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Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown;
He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.


At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,


With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown;
He raised a mortal to the skies,

She drew an angel down.



AVENGE, O Lord! thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones,

* Probably written in 1655. Newton observes: "This prayer, in behalf of the persecuted Protestants, was not entirely without effect. For Cromwell exerted himself in their favour, and his behaviour in this whole transaction is greatly to his honour, even as it is related by an historian, who was far from being partial to his memory. 'Nor would the Protector be backward in such a work, which might give the world a particular opinion of his piety and zeal for the Protestant religion; but he proclaimed a solemn feast, and caused large contributions to be gathered for them throughout the kingdom of England and Wales. Nor did he rest here, but sent his agents to the Duke of Savoy, a prince with whom he had no correspondence or commerce, and the next year so engaged the Cardinal of France, and even terrified the Pope himself, without so much as doing any favour to the English



Forget not in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese that rolled
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundredfold, who, having learned thy way
Early, may fly the Babylonian woe.



WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide; And that one talent which is death to hide,* Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve there with my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide: Doth God exact day-labour, light denied, I fondly ask? But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean rest;

They also serve who often stand and wait.


Roman Catholics, that the Duke thought it necessary to restore all that he had taken from them, and renewed all those privileges they had formerly enjoyed-so great was the terror of his name; nothing being more usual than his saying that his ships in the Mediterranean should visit Civita Vecchia, and the sound of his cannon should be heard in Rome.'-See Echard, vol. 2."

* An allusion to the parable in Matthew xxv.

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What! were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good night?
"Twas pity nature brought you forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.


ye are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave; And after they have shown their pride, Like you awhile, they glide

Into the grave.



THE gloomy night is gathering fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter'd coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, press'd with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The autumn mourns her ripening corn
By early winter's ravage torn:



Across her placid, azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly;
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave.
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

'Tis not the surging billow's roar,
"Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
Though death in every shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round
my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierced with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Farewell! old Coila's hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!
Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those-
The bursting tears my heart declare;
Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr!




LOCHIEL, Lochiel, 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 scatter'd 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 Glenallin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning: no rider in there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led! Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead! For a merciless sword on Culloden shall waveCulloden, that recks with the blood of the brave.


Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer!
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,

Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.


Ha! laughest thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth,

From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north?
Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode,
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad:

But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
Ah! home let him speed-for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
Those embers, like stars, from the firmament cast?
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height,
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn,
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!

For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood."

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