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ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON.

Yearning, unconscious, for the light divine;
Oh! hear the gracious word to thee addressed
By Him, thy Lord, almighty and benign-
"Come unto me, all ye by care oppressed!
Come to my open arms, and I will give you rest!"

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Would thou hadst loved through Judah's courts to stray;

Would Sion Hill Parnassus' love might share;
What joy to hear thy muse's potent lay
The sacred honours of that land declare,
And all that holy scene engage her care;

Where poets harped ere Homer's shell was strung,
Where heavenly wisdom poured her treasures rare,
Long, long ere Athens woke to Solon's song,
And truth-inspired seers of after ages sung.

But, thanks for what we have; and for the more Thy muse doth bid the listening ear attend, Nor vainly bids those whom she charmed before; Oh! let not then this humble verse offend, Her skill can judge the speaking of a friend; Not zeal presumptuous promps the cautious strain, But Christian zeal, that would to all extend The cloudless ray and steady calm that reign, Where evangelic truths their empire due maintain.

CULLODEN.

WHY linger on this battle heath,
So steril, wild, and lonely now?
Stranger! it tells a tale of death,
That well befits its barren brow.
Nay! rest not on that swelling sod,

But let us hence: It marks a grave!
Whose verdure is the price of blood-
The heart-stream of the vainly brave.

Long years ago, from o'er the sea,
A banished prince, of Stuart's line,
Came thither, claiming fealty

And succour in his sire's decline.
A triple diadem-a throne-

Ambition's toys—his birthright were:
Of valleys, lakes, and mountains lone,
Of all our country was he heir.

And there we saw the chequered plaid
Across his bosom proudly cast,—
The mountain bonnet on his head,

Its black plumes streaming in the blast:
And then we heard the gathering cry
Come blended with the pibroch's strain,
And saw the fire-cross flashing by,
Our warriors gathering on the plain.

In sooth it was a stirring sight!

To these old eyes, grown dim with tears, Still, piercing through the after-night, The past in all its pomp appears. These sheltered glens and dusky hills, Yon isles that gem the western wave, Sent forth their strength like mountain rills, To bleed, to die,-but not to save.

CULLODEN.

Away we rushed, for chiefs were there;
And where should we, their clansmen, be
But by their side?-the worst to dare,
Aye changeless, in fidelity.

And yon young regal warrior, too,
So gaily in our tartans dressed,
Was in our van; there proudly flew
The heather o'er his dancing crest.

Then came the Southron hand to hand,
And wide and wasting was the fray;
But Victory smiled on Scotia's brand,

And swept their trembling ranks away.
We chased them o'er the border streams:
Then England heard our slogan shout,
And saw with dread the boreal gleams
Of Highland claymores flashing out.

The foe waxed strong: our chieftains frowned
In council on each other: then

We basely left our vantage ground,

And turned us home like beaten men. Yet England's blue-eyed yeomen bold, Though vaunting in their long array, Confessed it was no play to hold,

Or strike, the mountain deer at bay.

At length Culloden's boding heath,
Despairing, saw our clansmen stand,
While, flaming like the sword of death,
Before us gleamed the Saxon brand.
It smote us merciless; it slew

The flower of many a warrior clan,
Till down yon bank the crimson dew,
To mingle with the hill stream ran.

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Our chieftains sought their native hills;
Our prince was hunted like the deer;
The captives poured their blood in rills;
Nor dared a vassal raise the spear.
Come, come away! you've now the tale,
That cost our country tears of blood:
The Saxon conquered, and the Gael
Lies mouldering 'neath the verdant sod.

THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOËNS.

"On his return from banishment, Camoëns was shipwrecked at the mouth of the river Gambia. He saved himself by clinging to a plank, and of all his little property succeeded only in saving his poem of the Luciad, deluged with the waves as he brought it in his hand to shore.*"-SISMONDI.

I saw him beat the surges under him,

And ride upon their backs; he trod the water,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swoln that met him.-TEMPEST.

CLOUDS gathered o'er the dark blue sky,
The sun waxed dim and pale,
And the music of the waves was changed
To the plaintive voice of wail;

And fearfully the lightning flashed

Around the ship's tall mast,

While mournfully through the creaking shrouds
Came the sighing of the blast.

*He is described with his sword in his hand upon the authority

of his own words :

"N' huma mao livros, n'outra, ferro et aco,

N'huma mao sempre a espada, n'outra a pena."

THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOËNS.

With pallid cheek the seamen shrank
Before the deepening gloom;

For they gazed on the black and boiling sea
As 'twere a yawning tomb;

But on the vessel's deck stood one
With proud and changeless brow:
Nor pain, nor terror was in the look
He turned to the gulf below.

And calmly to his arm he bound
His casket and his sword;
Unheeding, though with fiercer strength
The threatening tempest roared;

Then stretched his sinewy arms, and cried :
"For me there yet is hope;

The limbs that have spurned a tyrant's chain
With the stormy wave may cope.

"Now let the strife of nature rage,
Proudly I yet can claim,

Where'er the waters may bear me on,
My freedom and my fame."

The dreaded moment came too soon,
The sea swept madly on,

Till the wall of waters closed around,
And the noble ship was gone.

Then rose one wild, half-stifled cry;
The swimmer's bubbling breath
Was all unheard, while the raging tide
Wrought well the task of death;
But 'mid the billows still was seen

The stranger's struggling form;

And the meteor flash of his sword might seem
Like a beacon 'mid the storm.

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