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The robin and the wren are flown, and from the

shrub the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all

the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that

lately sprung and stood, In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister


Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race

of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and

good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie,—but the cold

November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely

ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long

ago, And the wild rose and the orchis died amid the

summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in

the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn

beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as

falls the plague on men; And the brightness of their smile was gone from

upland glade and glen.



And now when comes the calm mild day, as still

such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their

winter home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though

all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the

rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose

fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the

stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful

beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by

my side;

In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest

cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life

so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young

friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the




Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd

peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown’d,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door ;
In smoky ruins see them lie,
The monuments of cruelty.
The wretched owner sees afar
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks ;
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain;
Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it, then, in every clime,
Through the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze ?
Thy tow’ring spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancour fell.
The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy day;



No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night :
No strains but those of sorrow flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe,
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

O baneful cause, O fatal morn,
Accurs’d to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their fathers stood,
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet when the rage of battle ceased,
The victor's soul was not appeased;
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames and murd'ring steel!

The pious mother doom'd to death
Forsaken wanders o'er the heath;
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o’er her tender babes, and dies.

While the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair’d remembrance reigns,
Resentment of


country's fate Within


filial breast shall beat, And, spite of her insulting foe, My sympathising verse shall flow :



Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!


NEW YEAR'S DAY. RISE, sons of merry England, from mountain and

from plain, Let each light up his spirit, let none unmoved

remain ; The morning is before you, and glorious is the

sun; Rise

up, and do your blessed work before the day

be done.

“Come help us, come and help us,”—from the

valley and the hill To the ear of God in heaven are the cries ascend

ing still : The soul that wanteth knowledge, the flesh that

wanteth food ;Arise, ye sons of England, go about doing good. Your hundreds and your thousands at usage and Behold a safe investment, which shall bless and

never curse! Oh, who would spend for house or land, if he

might but from above Draw down the sweet and holy dew of happiness

and love?

in purse,

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