Here's freedom to him that would read,
And freedom to him that would write;
There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard,
But they whom the truth would indite.
Here's a health to them that's awa,
An' here's to them that's awa!
Here's Maitland, and Wycombe, and wha does na like 'em, Be built in the hole o' the wa'!
Here's timmer that's red at the heart,
Here's fruit that is sound at the core;
May he that would turn the Buff and the Blue coat,
Be turn'd to the back o' the door.
Here's a health to them that's awa,
An' here's to them that's awa!
Here's chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd,
Though bred among mountains o' snaw.
Here's friends on baith sides o' the Forth,
And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed;
And wha would betray old Albion's rights,
May they never eat of her bread!
Sweetest of minstrels, strike the harp again!
The northern harp! Hie to St Fillan's spring,
And o'er its chords thy magic fingers fling,
Waking, as erst, its more than mortal strain,
Oh strike the harp, till the resounding plain,
The woods, the valleys, and the mountains ring
With the beloved notes, for they do bring
Ease to my world-tired spirit; they restrain
The guilty murmurings of my care-vex'd heart;
They raise its sinking hopes-they hush its fears-
Its ever-changing doubts they bid depart-
And, while they steep mine eyes in thoughtful tears;
Revive the music of wind, grove, and stream,
That, blended, linger on my memory like a dream.
P. G. P.
ODE FOR THE 25TH OCTOBER.
This was a day of Jubilee,
A day to every Briton dear;
But now, unmeet the sound of glee,
'Tis hallow'd with a silent tear;
That "God would save," no more the prayer,
We only ask, that Heav'n would spare.
Oh, honour'd be that aged head,
White with venerable snows
That "four score years" have sternly shed;
Oh, doubly honour'd be the woes
That left him but a shadowy throne
In storms, in darkness, and alone.
And yet, though" quench'd those orbs" in night, Though lost that mind in deepest shade, Celestial visions, pure and bright,
And angel visits duly paid,
May break on this dark wint'ry state,
And cheer the blind, the insulate.
Oh, God! if such communion be
The solace of his loneliness,
If his high converse be with thee
And angels, who his visions bless,
Then who would such illusion break?
Oh, who would bid such dreamer wake?
Peace be with thee, afflicted sire !
Howe'er from reason's path astray.
May Heav'n still lend its pillar'd fire
To guide thee on thy lonely way;
Fill thy soul here with thoughts sublime,
And loose thee in its own good time!
RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH, Esq.
Oh Dio! perche son io la messagiera.-Tasso.
There is a mournful silence, that pervades
The weeping world, whene'er a great man falls;
A smother'd grief, that feelingly invades
The seats of wisdom, and the festive balls,
The public walks, the active scenes of life,
The holy temple, and the hermit's cell;
That chills or soothes the power of love and strife,
And marks the man is gone we loved so well.
The hero claims a great, a general grief,-
Loudly contrasting victory with death;
The matchless valour of the glorious chief,
Who breathes with patriot soul his latest breath.
Thus, as he falls, ensures his country's good,
As joy and grief alternately appears,
And Pity weeps the god-like hero's blood,-
Enshrined and hallow'd by a nation's tears.
But thou, my Edgeworth! soul with science fraught!
No dazzling halo shades thy recent tomb;
No trembling nations, to obedience brought,
Feel, in thy conquering sword, the power of Rome;
No heart indignant, crush'd in early day,
Soothes, in inglorious ease, his broken frame; Cursing the hour when Edgeworth led the way To deathless glory, and immortal fame.
Yet shall the world confess, with poignant grief,
How much thy loss we bitterly deplore;"
Whilst memory brings a sad unkind relief-
To weep and mourn that Edgeworth is no more!
Friend of my father! Genius hail'd thy birth,
Bestow'd a great, a comprehensive mind;
Taught thee to scan the latent powers of earth,
Nature and Art to fathom and combine.
truant fancy ruled thy precious hours, Nor check'd the bias of thy lofty mind; Reason alone controll'd thy mental powers, And made thy talents useful to mankind.
Come, Sons of the Hill! leave the Chamois and Roe,
For the harvest lies thick in the valley below:
Bavaria and Gaul they have banded their might;
The slave and the tyrant are harness'd for fight.
Then, gather ye here, in the mist and the snow,
On the tower of your strength, o'er the heads of the foe-
Should the flash of your bright arms be seen from your shroud,
It will seem only lightning that breaks through the cloud.
Should the sound of your watchword be heard in the night,
They will think it the echo of winds from the height:
And the clash of your feet, as ye rush to the plain,
Will be heard as a winter brook swell'd with the rain.
And gather, ye eagles, ye wolves of the hill;
The banquet is set, ye shall revel your fill:
Come down like the whirlwind, come down like the flood,
For the reapers are gone to the harvest of blood.
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