(That fires yon heaven with storms of death,) Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy!
The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

XXXVI.

But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heaven

Forbid not thee to weep:

:

Nor will the Christian host,

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,
To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most:

She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun-thy heaven-of lost delight!

XXXVII.

To-morrow let us do or die!

But when the bolt of death is hurled,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?
Seek we thy once-loved home?

The hand is gone that cropt its flowers:
Unheard their clock repeats its hours!
Cold is the hearth within their bowers!
And should we thither roam,

Its echoes, and its empty tread,

Would sound like voices from the dead!

XXXVIII.

Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed,
And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft?
Ah! there, in desolation cold,

The desert serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone,

And stones themselves to ruin grown,

Like me, are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp,-for there

The silence dwells of my despair!

XXXIX.

But hark, the trump!-to morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears :
Ev'n from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,
Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry the last--the first-
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;

Because I may not stain with grief

The death-song of an Indian chief!"

LINES

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH,

THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT.

PLEDGE to the much-loved land that gave us birth!
Invincible romantic Scotia's shore!

Pledge to the memory of her parted worth!
And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore !

And be it deemed not wrong that name to give,
In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's sigh!
Who would not envy such as Moore to live?

And died he not as heroes wish to die?

Yes, though too soon attaining glory's goal,
To us his bright career too short was given;

Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul

Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven!

How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain

One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn For him!-How oft on far Corunna's plain Shall British exiles weep upon his urn!

Peace to the mighty dead ;

-our bosom thanks In sprightlier strains the living may inspire! Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia's ranks, Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire!

Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled,

Dear symbol wild! on Freedom's hills it grows, Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world, And Roman eagles found unconquered foes.

Joy to the band* this day on Egypt's coast,
Whose valour tamed proud France's tricolor,
And wrenched the banner from her bravest host,
Baptized Invincible in Austria's gore!

Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand,
When, bayonet to bayonet opposed,

First of Britannia's host her Highland band

Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed!

Is there a son of generous England here

To

Or fervid Erin?-he with us shall join,

pray that in eternal union dear,

The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!

Types of a race who shall th' invader scorn,
As rocks resist the billows round their shore;
Types of a race who shall to time unborn
Their country leave unconquered as of yore!

The 42nd Regiment.

STANZAS

TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN
RESISTING. THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF

ANGOULEME.

BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell

Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain,
There is a victory in dying well

For Freedom,-and ye have not died in vain ;
For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain
To honour, ay embrace your martyred lot,

Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain,

And looking on your graves, though trophied not,
As holier hallowed ground than priests could make the spot!

What though your cause be baffled-freemen cast
In dungeons-dragged to death, or forced to flee ;
Hope is not withered in affliction's blast-

The patriot's blood 's the seed of Freedom's tree;

And short your orgies of revenge shall be,
Cowled Demons of the Inquisitorial cell!

Earth shudders at your victory,—for ye

Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell,
The baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of Hell!