LINES

ON A GROUP OF HEATH AND HAREBELLS.

My native clime! along thy shore
The clansman's song is heard no more;
No more the pibroch glads the gale,

Nor wandering harper cheers the vale;
No more do warriors'sioned forms
Ride forth upon the "hills of storms ;"
No chieftain raises to the sky
The gladness of his battle-cry;

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ON A GROUP OF HEATH AND HAREBELLS.

Nor minstrel's lofty numbers swell
Above the brave, who fought-and fell!
Unmarked the grey stone rears its head
Above each hero's mountain-bed;
Unheard by all the thistle's sigh,
As the lone spirit wanders by;
Hushed is the music of thy dells,

And silent, now, the feast of shells;

And, like a thought, has passed away

The magic of thine early day!

-Yet there,-like hearts that love thee still,— ·

The heather hangs upon each hill,

And blooms along thy hardy braes,

As brightly as in better days;

Like valour, rears its purple crest
Above thy lorn and widowed breast!-
And there,-like beaty's glances seen,-
The blue-eyed harebell springs between !-
Still faithful, 'mid the wrecks of time,
Twin children of my native clime!

THE SOLDIER'S DOG.

A SKETCH,

AFTER A VIGNETTE PICTURE, BY HORACE VERNET.

THE warrior youth and his dog are come
Where the banner of war is unfurled,—

It had eat from his hand, in his mother's home,
And had followed him through the world.--
The friends of his heart, in i morning pride,
Have fled from the gloom of his morrow;
And his dog is all that stands by his side,
Since he has but his sabre and sorrow!

He had doted too well on those perishing things,

And wept over them long, as they past,

Till, one by one, they had made themselves wings,

Save woman-aud she went, last!

So, he wiped from his father's sword the stain,
And the weakness from his heart,

And hied him away to the battle-plain,
-But his dog would not depart !

He has slumbered beneath a moonless sky,
While his friend has watched around,

And soothed with its tongue, the agony
Of each-save the spirit's-wound.

And its faith has been as a gentle dew,

Shed sweetly and silently!

Oh! were the maid of his soul as true,

How fair a thing were se!

And now, amid the battle's strife,

He flings his sword away,

And, as he marks its ebbing life,

Weeps as a soldier may !--

Tears that become the warrior, more

Than all the weak ones given

To her the darker, that she wore

The livery of heaven!