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Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden ?

Victory crowned 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 have rolled on, Loch-na-Garr, since I left you,

Years must elapse ere I tread you again ; Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved on the mountains afar; Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch-na-Garr.

II.-AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.

(WASHINGTON ALLSTON.)
ALL hail ! thou noble land,
Our fathers' native soil !
O stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,
O'er the vast Atlantic wave

to our shore;
For thou, with magic might,
Canst reach to where the light
Of Phoebus travels bright
The world o’er !

The genius of our clime,
From his pine-embattled steep
Shall hail the great sublime ;
While the Tritons of the deep
With their conch the kindred

league shall proclaim;
Then let the world combine-
O’er the main our naval line,
Like the milky-way, shall shine
Bright in fame!

Though ages long have passed
Since our fathers left their home,
Their pilot in the blast,
O’er untravelled seas to roam,-
Yet lives the blood of England

in our veins !
And shall we not proclaim
That blood of honest fame,
Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains ?

While the language free and bold,
Which the bard of Avon sung,
In which our Milton told
How the vault of Heaven rung,
When Satan, blasted, fell with his

host;
While this, with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet,
From rock to rock repeat
Round our coast;

While the manners, while the arts,
That mould a nation's soul,
Still cling around our hearts,
Between let ocean roll,
Our joint communion breaking

with the sun;
Yet still, from either beach,
The voice of blood shall reach,
More audible than speech,---
“ We are one !"

III.-GREAT BRITAIN TO AMERICA,

(TUPPER.)

Martin Farquhar Tupper, author of “ Proverbial Philosophy," was born in Lon

don in 1811. His prose works are numerous and popular; his poetry consists of short pieces.

Ho! Brother, I'm a Britisher,
A chip of heart of oak,
That wouldn't warp or swerve or stir
From what I thought or spoke;
And you-a blunt and honest man,
Straightforward, kind and true,–
I tell you, Brother Jonathan,
That you're a Briton too.

I know your heart, an open heart,
I read your mind and will,-
A greyhound ever on the start
To run for honour still;
And shrewd to scheme a likely plan,
And stout to see it done,-
I tell you, Brother Jonathan,
That you and I are one !

There may be jealousies and strife,
For men have selfish ends,
But petty quarrels ginger life,
And help to season friends ;
And pundits who, with solemn scan,
Judge humans most aright,
Decide it, testy Jonathan,
That brothers always fight.

Two fledgeling sparrows in one nest
Will chirp about a worm,
Then how should eaglets meekly rest,
The children of the storm ?

No ! while their rustled pinions fan
The eyrie's dizzy side,
Like

you and me, my Jonathan, It's all for Love and Pride!

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God save the Queen" delights you still, And “ British Grenadiers ;" The good old strains your heart-strings thrill, And catch you by both ears ; And we,-0 hate us if you can, For we are proud of you,We like you, Brother Jonathan, And “ Yankee Doodle” too !

There's nothing foreign in your face,
Nor strange upon your tongue;
You come not of another race,
From baser lineage sprung ;
No, brother ! though away you ran,
As truant boys will do,
Still true it is, young Jonathan,
My fathers fathered you.

Time was,-it wasn't long ago, —
Your grandsire went with mine
To battle traitors, blow for blow,
For England's royal line ;
Or tripped to court to kiss Queen Anne,
Or worship mighty Bess !
And you and I, good Jonathan,
Went with them then, I guess.

Together both,-'twas long ago, -
Among the Roses fought;
Or charging fierce the Paynim foe,
Did all knight-errants ought;
As Cavalier or Puritan
Together prayed or swore;
For John's own Brother Jonathan
Was only John of yore !

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What more? I touch not holier strings,
A loftier strain to win;
Nor glance at prophets, priests, and kings,
Or heavenly kith or kin,

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