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This simple tablet marks a father's bier,
And those he loved in life, in death are near;
For him, for them, a daughter bade it rise,
Memorial of domestic charities.

Still wouldst thou know why, o'er the marble spread, In female grace the willow droops her head; Why on her branches, silent and unstrung, The minstrel harp is emblematic hung; What poet's voice is smother'd here in dust, Till waked to join the chorus of the just,Lo! one brief line an answer sad supplies, Honour'd, beloved, and mourn'd, here SEWARD lies! Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friendship say,— Go seek her genius in her living lay.

THE RETURN TO ULSTER.

ONCE again, but how changed since my wanderings began

I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann,
And the pines of Cambrassil resound to the roar
That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore.

Alas! my poor bosom, and why shouldst thou burn;
With the scenes of my youth can its raptures return?
Can I live the dear life of delusion again,

That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd with my strain?

It was then that around me, though poor and unknown,
High spells of mysterious enchantment were thrown :
The streams were of silver, of diamond the dew,
The land was an Eden, for fancy was new.

I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire
At the rush of their verse and the sweep of their lyre :
To me 't was not legend, nor tale to the ear,
But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd and clear.

Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call,

And renew'd the wild pomp of the chase and the hall;
And the standard of Fion flash'd fierce from on high,
Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is nigh.
It seem'd that the harp of green Erin once more
Could renew all the glories she boasted of yore.
Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, shouldst thou burn?
They were days of delusion, and cannot return.

But was she too a phantom, the maid who stood by,
And listed my lay, while she turn'd from mine eye?
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view,
Then dispersed in the sun-beam or melted to dew?
Oh! would it had been so! Oh! would that her eye
Had been but a star-glance that shot through the sky,
And her voice that was moulded to melody's thrill,
Had been but a zephyr that sigh'd and was still!

Oh! would it had been so! Not then this poor heart
Had learn'd the sad lesson, to love and to part;
To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care,
While I toil'd for the wealth I had no one to share.
Not then had I said, when life's summer was done,
And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding on,
<< Take the fame and the riches ye brought in your train,
And restore me the dream of my spring-tide again!»

In ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion, or Fingal, is called the Sun-burst, an epithet feebly rendered by the Sun-beam of Macpherson.

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But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand,
We list the legends of our native land,
Link'd as they come with every tender tie,
Memorials dear of youth and infancy.

Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon,
Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son.
Whether on India's burning coasts he toil,
Or till Acadia's winter-fetter'd soil,

He hears with throbbing heart and moisten'd eyes,
And as he hears, what dear illusions rise!
It opens on his soul his native dell,

The woods wild waving, and the water's swell :
Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain,
The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain;
The cot beneath whose simple porch were told,
By gray-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old,

The infant group that hush'd their sports the while,

And the dear maid who listen'd with a smile.
The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain,
Is denizen of Scotland once again.

Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined,
And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind?
Oh no! for she, within whose mighty page
Each tyrant passion shows his woe and rage,
Has felt the wizard influence they inspire,
And to your own traditions tuned her lyre.
Yourselves shall judge-whoe'er has raised the sail
By Mull's dark coast has heard this evening's tale.
The plaided boatman, resting on his oar,
Points to the fatal rock amid the roar
Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night
Our humble stage shall offer to your sight;
Proudly preferr'd, that first our efforts give
Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live;
More proudly yet, should Caledon approve
The filial token of a daughter's love!

FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE,

HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL.

FROM THE GAELIC.

THE original verses are arranged to a beautiful Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted to the double pull upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore distinct from the ordinary jorrams, or boat-songs. They were composed by the family bard upon the departure of the Earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take refuge in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the Stuart family, in the year 1718.

FAREWELL to Mackenneth, great Earl of the North,
The Lord of Lochcarron, Glensheil, and Seaforth;
To the chieftain this morning his course who began,
Launching forth on the billows his bark like a swan.
For a far foreign land he has hoisted his sail,
Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail!

O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew,
May her captain be skilful, her mariners true,

1 Acadia, or Nova Scotia.

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Whom brief rolling moons in six changes have left,
Of thy husband, and father, and brethren bereft,
To thine ear of affection how sad is the hail
That salutes thee the heir of the line of Kintail!

WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN,

HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN.

FROM THE GAELIC.

THIS song appears to be imperfect, or at least, like many of the early Gaelic poems, makes a rapid transition from one subject to another; from the situation, namely, of one of the daughters of the clan, who opens the song by lamenting the absence of her lover, to an eulogium over the military glories of the chieftain. The translator has endeavoured to imitate the abrupt style of the original.

A WEARY month has wander'd o'er
Since last we parted on the shore;
Heaven! that I saw thee, love, once more,
Safe on that shore again!-
'T was valiant Lachlan gave the word;
Lachlan, of many a galley lord:

He call'd his kindred bands on board,
And launch'd them on the main.

Clan-Gillian is to ocean gone;
Clan-Gillian, fierce in foray known;
Rejoicing in the glory won

In many a bloody broil;

For wide is heard the thundering fray,
The rout, the ruin, the dismay,
When from the twilight glens away
Clan-Gillian drives the spoil.

Woe to the hills that shall rebound
Our banner'd bag-pipes' maddening sound;
Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round

Shall shake their inmost cell.
Woe to the bark whose crew shall gaze,
Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays;
The fools might face the lightning's blaze
As wisely and as well!

SAINT-CLOUD.

SOFT spread the southern summer night
Her veil of darksome blue;

Ten thousand stars combined to light
The terrace of Saint-Cloud.

The evening breezes gently sigh'd, Like breath of lover true, Bewailing the deserted pride

And wreck of sweet Saint-Cloud.

The drum's deep roll was heard afar,
The bugle wildly blew

Good night to Hulan and Hussar,

That garrison Saint-Cloud.

1 i. e. The clan of Maclean, literally the race of Gillian.

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Befits the gallant Troubadour.»>

And while he march'd with helm on head
And harp in hand, the descant rung,

As faithful to his favourite maid,
The minstrel burden still he sung:
<< My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
Resolved for love and fame to fight,
I come, a gallant Troubadour.»

E'en when the battle-roar was deep,
With dauntless heart he hew'd his way,
'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,
And still was heard his warrior-lay;
My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love to die, for fame to fight,

Becomes the valiant Troubadour.»>

Alas! upon the bloody field

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, But still, reclining on his shield,

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Expiring sung the exulting stave: My life it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; For love and fame to fall in fight, Becomes the valiant Troubadour.>>

FROM THE FRENCH.

Ir chanced that Cupid on a season, By Fancy urged, resolved to wed, But could not settle whether Reason Or Folly should partake his bed. What does he then?-Upon my life, 'T was bad example for a deityHe takes me Reason for his wife, And Folly for his hours of gaiety.

Though thus he dealt in petty treason, He loved them both in equal measure; Fidelity was born of Reason,

And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure.

SONG,

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE PITT CLUB OF
SCOTLAND.

O DREAD was the time, and more dreadful the omen,
When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in vain,
And, beholding broad Europe bow'd down by her foemen,
PITT closed in his anguish the map of her reign!
Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave spirit,
To take for his country the safety of shame;
O then in her triumph remember his merit,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the furrow,

He

The mists of the winter may mingle with rain,
He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow,
And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it in vain;
die ere his children shall reap in their gladness,
may
But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim,
And their jubilee-shout shall be soften'd with sadness,
While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,
In toils for our country preserved by his care,
Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended,
To light the long darkness of doubt and despair;
The storms he endured in our Britain's December,
The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame,
In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain remember,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Nor forget His gray head, who, all dark in affliction,
Is deaf to the tale of our victories won,
And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection,
The shout of his people applauding his Son;
By his firmness unmoved in success or disaster,

By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim! With our tribute to PITT join the praise of his Master, Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his name.

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure,
The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid,

To our Prince, to our Horoso, devote the bright out,
The wisdom that plann'd, and the zeal that obey'd!
Fill WELLINGTON's cup till it beam like his glory,
Forget not our own brave DALHOUSIE and GRAME;
A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story,
And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame.

SONG,

ON THE LIFTING OF THE BANNER OF THE HOUSE OF

BUCCLEUCH,

At a great Foot-ball Match on Carterhaugh.

FROM the brown crest of Newark its summons extending,
Our signal is waving in smoke and in flame;
And each forester blithe, from his mountain descending,
Bounds light o'er the heather to join in the game.

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