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West Indian planters feel the pangs they gave,
And dread in every fiend a tortur'd slave :
From France rebellious crowds the furies bring,
For murder foul upon their harmless king;
France, that now groans beneath an alien son,
Who proves how nations soonest are undone :
Here ruthless heroes, who in blood delight,
Quaff cups of gore, and join the incessant fight;
Their gaping wounds dire agony display,
And hell's dark confines echo to the fray:
Here patriots false, who, lur'd by cursed gold,
Their country to the highest bidder sold;
With suicides in utter darkness dwell,
Companions of the vilest fiends in hell.

All these, and millions more, a countless crew,
Countless as drops in wide-expanded dew;
Or dancing moles in sun-beam's shifting ray,
Or tints of morning breaking into day;
Or waves in roaring ocean's hollow bed,
When furious tempests shake its hoary head;
Or grains of sand upon its shores that lie,
Or twinkling stars that grace the spangled sky;
Innumerous, deathless multitudes were hurl'd
To torture and despair in that infernal world.

But haste, my Muse, fly, fly this cursed coast,
And join the triumph of the ranson'd host;---
Apostles, prophets, martyrs, splendid train!
Now reap in glory what was sown in pain;
Unmov'd, the cross and tort'ring stake they view'd,
The rack with mangled limbs and gore bedew'd;
The ponderous axe, the club, the pointed spear,
The tyger fierce and fell, the shaggy bear,
The pitchy vest in which they burning stand,
While drops of blood besmear the thirsty sand;
The boiling cauldron, and devouring fire,
These horrid sights no dread of death inspire
Within their stedfast souls. In anthems loud

They spend their dying breath, nor heed the shouting crowd;
Victorious o'er the grave, and death's fell sting,

With angel wings they fly to meet their Heavenly King.

The humble christian too, on earth unknown,
Takes his bright station near his Saviour's throne;
Breaks from the world away, and soars above
The grov'ling crowd, led by redeeming love.

The

The pure in heart, the contrite pious soul
Dwell in unsullied light beyond the starry pole:
To faith, hope, charity their lives were given,

And now they reign with Christ for evermore in heaven.

With wond'rous beauty cloth'd, in order bright,
With crowns of gold, and vests of dazzling white,
The saints of God appear, -raptur'd they rise,
And mount in splendour to their kindred skies,
With joy their Saviour and their God to see,
Aud live in light and love to all eternity:
No more shall death or pain, or grief annoy,
But each revolving hour awake increasing joy ;-
Seated on royal seats the feast they join,
A banquet spread by grace and love divine;
With seraphs and with seraphim unite,
Around the throne of God's eternal light.

To silver harps symphonious hymns they sing,
Warbling the praises of the Almighty King,
Who gave his only Son for man to die,
And open by his death the portals of the sky:
To lead his followers to their blest abode,
The mercy-seat of heaven, the bosom of their God.

All praise to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
From mau redeem'd, and from the heavenly host.

LACHIN Y GAIR.

From Lord Byron's Hours of Idleness.

LACHIN Y GAIR, or as it is pronounced in the Erse, LOCH NA GARR, towers proudly pre-eminent in the northern Highlands, near Invercauld. One of our modern tourists mentions it as the highest mountain perhaps in Great Britain: be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most sub. lime and picturesque amongst our "Caledonian Alps." Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows: near Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, the recollection of which has given birth to the following stanzas:—

I.

WAY, ye gay landscapes! ye gardens of roses!

In you let the minions of luxury rove;

Restore me the rocks, where the snow-fiake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love;

Yet,

Yet, Caledonia! belov'd are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war,
Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Lochin y Garr.

II.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid *.
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade;
I sought not my home, till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,

Disclos'd by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.

III.

"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
"Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale.
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy ear,

Clonds there encircle the forms of my fathers,

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.

IV.

"Ill starred +, though brave, did no visions foreboding,
"Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?”
Ah! were you destin'd to die at Culloden 1,

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause;
Still were you happy in death's earthly slumber,

You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar ||,
The pibroch & resounds, to the piper's loud number,
Your deeds, on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.

Years

This word is erroneously pronounced plad: the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shewn by the orthography.,

+ I allude here to my maternal ancestors, the "Gordons," many of whom fought for the unfortunate prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. This branca was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment to the Stuarts. George the 3d earl of Huntley, married the princess Anuabella Stuart, daughter of James L. of Scotland. By her he left four sons; the third sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my progenitors.

Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, I am not certain; but as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action, pars pro toto." A tract of the Highlands so called: there is also a castle at Braemar.

§ A bagpipe.

V.

Years have 'roll'd on, Loch na Garr! since I left
Years must elapse, ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,

you;

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain:
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic,
To one who has rov'd on the mountains afar,
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep, frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr.

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If Bonapart land at Fort William,
Auld Europe nae langer shall grane;
I laugh, whan I think how we'll gall him
Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an' wi' stane;
Wi' rocks o' the Nevis an' Gairy,
We'll rattle him aff frae our shore;
Or lull him asleep in a cairney,
An' sing him-Lochaber no more!
Stanes an' bullets au' a',
Bullets an' stanes an' a';
We'll finish the Corsican callan',
Wi' stanes an' bullets an' a'.

The Gordon is gude in a hurry;
An' Campbell is steel to the bane;

An' Grant, an' Mackenzie, an' Murray,
An' Cameron will hurkle to nane.
The Stuarts are sturdy an' wannie,
An' sae is Macleod an' Mackay;
An' I, their gude-brither Macdonald
Sal ne'er be the last i' the fray.-

Breg

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