SONG,

For the Anniversary of MR. PITT's Birth-day, celebrated at Edinburgh.

Walter Scott.

Oh! dread was the time, and more dreadful the omen,
When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in vain,
And beholding broad Europe bent down by her foeman,
Pitt closed in his anguish the map of her reign.
Not the fate of wide Europe could bend his brave spirit,
To accept for his country the safety of shame,
Oh! then in her triumph, remember his merit,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name!

Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the furrow,
The mists of the winter may mingle with rain,

He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow,
And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it in vain.
He may die ere his children shall reap in their gladness,
But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim;
And their jubilee shout shall be soften'd with sadness,
While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name!

Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,
In toils for our country preserv'd by his care,
Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended,
To light the long darkness of doubt and despair;
The storms he endur'd in our Britain's December,
The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame,
In her glory's rich Autumn shall Britain remember,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name!

Nor forget his grey-head, who, all dark in affliction,
Is deaf to the tale of our victories won,

And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection,
The shout of his people applauding his son;
By his firmness, unmov'd in success or disaster,

By his long reign of virtue remember his claim!
With our tribute to PITT, join the praise of his master,
Though a tear stains the goblet that flows to his name!

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure,
The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid,
To our Prince, to our Warriors, devote the bright treasure,
The wisdom that plann'd, and the zeal that obey'd.
Fill WELLINGTON's cup, till it beams like his glory!
Forget not our own brave DALHOUSIE and GRÆME;
A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their glory,
And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame!

OH THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT.
T. Moore.

OH! think not my spirits are always as light,

And as free from a pang, as they seem to you now; Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow: No, life is a waste of wearisome hours,

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns!

But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile;

May we never meet worse in our pilgrimage here Than the tear that enjoyment can gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear!

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows!
If it were not with friendship and love intertwin'd;
And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,

When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind! But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest,

Too often have wept o'er the dream they believ'd;
And the heart, that has slumber'd in friendship securest,
Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceived.

But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth
Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine-
That the sunshine of Love may illumine our youth,
And the moonlight of Friendship console our decline!

WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE.

T. Moore.

WHEN he who adores thee has left but the name

Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

Oh! say, wilt thou weep when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd?

Yes, weep! and, however my foes may condenın,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;

For Heaven can witness, tho' guilty to them,

I have been but too faithful to thee!

With thee were the dreams of my earliest lovè,
Every thought of my reason was thine:

In my last humble pray'r to the Spirit above,

Thy name shall be mingled with mine!

Oh! bless'd are the lovers and friends who shall live The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

FRIEND'S FAR AWAY.

Horace Twiss.

COUNT not the hours, while their silent wings

Thus waft them in fairy flight;

For Feeling, warm from her purest springs,

Shall hallow the scene to-night:

And while the magic of joy is here,

And the colours of life are gay,

Let us think on those that have lov'd us dear

The friends who are far away.

Few are the hearts, that have proved the truth
Of their early affection's vow:

And let those few, the beloved of youth,
Be dear in their absence now.

Oh! vivid long, in the faithful breast,

Shall the gleam of remembrance play,

Like the ling'ring light on the crimson West,
When the sunbeam has pass'd away!

Soft be the sleep of their pleasant hours,

And calm be the seas they roam!

May the way they travel be strew'd with flow'rs,
Till it bring them in safety home!-

And if we, whose hearts are o'erflowing thus,
Ourselves should be doom'd to stray,

May some kind orison rise for us,
When we shall be far away!

LINES,

WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.

T. Campbell.

AT the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,

I have mus'd in a sorrowful mood,

On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower, Where the home of my forefathers stood.

All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode,

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; And travell'd by few is the grass cover'd road, Wirere the hunter of deer and the warrior trode To his hills that encircle the sea.

Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green,
One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,
To mark where a garden had been.
Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,
Ali wild in the silence of Nature, it drew,