For thee, awakes each tuneful lyre,
Each guardian virtue hovers round,
The "voice of Coila" leads the choir,
And Coila's hills return the sound!

Sweet voice, that first awak'd thy ear,
When languor spread its thickest gloom,
Sweet hills, whose echoes lov'd to bear
His wood notes to VALLESIA'S dome.

Though cold the hand that wak'd the lyre, And mute the voice that tun'd the lay; That spark of pure celestial fire,

That warm'd the strain, shall ne'er decay.

While Wealth and Power, with cold regard,
Beheld the Muse's darling Son!
He wak'd that lay his best reward,
The smile of Nature-and thy own.

'Twas thine, in fortune's lowest vale The crush'd, neglected flower to spy, And bid its fragrant sweets exhale,

And latent beauties charm the eye.

Nor only to the poet's lay,

Hast deign'd, with kind regard to bend, But through life's short and stormy day, Consol'd him with the name of Friend:

That name, his best and dearest boast, Whene'er his erring steps would stray, Rever'd, belov'd, and honour'd most, Recall'd him back to wisdom's way.

And when the wounds of Anguish bled, Thy kindness dropt the healing balm; And when the storm of Passion fled,

Thy counsel breath'd the sacred calm.

And when Misfortune's tempest lowr'd,
Thy kind assisting hand was near;
And when Remorse its sorrows pour'd,
'Twas thine to wipe the bitter tear.

Thou knew'st, well read in wisdom's lore, What failings with our virtues blend; Than truth and honour sought no more, Nor vainly hop'd a faultless friend.

For this, the muse that sings unknown
Shall strew thy evening path with flowers;
And halcyon peace her olive crown

Shall hang on thy sequester'd bowers.

For this from India's bright domains
Thy sons the blood-stain'd laurel bring,
For this again their native plains,
With loud acclaim trinmphant ring!

While in thy kind maternal shade

We see another WALLACE* rise,

Whose early steps, to honour led,
His country views with kindling eyes:

And while his deep indented spears
Protect her thistle's hallow'd stem;

And while her rampant lion rears
To guard the British diadem:

And while a Scottish pulse beats high,
Accordant to her hero's name,

And while in Valour's ardent eye,

Oppression wakes th' indignant flame:

Alluding to a most promising grandson who bears that

name.

And while, through all her winding vales
Sad SCOTIA for her poet mourns,

And far as Britain's conquering sails

Extends the deathless name of BURNS:

And while kind Friendship's generous breast
Swells with the tide of sympathy,

Or suns declining gild the west,
VALLESIA'S name shall never die!

When wealth and pride, without a name,
Are swept to drear oblivion's gloom,
The muse's never-dying flame

Shall kindle odours on thy tomb.

There, Praise shall purest incense breathe,

And Fancy fairest garlands twine,

And CALEDONIA bless the wreath

That decks VALLESIA's simple shrine.

MOOME.

DOMESTIC MUSE! if such a Muse there be, or whatever power presides over pathetic simplicity, over the tender, endearing intercourse of humble life, over those virtues that bloom unseen, and wither unlamented, enable me, in appropriate terms, to convey some idea of that worth to which I have endeavoured to hang up a votive tablet in the temple of Memory!

The person who is the subject of the following verses, was Highland to extravagance, and possessed all the characteristic virtues of that enthusiastic race, without their debasing mixtures. She was hospitable without ostentation ; -she bore hardships and poverty without a malignant jealousy of the wealthy;-she adored her own Clan and Chief, without disliking or undervaluing any other,—and her family-pride merely served as an outguard to her innate dignity of mind;-she was all I have described,

"And still it was her dearest charm,
"She said she lo'ed me best of a3 !?”