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“ Yes; and here is a song which is both spirited and highly poetical.”
THE CALL OF MORVEN. Strike the harp! strike the harp! O ye masters of song! Call forth your high strains that to glory belong. The valiant depart, go ye minstrels before, And lead with proud steps to the fight as of yore. High flames the red signal on Cruachan's bound, And answering swords gleam in thousands around. The banner of Albin unfurls in its might, And flaps like an eagle preparing for flight; Full spread to the blast see it rushes afar, And the sons of green Morven must follow to war. Hide your tears ! Oye maids, in your brightness o'ercast, Nor rend your fair locks till the heroes be past ! Approach not, ye mothers, lamenting afar, For the sons of green Morven are summoned to war! 0 ye
shores of the ocean, for combats renown'd, Where the bones of the mighty lie scatter'd around; Where the Roman was chased from the hill to the plain, And the haughty Norweyan lies stretched on the Dane: Again shall
tell where the valiant have died, And the spoiler of nations stood check'd in his pride; Once more shall your echoes redouble from far The sound of pursuit, and the triumph of war.
“But,” continued the nymph, “it is in the simple pathetic that the author most excels,--and here is a sittle piece of that kind which I think affecting and pretty."
THE SWISS BEGGAR.
0 I am not of this countrie,
And much my heart is wrung,
And beg in foreign tongue.
"Tis all to gain a little sum
To bear me o'er the sea; And hither slowly I am come
To ask your charity.
My home is in the Valteline,
Far inland from the main ; And every day I wish and pine
To see it once again.
I cannot mend this little store ;
My wishing is in vain;
Ah never, ne'er again !
If you have ever been abroad,
Bestow an alms on me ! And think you speed me on my road
My native land to see.
My cot still rises to my view,
And will not let me stay ;
And long is the delay!
And must I ever thus deplore
My labour spent in vain ?
Ah never, ne'er again!
Your country is a pleasant land,
But, oh, it is not mine!
As in the Valteline.
When on my native hills I play'd,
I breathed not English air ;
I did not love an English maid
When love was all my care.
But I must die on England's strand,
A prisoner of the main !
Ah, never, ne'er again!
“ I am also well-pleased with another short poem, which, without being very lofty in the style, is very animated in the conception, and full of lyrical energy."
ODE TO PATRIOTISM.
And oft, when slumber seald mine eyes,
First on the lisping infant's tongue ;
“ But here is a sweet and pleasing effusion. It becomes pathetic by the sorrow that we feel in remembering the author. All of his, we trust, shall not die."
THE POET TO HIS WORKS.
burst the envious shade? Or, like the bard, fore-doom'd to die,
Unseen, unhonour'd, must ye fade?
Yet droop not hopeless round his urn,
Untimely though your blossoms fall,
For you nor he shall perish all.
Sprung through a crevice of the tomb,
A solitary stem may blow,
And point the humble name below.
Some simple, unambitious strain,
Low breathed in beauty's pensive ear,
Framed in the flowing of a tear ;