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It is the muse that consecrates
The native banner of the brave,
Unfurling, at the trumpet's breath,
Rose, thistle, harp; 'tis she elates
To sweep the field or ride the wave,
A sunburst in the storm of death.
And thou, young hero, when thy pall
Is cross'd with mournful sword and plume,
When public grief begins to fade,
And only tears of kindred fall,
Who but the bard shall dress thy tomb,
And greet with fame thy gallant shade?
Farewell, high chief of Scottish song !
That couldst alternately impart
Wisdom and rapture in thy page,
And brand each vice with satire strong ;
Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,
Whose truths electrify the sage.
Farewell! and ne'er may Envy dare
To wring one baneful poison drop
From the crush'd laurels of thy bust :
But, while the lark sings sweet in air,
Still may the grateful pilgrim stop
To bless the spot that holds thy dust.

TRE SOLDIER'S DREAM. Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dream'd it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,

Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track: 'Twas Autumn; and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft (young;

In life's morning march, when my bosom was I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers

sung. Then pledged we the winecup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to

part : My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb’d aloud in her fulness of heart; Stay, stay with us : rest, thou art weary and worn:

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.


TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky

When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud Philosophy

To teach me what thou art:
Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,

A midway station given
For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that Optics teach, unfold

Thy form to please me so,
As when I dream'd of gems and gold

Hid in thy radiant bow ?
When Science from Creation's face

Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place

To cold, material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,

But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams

Was woven in the sky. When o'er the green, undeluged earth,

Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's gray fathers forth

To watch thy sacred sign?
And when its yellow lustre smiled

O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child

To bless the bow of God. Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,

The first-made anthem rang,
On earth deliver'd from the deep,

And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the muse's eye

Unraptured greet thy beam :
Theme of primeval prophecy,

Be still the poet's theme!
The earth to thee her incense yields,

The lark thy welcome sings,
When, glittering in the freshen'd fields,

The snowy mushrooin springs. How glorious is thy girdle cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,

A thousand fathoms down! As fresh in yon horizon dark,

As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark

First sported in thy beam.
For, faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age

That first spoke peace to man.


PRIDE of the British stage,

A long and last adieu !
Whose image brought th' heroic age

Revived to Fancy's view.
Like fields refresh'd with dewy light

When the sun smiles his last,
Thy parting presence makes more bright

Our memory of the past;
And memory conjures feelings up

That wine or music need not swell,
As high we lift the festal cup

To Kemble-fare thee well!
His was the spell o'er hearts

Which only acting lends,
The youngest of the sister arts,

Where all their beauty blends :
For ill can Poetry express

Full many a tone of thought sublime, And Painting, mute and motionless,

Steals but a glance of Time. But by the mighty actor brought,

Illusion's perfect triumphs come; Verse ceases to be airy thought,

And Sculpture to be dumb. Time may again revive,

But ne'er eclipse the charm, When Cato spoke in him alive,

Or Hotspur kindled warm. What soul was not resign'd entire

To the deep sorrows of the Moor? What English heart was not on fire

With him at Agincour? And yet a majesty possess'd

His transport's most impetuous tone, And to each passion of his breast

The Graces gave their zone. VOL. II.-GG

High were the task--too high,

Ye conscious bosoms here!
In words to paint your memory

Of Kemble and of Lear;
But who forgets that white, discrowned head,

Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguish'd glare ;
Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed,
In doubt more touching than despair,
If 'twas reality he felt?

Had Shakspeare's self amid you been,
Friends, he had seen you melt,

And triumph'd to have seen!

And there was many an hour

Of blended kindred fame,
When Siddons's auxiliar power

And sister magic came.
Together at the Muse's side

The tragic paragons had grown:
They were the children of her pride,

The columns of her throne;
And undivided favour ran

From heart to heart in their applause,
Save for the gallantry of man

In lovelier woman's cause.

Fair as some classic dome,

Robust and richly graced,
Your Kemble's spirit was the home

Of genius and of taste :
Taste, like the silent dial's power,

That, when supernal light is given,
Can measure inspiration's hour,

And tell its height in heaven.
At once ennobled and correct,

His mind survey'd the tragic page,
And what the actor could effect,
The scholar could presage.

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