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Go where the havoc of your kerne
Shall float as high as mountain fern!
Men shall no more your mansion know!
The nettles on your hearth shall grow!
Dead, as the green oblivious flood
That mantles by your walls, shall be
The glory of O'Connor's blood !
Away! away to Athunrte !
Where, downward when the sun shall fall,
The raven's wing shall be your pall !
And not a vassal shall unlace
The vizor from your dying face !
“A bolt that overhung our dome
Suspended till my curse was given,
Soon as it passed these lips of foam,
Pealed in the blood-red heaven.
Dire was the look that o'er their backs
The angry parting brothers threw :
But now, behold ! like cataracts,
Come down the hills in view
O'Connor's plumèd partisans ;
Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans
Were marching to their doom :
A sudden storm their plumage tossed,
A flash of lightning o'er them crossed,
And all again was gloom !
Stranger ! I fled the home of grief,
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall;
I found the helmet of my chief,
His bow still hanging on our wall,
And took it down, and vowed to rove
This desert place a huntress bold ;
Nor would I change my buried love
For any heart of living mould.
No! for I am a hero's child ;
I'll hunt my quarry in the wild ;
And still my home this mansion make,
Of all unheeded and unheeding,
And cherish, for my warrior's sake-
• The flower of love lies bleeding.''
ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.
Soul of the Poet! wheresoe'er
Reclaimed from earth, thy genius plume
Her wings of immortality :
Suspend thy harp in happier sphere,
And with thine influence illume
The gladness of our jubilee.
And fly like fiends from secret spell,
Discord and Strife, at Burns's name,
Exorcised by his memory ;
For he was chief of bards that swell
The heart with songs of social flame,
And high delicious revelry.
And Love's own strain to him was given,
To warble all its ecstasies
With Pythian words unsought, unwilled, -
Love, the surviving gift of Heaven,
The choicest sweet of Paradise,
In life's else bitter cup distilled.
Who that has melted o'er his lay
To Mary's soul, in Heaven above,
But pictured sees, in fancy strong,
The landscape and the livelong day
That smiled upon their mutual love ?
Who that has felt forgets the song ?
Nor skilled one flame alone to fan :
His country's high-souled peasantry
What patriot-pride he taught !-how much
To weigh the inborn worth of man !
And rustic life and poverty
Grow beautiful beneath his touch.
Him in his clay-built cot, the Muse
Entranced, and showed him all the forms,
Of fairy-light and wizard gloom,
(That only gifted Poet views)
The Genii of the floods and storms,
And martial shades from Glory's tomb.
On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse
The swain whom Burns's song inspires !
Beat not his Caledonian veins,
As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs,
With all the spirit of his sires,
And all their scorn of death and chains ?
And see the Scottish exile, tanned
By many a far and foreign clime,
Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep
In memory of his native land,
With love that scorns the lapse of time,
And ties that stretch beyond the deep.
Encamped by Indian rivers wild,
The soldier resting on his arms,
In Burns's carol sweet recalls
The scenes that bless'd him when a child,
And glows and gladdens at the charms,
Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls.
O deem not, ʼmidst this worldly strife,
An idle art the Poet brings :
Let high Philosophy control,
And sages calm, the stream of life,
'Tis he refines its fountain-springs,
The nobler passions of the soul.
It is the Muse that consecrates
The native banner of the brave,
Unfurling at the trumpet's breath,
Rose, thistle, harp ; 'tis she elates
To sweep the field or ride the wave,
A sunburst in the storm of death.
And thou, young hero, when thy pall
Is crossed with mournful sword and plume,
When public grief begins to fade,
And only tears of kindred fall,
Who but the Bard shall dress thy tomb,
And greet with fame thy gallant shade!
Such was the soldier-Burns, forgive
That sorrows of mine own intrude
In strains to thy great memory due.
In verse like thine, oh ! could he live,
The friend I mourned—the brave—the good —
Edward that died at Waterloo ! *
Farewell, high chief of Scottish song !
That couldst alternately impart
Wisdom and rapture in thy page,
And brand each vice with satire strong,
Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,
Whose truths electrify the sage.
Farewell ! and ne'er may Envy dare
To wring one baleful poison drop
From the crushed laurels of thy bust :
But while the lark sings sweet in air,
Still may the grateful pilgrim stop,
To bless the spot that holds thy dust.
Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron, in the attack of the Polish Lancers.
Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given For happy spirits to alight
Betwixt the earth and heaven.