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, Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. II.-AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. (WASHINGTON allston.) ALL hail! thou noble land, to our shore; For thou, with magic might, The genius of our clime, Though ages long have passed Since our fathers left their home, Their pilot in the blast, O'er untravelled seas to roam,- And shall we not proclaim While the language free and bold, 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, Our joint communion breaking Yet still, from either beach, III.-GREAT BRITAIN TO AMERICA. (TUPPER.) Martin Farquhar Tupper, author of "Proverbial Philosophy," was born in London 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 I know your heart, an open heart, And shrewd to scheme a likely plan, I tell you, Brother Jonathan, 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, That brothers always fight. Two fledgeling sparrows in one nest Then how should eaglets meekly rest, No! while their rustled pinions fan Like you and me, my Jonathan, It's all for Love and Pride! "God save the Queen" delights you still, The good old strains your heart-strings thrill, There's nothing foreign in your face, No, brother! though away you ran, Time was,-it wasn't long ago,- Or tripped to court to kiss Queen Anne, And you and I, good Jonathan, Together both,-'twas long ago,— Or charging fierce the Paynim foe, For John's own Brother Jonathan Was only John of yore! Add but your stripes and golden stars To brave St. George's cross, And never dream of mutual wars, Two dunces' mutual loss; Let us two bless when others ban, And love when others hate, And so, my cordial Jonathan, We'll fit, I calculate. What more? I touch not holier strings, A loftier strain to win; Nor glance at prophets, priests, and kings, Or heavenly kith or kin. |