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FROM THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS.

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime;

Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melts into sorrow, now maddens to crime?

Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;

Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume,

Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in their bloom;

Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,

And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;

Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,

In colour, though varied, in beauty may vie,

And the purple of ocean is deepest in die;

Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,

And all, save the spirit of man, is divine f

'lis the clime of the east, 'tis the land of the sun—

Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?

Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell,

Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

Byron.

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ANSWER TO THE PRECEDING,

AS APPLIED TO SCOTLAND.

Knowest thou the land where the hardy green thistle,
The red blooming heath and the harebell abound;
Where oft o'er the mountains the shepherd's shrill whistle

Is heard in the gloaming so sweetly to sound?
Knowest thou the land of the mountain and flood,
Where the pine of the forest for ages has stood;
Where the eagle comes forth on the wings of the storm,
And her young ones are rocked on the high Cairngorm?
Knowest thou the land where the cold Celtic wave
Encircles the hills which her blue waters lave;
Where the virgins are pure as the gems of the sea,
And their spirits are light—as their actions are free?
Knowest thou the land where the sun's lingering ray
Streaks with gold the horizon till dawns the new day;
Whilst the cold feeble beam which he sheds o'er the sight
Scarce breaks the gloom of the long winter night?
'Tis the land of thy sire—'tis the land of thy youth,
Where first thy young heart glowed with honour and
truth;

Where the wild fire of genius first caught thy young soul,
And thy feet and thy fancy roamed free from controul.
Then why does that fancy still dwell on those climes,
Where love leads to madness, and madness to crimes;
Where courage itself is more savage than brave;
Where man is a despot, and woman a slave?
Though soft are the breezes, and rich the perfume,
And fair are the gardens of Gul in their bloom;
Can the odours they scatter, the roses they bear,
Speak peace to the heart of suspicion and fear? i

Let Phoebus' bright ray gild iEgean wave,
But say, can they brighten the lot of the slave?
Or all that is beauteous in nature impart
One virtue to soften the Moslem's proud heart?
Ah no! 'tis the magic that glows iu thy strain,
Gives life to the action, and soul to the scene!
And the deeds which they do, and the tales which they

tell,
Enchant us alone by the power of thy spell.

And is there no charm in thine own native earth?
Does no talisman rest on the place of thy birth?
Are the daughters of Albion less worthy thy care,
Less soft than Zuleika—less bright than Gulnare?
Are her sons less renowned, or her warriors less brave,
Than the slaves of a prince—who himself is a slave?

Then strike thy wild lyre,—let it swell with the strain;
Let the mighty in arras live and conquer again;
Their past deeds of valour thy lays shall rehearse,
And the fame of thy country revive in thy verse.
The proud wreath of victory round heroes may twine,
'Tis the poet who crowns them with honour divine!
And thy laurels, Pelides, had sunk in the tomb,
Had the bard not preserved them immortal in bloom!

Anon.

IN MEMORY OF A BELOVED PARENT.

Who hushed my infant cares to rest,
Who lulled me on her tender breast,
Who fondled me, and me caressed?

My mother.

Who stilled my wailing infant cries,

Who prayed my dawning thoughts might rise,

Above earth's empty vanities?

My mother.

Who taught my half-formed words the way,
In feeble accents first to pray,
Who watched my slumbers, cheered my day?
, My mother.

Who strove to teach my heart to glow
With gratitude; or melt at woe,
Each selfish feeling to forego?

My mother.

Who taught my bosom pity's sigh,
Who dried the widow's tearful eye,
Who listened to the orphan's cry?

My mother.

In early youth who soothed my woe,

Who pitied me when I lay low,

Who whispered mercy dealt the blow?

My mother.

Who lived in peace, and died in faith,

Who blest me with her latest breath,

Who grasped my hand, and smiled in death?

My mother.

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