The baby poet-wond'rous child
Who rhymed, and wrote, and sung, and smiled,
Her sweet conceits and fancies wild
She quaintly strung, and duly filed
In her most unique journal.
Short space was she to earth confined,
For matter was too weak for mind;
No earthly tie her soul could bind;
She soared to mingle with her kind
Beyond our sphere diurnal.
Mysterious questions we might ask--
Was it in human love to bask--
Work out some heaven-commissioned task,
Then lay aside her mortal mask,
The spiritual assuming?
We may not ask, but this we know--
The stings of guilt, the pangs of woe,
The blush of shame, shall never glow
On cheeks where Heaven's own roses blow
For ever fresh and blooming.
THY name, Caledonia! Queen of the North!
On my wild harp is thrilling-I sing of thy worth;
Though simple the melody, lofty thy name,
Thy virtues, thy valour, thy learning, and fame.
Though sterile thy soil and inclement thy clime—
On thy dark hills of mist, in the far olden time—
On thy storm-beaten islets, wild, barren, and lone,
The twin stars of learning and liberty shone.
The badge of the conqueror thou never hast worn;
Thy red lion-banner hath ever been borne
In war by the hand of the free and the brave,
The patriot, the hero, but never the slave.
Like a rock in the ocean, thou often hast braved
High tides of invasion, wild tempests that raved,
And rolled in hoarse thunder the waves on thy form,
Oft drenched by the spray, not o'erthrown in the
When o'er the blue Grampians, majestic and hoar,
The eagles of Rome sought in triumph to soar,
They were struck in their flight by the fierce moun-
tain-erne,
Thy own Caledonians, stalwart and stern.
Of Wallace, the deathless, what need I to tell?
He fought for and saved thee-by traitors he fell;
Of Bruce, who made England's fair daughters to mourn,
For brothers and sires slain at red Bannockburn.
When dark persecution, relentless and stern,
Like water poured out on the heather and fern,
On the hill and the woodland, the glen and the cave,
The blood of thy martyrs, the pious and brave;
Then the sword of the covenant leaped from its sheath, And they vowed to contend, even to torture and death, For truth and for conscience, nor once lay it down, Till the tyrant was 'reft of his kingdom and crown.
My loved Caledonia! still in the van,
For the faith of the Christian, the rights of the man, Thy sons have been found, they have blazoned thy name, And placed it on high in the temple of fame.
In the field, in the council, in science and art,
With valour, with wisdom, and genius, thy part
Thou actest; and earth has no kingdom or clime,
Where thy sons do not further the promised good time.
On the glories we gaze that encircle thy name,
But dark clouds, impregnate with sorrow and shame,
Are low'ring above thee, and threaten to shed
A deluge of ruin and woe on thy head.
No foreign invader descends on thy shore,
Dane, Roman, and Saxon oppress thee no more;
The sword of the tyrant now sleeps in the sheath;
Ah! the foe is within that consumes thee to death.
Awake! Caledonia! wake! O awake!
Arm! arm for the combat! thy life is at stake!
At the name of the foe do not falter or shrink-
'Tis the spirit of evil incarnate in drink.
HIGHLY GIFTED AND PRECOCIOUS CHILD,
WHO DIED AT THE AGE OF SIX YEARS AND TWO MONTHS.
Too fair, too pale, too pure and wise
For earth, she early sought the skies;
Her fair broad brow and hazel eyes,
Instinct with genius, ever rise
On Memory's mournful eye.
Oh! gifted child of love and song,
Could prayers and tears thy stay prolong,
How had they flowed! The angel throng
Bore on their wings, with joy and song,
Our darling to the sky.
Fair star at thy terrestrial birth
I hailed thee-watched thy course on earth;
Grave were thy joys, and quiet thy mirth-
The radiant orb, soon lost to earth,
Is shining high in heaven.
Thy earthly home a rural cot
With roses draped, with many a plot
Of flowers-earth holds no lovelier spot-
All, all remain, but thou art not,
For thou wert lent, not given.
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