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For (he Anniversary of Mb. Pitt's Birth-day, celebrated at Edinburgh,
Oh! dread wa» tire time, and more dreadful the omen,
When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in vain, And beholding broad Europe bent down by her foeman,
Pitt closed in his anguish the map of her reign. Not the fate of wide Europe could bend his brave spirit,
To accept for his country the safety of shame, Oh! then in her triumph, remember his merit,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name!
ttound the husbandman's head, while he traces the furrow,
The mists of the Winter may mingle with rain,
And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it in vain.
But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim; And their jubilee shout shall be soften'd with sadness,
While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name!
Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,
In toils for our country preserv'd by his care, Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended,
To light the long darkness of doubt and despair;
The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name 1
Nor forget his grey-head, who, all dark in affliction,
Is deaf to the tale of our victories won,
The shout of his people applauding his son;
By his long reign of virtue remember his claim! With our tribute to Pitt, join the praise of his master,
Though a tear stains the goblet that flows to his name!
Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure,
The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid, To our Prince, to our Warriors, devote the bright treasure,
The wisdom that plann'd, and the zeal that obey'd. Fill Wellington's cup, till it beams like his glory!
Forget not our own brave Dalhousie and Graeme; A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their glory,
And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame!
OH THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT.
OH! think not my spirits are always as light,
And as free from a pang, as they seem to you now; Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night
Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow: No, life is a waste of wearisome hours,
Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers
Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns!
But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile;
May we never meet worse in our pilgrimage here' Than the tear that enjoyment can gild with a smile,
And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear!
The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows!
If it were not with friendship and love intertwin'd; And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,
When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind! But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest,
Too often have Wept o'er the dream they believ'd,;
Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceived.
And the moonlight of Friendship console Our decline!
WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE.
WHtN he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
Of a life that for thee was resign'd?
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
I have been but too faithful to thee)
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love>
Every thought of my reason was thine:
Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
The days of thy glory to see;
Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
FRIENDS FAR AWAY.
COUNT not the hours, while their silent wings
Thus waft them in fairy flight;
Shall hallow the scene to-night:
And the colours of life are gay,
The friends who are far away.
Few are the hearts, that have proved the truth
Of their early affection's vow:
Be dear in their absence now.
Shall the gleam of remembrance play,
When the sunbeam has pass'd away!
Soft be the sleep of their pleasant hours,
And calm be the seas they roam!
Till it bring, them in safety home!—
Ourselves should be doom'd to stray,
When we shall he far away!
Written On Visiting A Scene In Argyllshire.
AT the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,
I have mus'd in a sorrowful mood, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower,
Where the home of my forefathers stood. All rnin'd and wild is their rootless abode,
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; '.And travell'd by few is the grass cover'd road, Wlwe 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,
To mark where a garden had heen.
All wild in the silence of Mature, it drew,