« AnteriorContinuar »
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!
WRITTEN TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, 1801,
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,
Yes, tho' too soon attaining glory's goal,
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
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,
Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand,
First of Britannia's hosts her Highland band
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,
The 420 Highland Regiment.
HARP OF SORROW.
I GAVE my Harp to Sorrow's hand,
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,
Beyond the judgment-day of death
The weeping minstrels sings,
And while her numbers flow,
My spirit trembles with the strings,
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
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,
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,
In some calm sunset hour of peace;
Of bliss that reigns above,
And everlasting as His truth:
Sing, heavenly Hope!-and dart thine hand
my frail Harp, untun'd so long: That Harp shall breathe, at thy command, Immortal sweetness through thy song.
Ah! then this gloom controul,
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
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.