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THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left,
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see:
The tear that from thine eyelid streams Can weep no change in me.
I ask no pledge to make me blest
Nor one memorial for a breast,
Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write--to tell the tale
By day or night, in weal or woe,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
THE SONG OF A SCOTTISH EMIGRANT.
THE shadows are stealing on forest and brake,
Roll, dim thro' the mist, on the heart-sick'ning view.
By the shores of Ontario I wander alone;
But the dream of fair Scotland has cheer'd me by night, And her plaid wrapp'd me warm on my pillow of stone,
Yet not the long deserts, nor chill-falling damp,
Have struck to my heart desolation so deep,
To traverse the dark heath, and listen behind,
While the yell of the Cannibals drown'd your death-groan, And the fires of their banquet blazed high in the wind!
How many, unconscious, in Scotland's sweet bow'rs,
Too fondly, too madly, ye crowd on my brain!-
In your wild-fleeting visions of rapture and pain!
Even here, lovely Scotland! in want and in woe,
And firm as thy rocks that embosom the sea.
OUR PRINCE'S DAY.
THO' dark are our sorrows, to day we'll forget them, And smile thro' our tears, like a sun-beam in showers; There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours!
But just when the chain
Has ceas'd to pain,
And hope has enwreath'd it round with flowers,
There comes a new link
Our spirit to sink!—
Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
But tho' 'twere the last little spark in our souls,
Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal!
Is love from a heart, that loves liberty too.
While cowards, who blight
Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array;
The standard of green
In front would be seen.
Oh! my life on your faith! were you summon'd this minute,
And shew what the arm of old Erin has in it,
He love's the green isle, and his love is recorded
The gem may be broke
By many a stroke,
But nothing can cloud its native ray;
Each fragment will cast
A light to the last,
And thus, Erin, my country! tho' broken thou art,
And now smiles at their pain, on the Prince's Day!
UNCOUTH is this moss-covered Grotto of stone,
For this is the grotto where Fanny reclin'd,
Then tell me, thou Grotto of moss-covered stone,
Methinks now each bough, as you're waving it, tries
To hint how she frown'd, when I dar'd to advise,
True, true, silly leaves, so she did, I allow;
She frown'd--but no rage in her looks could I see ; She frown'd-but reflection had clouded her brow; She sighed but perhaps 'twas in pity to me.