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Peace to the mighty dead!-our bosom-thanks In sprightlier strains the living may inspire! Joy to the chiefs that lead obl Scotia's ranks, Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire!

Triumphant be the thistle still unfurl'd,

Dear symbol wild! on freedom's hills it grows, Where Fingal stemm'd the tyrants of the world, And Roman eagles found unconquer'd foes.

Joy to the band this day on Egypt's coast

Whose valour tam'd proud France's tricolór, And wrench'd the banner from her bravest host, Baptiz'd Invincible in Austria's gore!

The 42d Regiment.

Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand,

When bayonet to bayonet oppos'd,

First of Britannia's hosts her Highland band

Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost clos'd!

Is there a son of generous England here

Or fervid Erin?-he with us shall join,

'To pray that in eternal union dear,

The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!

Types of a race who shall th' invader scorn,

As rocks resist the billows round their shore,
Types of a race who shall to time unborn
Their country leave unconquer'd as of yore!

LINES

WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.

Ar the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,

I have mused in a sorrowful mood,

On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower, Where the home of my forefathers stood.

All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode,
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree;
And travelled by few is the grass-covered road,
Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode

To his hills that encircle the sea.

Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green,

One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,
To mark where a garden had been.

Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,
All wild in the silence of Nature, it drew,
From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace;
For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the
place,

Where the flower of my forefathers grew.

Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all

That remains in this desolate heart!

The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall;

But patience shall never depart!

Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright,

In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd, With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight,

Abandon my soul like a dream of the night,

And leave but a desart behind.

Be hushed, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns When the faint and the feeble deplore;

Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems

A thousand wild waves on the shore!

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