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A virtuous populace may rise the while,

And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part; (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

SAMUEL ROGERS.

Born, 1762; Died, 1855.

FROM "HUMAN LIFE."

THEN before all they stand-the holy vow,
And ring of gold, no fond illusions now,
Bind her as his. Across the threshold led,
And every tear kiss'd off as soon as shed,
His house she enters there to be a light,
Shining within, when all without is night;
A guardian angel, o'er his life presiding,
Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing;

I

Winning him back, when mingling in the throng,
From a vain world we love, alas! too long,
To fire-side happiness, to hours of ease,

Bless'd with that charm, the certainty to please.
How oft her eyes read his; her gentle mind
To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined;
Still subject-ever on the watch to borrow
Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow.
The soul of music slumbers in the shell,
Till waked and kindled by the master's spell;
And feeling hearts-touch them but rightly-pour
A thousand melodies unheard before.

THE MEETING OF GALILEO AND
MILTON.

SACRED be

His cottage, (justly was it call'd the jewel,)
Sacred the vineyard, where while yet his sight
Glimmer'd, at blush of dawn, he dress'd his vines,
Chanting aloud, in gaiety of heart,

Some verse of Ariosto. There, unseen,

In manly beauty, Milton stood before him,
Gazing in reverend awe, Milton his guest,
Just then come forth, all life and enterprise:
He in his old age and extremity,
Blind, at noonday exploring with his staff,
His eyes upturn'd as to the golden sun,
His eyeballs idly rolling. Little then
Did Galileo think, when he bade welcome,
That in his hand he held the hand of one
Who could requite him, who would spread his name
O'er lands and seas; great as himself, nay, greater:

Milton, as little, that in him he saw,
As in a glass, what he himself should be;
Destined so soon to fall on evil days

And evil tongues; so soon, alas! to live

In darkness, and with dangers compass'd round, And solitude.

LADY CAROLINA NAIRN.

Born, 1766; Died, 1845.

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

I'm wearing awa', Jean,

Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean,

I'm wearing awa'

To the land o' the leal.

There's no sorrow there, Jean,

There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,

The day is aye fair

In the land o' the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,
Your task's ended noo, Jean,

And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.

Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,

She was baith guid and fair, Jean;

O, we grudged her right sair

To the land o' the leal!

Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean;
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal.

Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
This warld's care is vain, Jean;
We'll meet and aye be fain
In the land o' the leal.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Born, 1770; Died, 1850.

A CHARACTER.

SHE was a phantom of delight
When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn:
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly plann'd
To warn, to comfort, and command ;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.

THE LOST LOVE.

SHE dwelt among the' untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove;

A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!

-Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in the grave, and O!

The difference to me!

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