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Till on the mountain breeze's wing,
The shout of war thy landsturm fling;
And gleams in myriad hands the sword,
So deep in old Invasion gored.

God is the guide !-thro' woe, thro' fear,
'Rushes his chariot's high career;

God is the guide-thro' night, thro' storm,
Speeds his resistless Angel's form;
And red in many a doubtful fight,

Our fathers' swords carved out their right,
And still thro' field, and fire, and flood,
We'll seal the proud bequest with blood,
And give our babes the boon they gave,—
The glory of a Freeman's grave.
Bring, spirit, bring the splendid day,
That sees our ancient banners play:
Then shall be heard the trumpet-tone,
Where all is silent now, and lone:
From forest deep, from unsunn'd vale,
Shall gleam the sudden flash of mail;
Sudden along the grey hill's side-
Shall proud and patriot squadrons ride;
Keen as his mountain eagle, there
Shall bound the fatal tirailleur ;
There, swift as wind, the dark hussar.
Wheel his broad sabre for the war ;
And mountain nook and cavern'd glen
Give up their hosts of marshal'd men.

Then, Form of Love! no longer sleep :
Thine be it on the gale to sweep,
With Seraph smile, with Seraph power,
To lighten on our gloomy hour,
To bid the fainting land be wise
With wisdom from thy native skies;
Give the strong heart, the hero-will,
Angel! and yet protectress still.

FROM GREECE, A POEM BY WM. HAYGARTH, ESQ.

AND lo! he comes, the modern son of Greece,
The shame of Athens; mark him how he bears
A look o'eraw'd and moulded to the stamp
Of servitude. The ready smile, the shrug
Submissive, the low cringing bow, which waits
Th' imperious order, and the supple knee

Proclaim his state degen'rate: pliant still
And crouching for his gaiu; whether in vest
Of flowing purple, and with orange zone,
And saffron sandal, and a coif of fur,
He apes the Archon's state, or pressing on
And elbowing the crowd, with slipper'd feet,
And cap of scarlet dye, curl'd locks, and dress
For speed succinct, he ranges the bazar,
And earns the paltry recompense of toil.

Where then shall we the father's genius seek?
Shame to the sons, amidst the song and dance,
And midnight revelry; these have outlived
The bold but transient features, these survive
The glow of fancy and the strength of thought.
The feast is spread, and the recumbent guests,
Inclining o'er their tripods, quaff the wines
Of Zea or of Samos; mirth goes round,
The laugh, the jest, dispel their gloomy thoughts,
And yield a momentary happiness.

The strain begins-the mandoline awaked
By rudest touch, preludes the measure wild,
Whilst the responsive song, by none refused,
Successive passes round the applauding guests,
Phrosyne's mournful dirge, or thy soft air,
O beauteous Haidee! the tambour beats-
And Athens' daughters, starting at the sound,
In loosely cinctured robes of crimson hue,
With ringlets darkly shadowing their breasts,
Throw back their snowy necks upon the air,
And wave their rosy-finger'd hands and lead,
The sprightly chorus, or the mazy round
Which Theseus first beheld, when he return'd
Victor from Crete, by Delian virgins twin'd.

Regardless of these sounds of revelry, Silent and dull, and meas'ring every step, With solemn air, the Moslem stalks along; His look, his gait, his habit, all proclaim The supercilious despot of the land. The muslin turban coil'd around his head In spiral folds, shades his wan cheek; his brow Low'rs gloomily upon his half-raised eye; And from his arch'd nose, and lip with smile-> Contemptuous curl'd, his shaggy beard descends, The tawdry splendor of his garb declares His Eastern origin; a silken vest

Of varied colours loosely veils his limbs,

And round each ankle floats; a purple belt
Invests his ample waist, bearing the load
Of pistol and of studded yatagan.

One hand sustains his pipe and one adjusts
The yellow robe, which from his shoulders broad
Sweeping in graceful folds, now shows and now
Conceals the manly texture of his form.
'Tis his delight beneath a canopy
Of interwoven vines, upon his mat
To pass the sultry hours, inhaling fumes
Of fragrant leaf, and supping the dark stream
Of Mocha's berry; he, so occupied,
Recks not of toil, of danger, or of war,
And hears unmoved how Russia's hardy sons
Launch their red thunders o'er the Danau's wave.
Hence turn your gaze-the low degen'rate race
Claims not another thought; but we will search
The monuments of time; and there peruse
Those forms of genius which in vain we seek
Amidst the living tenants, firmly traced
On lifeless marble, and on sculptured stone :·
In them a spirit still survives, in them
The soul of Athens seems to live again.

Here let us pause, e'en at the vestibule
Of Theseus' fane-with what stern majesty
It rears its pond'rous and eternal strength,
Still perfect, still unchanged, as on the day
When the assembled throng of multitudes
With shouts proclaim'd th' accomplish'd work, and fell
Prostrate upon their faces to adore

Its marble splendor. How the golden gleam
Of noonday floats upon its graceful form,
Tinging each grooved shaft, and storied frize
And Doric trigliph! How the rays amidst
The op'ning columns glanced from point to point,
Stream down the gloom of the long portico;
Where, link'd in moving mazes, youths and maids
Lead the light dance, as erst in joyous hour
Of festival! how the broad pediment,

Embrown'd with shadow, frowns above and spreads
Solemnity and reverential awe!

Proud monument of old magnificence!
Still thou survivest, nor has envious Time
Impair'd thy beauty, save that it has spread
A deeper tint, and dimm'd the polish'd glare
Of thy refulgent whiteness. Let mine eyes
Feast on thy form, and find at ev'ry glance
Themes for imagination and for thought.

Empires have fallen, yet art thou unchanged;
And Destiny, whose tide engulphs proud man,
Has roll'd his harmless billows at thy base.
Thy youth beheld thy country's fame, thine age
Beholds her agony; warriors have sought

Thy sacred walls, and 'gainst these columns rear'd
Their blood-stain'd lances, whilst they swell'd the hymn
Of victory; and now the abject Greek

Sighs on thy steps his superstitious pray'r.
Thou art the chronicle of ages past,
The lasting testimony; let me call
The spirit that resides within thy stones,
And it will tell me an appalling tale

Of rapine and convulsion, and dire war,
Which thou hast witness'd. Mighty monument!
He who first rear'd thy frame, believed perchance
He raised thee for a few short years, a point
In the vast circle of eternity;

Nor did he dream that thou should'st be the pledge
Of Grecian genius to the numberless

Myriads unborn, and that beneath thy walls
Children of nations then unknown to fame,
The Gaul, the Briton, and the frozen son
Of polar regions, should together meet,
And on thy pure unsullied glories gaze.

THE CALLING OF THE CLANS. 1745.

From the Novel of Waverley.

MIST darkens the mountain, night darkens the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael;
A stranger commanded-it sunk on the land,

It has frozen each heart, and benumb'd every hand!

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but redden'd with rust;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.

The deeds of our sires if a bard should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string and be hush'd every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is gone.

But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last,
Glenaladale's peaks are illumined with rays,

And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.

O high-minded. Moray!-the exiled--the dear!-
In the blush of the morning the standard uprear r!
Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly,
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh!

Ye sons of the strong, when the dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake?
That dawn never beam'd on your forefather's eye,
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.

O sprung from the kings who in Islay kept state,
Proud chiefs of Clan Ranald, Glengary, and Sleat!
Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow,
And resistless in union rush down on the foe!

True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel,

Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel!
Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell,
Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!

Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail,
Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale!
May the race of Clan Gillcan, the fearless and free,
Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee !

Let the clan of Grey Fingon, whose offspring has given
Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven,
Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri-More,
To launch the long galley and stretch to the oar!

How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display
The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey y!
How the race of wrong'd Alpin and murder'd Glencoe
Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!

Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar,
Resume the pure faith of the great Callain-More!
Mac Neil of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake,
For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake!

Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountain, the frith and the lake! 'Tis the bugle-but not to the chase is the call; 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons-but not to the hall. VOL. LVI.

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