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Such was the soldier-Burns, forgive
That sorrows of mine own intrude
In strains to thy great memory due.
In verse like thine, oh! could he live,
The friend I mourn'd—the brave—the good
Edward that died at Waterloo !1

Farewell, high chief of Scottish song!
That couldst alternately impart
Wisdom and rapture in thy page,
And brand each vice with satire strong,
Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,
Whose truths electrify the sage.

Farewell! and ne'er may Envy dare
To wring one baleful poison drop
From the crush'd laurels of thy bust :
But while the lark sings sweet in air,
Still may the grateful pilgrim stop,
To bless the spot that holds thy dust.

1815.

1 Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers.

LINES

WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.

At 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 travell’d by few is the grass-cover'd 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 sunbeam, a lonely embrace, For the night-weed and thorn overshadow'd the

place,
Where the flower of my forefathers grew.

Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of ali

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 combined With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night,

And leave but a desert behind.

Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom con

demns When the faint and the feeble deplore ; Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems

A thousand wild waves on the shore ! Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of

disdain, May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate! Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again:

To bear is to conquer our fate.

1800.

THE scene visited was the ruin of "Kirnan;" situate in the vale of Glassary, about a mile and a half from the ancient manse of Kilmichael. His grandfather, Archibald Campbell, had been the last occupant; and he, when somewhat beyond the flower of youth, contracted marriage with Margaret, daughter of Stuart the laird of Ascog, in the island of Bute, widow of John Mac Arthur, of Milton, whose lands abutted upon the Kirnan estate. Upon Mr. A. Campbell's decease, Robert, his eldest son, appears to have inherited the family mansion, and in process of time to have disposed of it to John Mac Arthur, his half-brother, in order to liquidate debts incurred by profuse Highland hospitality, a love of military display, and a numerous train of retainers.

Mr. Mac Arthur, on the completion of his purchase, still continued to reside at Milton, the new property being incorporated with the old. The house at Kirnan gradually fell out of repair, became uninhabitable, and finally lay ruinous and deserted; a melancholy subject for contemplation to a stranger, but doubly so to one who saw in the “roofless abode” an evident picture of the decayed prosperity of his own family.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd,

[sky; And the sentinel stars set their watch in the And thousands had sunk on the ground over

power'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the

slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,

Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track : 'Twas Autumn-and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me

back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was

young;

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