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Then for yon heights where waves the pine,

Again there let me roam;

What charms on earth can rival thine,
My native Border home?

ADDRESS TO MANCHESTER.

IVE me again my Pegasus to mount,

When slaked her thirst at bland Castalia's fount, Upon the subtle lightning of her wing

The glory of my sea-girt isle to sing.

Thrice happy Albion, long my proudest boast,
Revered from sea to sea, from coast to coast,
For virtue, honour, independence, brave—
Disdaining the enslaver and the slave.
'Tis true my native hills and vales I love,
And ever will, attest, ye powers above;
My shady woodlands, love-retiring bowers,
Pealing with song, and waving bright with flowers.
Still, in despite their universal charms,

Another spot my soul peculiar warms.

'Tis there, since twined the thistle with the rose,
Since knit whom Nature never meant for foes,
Art glories rich her triumphs to display,
And trade unfettered rules supreme the day;

And there, beneath the olive shade of Peace,
Enthroned, smiles Commerce in her golden fleece,
Bequeathing, godlike, to the brave and free,
Ease, elegance, and moral dignity,
Scattering abroad with talismanic hand

Her endless boons afar from strand to strand;
Attiring millions-bidding comforts rise,
With all that social happiness implies,
Where Winter shackles with her icy chain,
To realms where Summer holds eternal reign.
Name but, in short, the region or the zone,
Famed city, to thy enterprise unknown,
Thou iris, crowning bright old England's name,
The sinews, life-blood, vitals of her fame;
Say, rather, with thy colours free, unfurled-
The star, the sun, of the mercantile world.
Thus merited are thy immortal bays,
Evoking here my humble meed of praise.
And hail thy sons-the generous, ever hail!
Long may their basket and their store prevail;
And long may gratitude inspire my song,
The memory of their kindness to prolong
To struggling genius, whose ethereal fire,
But for their aid, seemed ready to expire-
Or like the child, when wafted by the wave,
To find, unrescued, a precocious grave.
And, ah! the social joys that blossom there,
When plucked, how exquisite beyond compare-
The hopes, the ties, the friendships which impart
Life's genial, glowing sunshine to the heart!

Can I forget them? can the sun to glow?
Spring gem with roses polar wastes of snow?
Ah no! the bridegroom may the bride disown,
Her child the mother, or the prince his crown;
But round the past, as tendrils round the vine,
My soul in spellbound sympathy shall twine:
Wherever in the ways of men I stray,

And whether flowers or thorns bestrew my way—
Till life's last ember ceases here to burn-
Till soul to soul, and dust to dust, return.

THE EMIGRANT'S RETURN.

O at the last the emigrant returns

To that dear land for which his bosom burns. No spot on earth to him is so endearedNo scenes so pleasing, hallowed, and revered, As those he left in glowing, youthful prime: By hardship urged to seek a distant clime. Though absent long for many fleeting years, Still memory still his native land endears. There Fancy fondly lingers, to survey The spectred pleasures of Life's vernal day. Dear to his heart, bright must'ring to his eye, To wound the feelings and awake the sighThat sigh than words more eloquent to show The inward struggles of unmingled woe

That agitate his bleeding, troubled soul,
Too powerful for her efforts to control;
At last, o'ercome in Nature's dismal hour,
He yields to Sorrow's all-resistless power.
Full, full his heart! in tears he seeks relief
From mental anguish and foreboding grief,
As he beholds now rising on the view

The well-known hills and cloud-topped mountains blue,

In wild sublimity and towering pride;

With rayless glens, where horrid deaths reside.
His native woods and spreading plains appear,
While sad memorials draw afresh the tear,
And silent whisper now of bygone days,
With joys departed as the meteor's blaze.
Those scenes he views where first his infant eye
Gazed on the peaceful current rippling by;
Along whose banks, beneath the stately trees,
Maternal fondness wonted would him please
By plucking daisies and primroses mild,
And for him busk the little nosegay wild;
Point to the birds, the sheep upon the plain-
Thus woo his smile, and his attention gain.
Still dearer still, where childhood used to stray
With playful mates to sport the time away,
Upon the turf swept by the crystal tide,
And gather pebbles on its channelled side.
There in the pool the nimble minnow watch,
And keenly strive the finny prey to catch;
Or run, pursuing with an anxious eye,

The humming bee or gaudy butterfly;
Tired with the frolics of the happy day,

Then hand in hand would pace their homeward way;
With hearts elated with a kindred joy
Unknown to care or aught that can annoy.
His glistening eyes bedimmed afresh with tears,
Now wander o'er the scenes of riper years;
Where rise the lovely landscape on the sight,
Where oft he mused away the summer night,
And heard the river's lonely, distant wail,
Fanned by the balmy and refreshing gale.
He eyes the rocky steep and hallowed stone,
Where Friendship's vows were solemnized alone,
Unseen by every eye but Heav'n's above,
He often drank the cordial stream of Love-
Felt all its moving and its melting power

In each lone walk, sweet grove, and shaded bower.
No spot he passes, of whatever kind,

But with its story strikes his working mind.
All things around him eloquently preach,

And teach what volumes ever fail to teach.
With pain he marks the changes which have passed
O'er well-known places since he saw them last.
Within the precincts of his natal spot,

Which now he enters-ah! the exile's lot—
There he beholds, with sadness and surprise,
The many changes now that meet his eyes-
How strange and altered! all around seem new;
Now stands the mansion where the hawthorn grew;
Whole streets appear where cattle oft had grazed;

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