Well! should its frailty e'er condemn My heart to prize or please you less, Your type is still the sealing gem, And mine the waxen brittleness. What transcripts of my weal and woe This little signet yet may lock, What utt'rances to friend or foe, In reason's calm or passion's shock! What scenes of life's yet curtain'd page May own its confidential die, Whose stamp awaits th' unwritten page, And feelings of futurity!— Yet wheresoe'er my pen I lift To date th' epistolary sheet, Who won the Lady of the West, The daughter of Macaillain Mor. A Norman leader, in the service of the king of Scotland, married the heiress of Lochow in the twelfth century, and from him the Campbells are sprung. Crest of my sires! whose blood it seal'd With glory in the strife of swords, Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield Degenerate thoughts or faithless words! Yet little might I prize the stone, From whence, a scatter'd leaf, I'm blown No!-but it tells me of a heart, Allied by friendship's living tie; A prize beyond the herald's art Our soul-sprung consanguinity! KATH'RINE! to many an hour of mine Light wings and sunshine you have lent; And so adieu, and still be thine The all-in-all of life-Content! STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN RESISTING THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULÊME. BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell Beside your cannons conquer'd not, though slain, There is a victory in dying well For Freedom, and ye have not died in vain; For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain To honour, ay embrace your martyr'd lot, And looking on your graves, though trophied not, As holier, hallow'd ground than priests could make the spot! |