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And bade him, by his own right hand,
Die freeman 'mid the free.
It is not painful, Pætus.”—Ay!
Such words would Arria say,
Her life-blood ebb away.
Ages since then have swept along ;
Arria is but a name;-
Still woman's soul the same,
A FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND.
Our native land-our native vale,
A long and last adieu ;Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,
And Cheviot-mountains blue !
Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
And streams renown'd in song ;
Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads,
Our hearts have loved so long.
Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow; Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes
O’erhung with birk and sloe.
The battle-mound—the Border-tower,
That Scotia's annals teil ;The martyr's grave-the lover's bower
To each-to all-farewell !
Home of our hearts !-our father's home
Land of the brave and free ! The sail is flapping on the foam
That bears us far from thee!
We seek a wild and distant shore
Beyond the Atlantic main ; We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again !
But may dishonour blight our fame,
And quench our household fires, When we, or ours, forget thy name,
Green island of our sires.
Our native land- our native vale
A long, a last adieu ;-
PRINGLE. FROM BISHOP HEBER'S JOURNAL.
IF thou wert by my side, my love !
How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale !
If thou, my love! wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,
O’er Gunga's mimic sea !
I miss thee at the dawning grey,
When on our deck reclined, In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.
I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide, But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee from my side.
I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer, But miss thy kind approving eye,
Thy meek attentive ear.
But when of morn or eve the star
Beholds me on my knee, * I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.
Then on! then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still,
O’er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.
That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,
Nor wild Malwah detain,
By yonder western main.
Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,
Across the dark-blue sea,
As then shall meet in thee ! HEBER.
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all
glories are ! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry
of Navarre ! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of
dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines,
O pleasant land of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud
city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourn
ing daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our
joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought
thy walls annoy.
Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turn'd the
chance of war, Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.
O! how our hearts were beating, when, at the
dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long
array ; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel
peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses
of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon
in his hand : And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's
impurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with
his blood ; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the
fate of war,
To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of
The King is come to marshal us, in all his ar
mour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his
gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his
eye ; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was
stern and high.