Imatges de pÓgina

My Own Fireside.


What care I for the sullen roar

Of winds without, that ravage earth; It doth but bid me prize the more,

The shelter of thy hallow'd hearth; To thoughts of quiet bliss give birth :

Then let the churlish tempest chide, It cannot check the blameless mirth

That glads my own Fireside.

My refuge ever from the storm

Of this world's passion, strife, and care; Though thunder clouds the sky deform,

Their fury cannot reach me there. There all is cheerful, calm, and fair,

Wrath, Malice, Envy, Strife, or Pride, Hath never made its hated lair

By thee, my own Fireside !

Thy precincts are a charmed ring,

Where no harsh feeling dares intrude; Where life's vexations lose their sting;

Where even grief is half subdued : And Peace, the halcyon, loves to brood.

Then, let the pamper'd fool deride, I'll pay my debt of gratitude

To thee-my own Fireside !

Shrine of my household deities !

Fair scene of my home's unsullied joys ! To thee my burthen'd spirit flies,

When fortune frowns, or care annoys: Thine is the bliss that never cloys;

The smile whose truth hath oft been tried; What, then, are this world's tinsel toys

To thee-my own Fireside ?

Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet,

That bid my thoughts be all of thee, Thus ever guide my wandering feet

To thy heart-soothing sanctuary !


years may be; Let joy or grief my fate betide; Be still an Eden bright to me,


The Bugle.


" But still the dingle's hollow throat

Prolong'd the swelling bugle note,
The owlets started from their dream,
The eagles answer'd with their scream;
Round and around the sounds were cast,
Till echo seem'd an answering blast."

-Lady of the Lake.


H! wild enchanting horn! Whose music up the deep and dewy air Swells to the clouds, and calls on Echo there,

Till a new melody is born.

Wake, wake again !-the night Is bending from her throne of beauty down, With still stars burning on her azure crown,

Intense and eloquently bright.

The Bugle.


Night, at its pulseless noon!
When the far voice of waters mourns in song,
And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long,

Barks at the melancholy moon.

Hark! how it sweeps away!
Soaring and dying on the silent sky,
As if some sprite of sound went wandering by,

With lone halloo and roundelay!

Swell, swell in glory out!
Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart,
And my stirr'd spirit hears thee with a start,

As boyhood's old remember'd shout.

Oh! have ye heard that peal,
From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements,
Or from the guarded field and warrior tents,

Like some near breath around you steal ?

Or have ye in the roar
Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise,
Shriller than eagle's clamour, to the skies,

Where wings and tempests never soar ?

Go, go—no other sound,
No music that of air or earth is born,
Can match the mighty music of that horn,

On midnight's fathomless profound !



THY linger on this battle heath,

So sterile, wild, and lonely now? Stranger ! it tells a tale of death,

That well befits its barren brow. Nay! rest not on that swelling sod,

But let us hence: It marks a grave, Whose verdure is the price of blood

The heart-stream of the vainly brave.

Long years ago, from o'er the sea,

A banish'd prince, of Stuart's line, Came thither, claiming fealty

And succour in his sire's decline. A triple diadem-a throne

Ambition's toys—his birthright were: Of valleys, lakes, and mountains lone,

Of all our country was he heir.

And there we saw the chequer'd plaid

Across his bosom proudly cast,The mountain bonnet on his head,

Its black plumes streaming in the blast: And then we heard the gathering cry

Come blended with the pibroch's strain, And saw the fire-cross flashing by,

Our warriors gathering on the plain.

In sooth it was a stirring sight!

To these old eyes, grown dim with tears, Still, piercing through the after-night,

The past in all its pomp appears.



These shelter'd glens and dusky hills,

Yon isles that gem the western wave,
Sent forth their strength like mountain rills,

To bleed, to die,—but not to save.

Away we rush'd, for chiefs were there;

And where should we, their clansmen, be
But by their side ?—the worst to dare,

Aye changeless, in fidelity.
And yon young regal warrior, too,

So gaily in our tartans dress'd,
Was in our van ; there proudly flew

The heather o'er his dancing crest.

Then came the Southron, hand to hand,

And wide and wasting was the fray; But Victory smiled on Scotia's brand,

And swept their trembling ranks away. We chased them o'er the border streams :

Then England heard our slogan shout, And saw with dread the boreal gleams

Of Highland claymores flashing out.

The fox wax'd strong: our chieftains frown'd

In council on each other : then We basely left our vantage ground,

And turn'd us home like beaten men. Yet England's blue-eyed yeomen bold,

Though vaunting in their long array, Confess'd it was no play to hold,

Or strike, the mountain deer at bay.

At length Culloden's boding heath,

Despairing, saw our clansmen stand, While, flaming like the sword of death,

Before us gleam'd the Saxon brand.


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