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And oh, yon hallowed craggy steep,
Where silence reigns alone,
And countless throngs oblivious sleep,
Of years and ages gone.
And there the peaceful hamlet spreads,
Where fields and orchards smile; And hail, embraced by deep’ning shades,
Yon fairy portly pile.
And sweet the daisy-spangled mead,
Where blithe the lambkin plays; How bland its charms renew indeed
The joys of other days.
Of life's ambrosial cloudless morn,
Where now the seraph band, That gambolled gay beneath the thorn,
Or gemmed yon pebbled strand ?
I see them imaged in the clouds,
On Cheviot's distant brow;
And every grove and bower enshrouds
For me but memories now.
Thus sacred thrice those scenes to me,
How thrilling ! how benign! Round which, as ivy round the tree,
My sympathies entwine.
Then for yon heights where waves the pine,
Again there let me roam;
What charms on earth can rival thine,
My native Border home?
KIVE 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, braveDisdaining 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.
PO! at the last the emigrant returns Ć 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
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,