To pour their sweet light every where,
Joining the joyous earth to Heaven!
So be thy radiance shed abroad,
To link the free to freedom's God.

But on the hand that checks thy flight,
A freeman's curse for ever light;
Oh! never may he have a part

In ought that cheers the social heart-
For ever be the Tyrant's life

Fill'd with Despair, and Fear, and Strife;
And when he meets the gripe of Death,
Like William's pass his dying breath.

LADY MORAY'S LAMENT.

See Ballad of "The Bonny Yerl of Moray."

Oh! when will the green grass this sad bosom cover?
They have slain my young Moray-my husband-my lover!
They have slaughter'd my child as it gazed on them fondly,
And left me to mourn them, heart-broken and lonely.

Ah! his blood-clotted hair than the young fawn was fairer,
His pale gory cheek than the fountain was clearer;
And his brow, that was bright as the opening morrow,
Is lowering and pale, as it mocked at my sorrow.

Oh! speak not of beauty, oh! speak not of splendour,
To a heart that is broken what ease can they render-
Can grandeur the throbbings of misery cover?

Or beauty restore me the life of my lover?

I leave ye, my kindred, to peace and to gladness,
For the scenes that are sacred to Moray and sadness—
Where my grief may roll on like a dark-flowing river,
Till it mingles in Death's dreary ocean for ever.

TWEED-SIDE.

I.

Romantic Tweed! adown thy stream
How oft in youth I've stolen ;

How oft beneath the May moon-beam
I've watched thy sweet waves rolling!
How dear are ye

To Memory,

Fair scenes I ne'er again may see.

II.

I used to think the mavis sang
In Norham's woods the clearest ;

I used to think the flow'rets sprang
Along thy banks the fairest-
And boys and men

I smiled on then,

Seem'd blythe to smile on me again.

III.

Now youth is flown, and manhood's cares
Usurp my boyhood's feeling;

Yet still a dream of vanish'd years,

A dream of thee is stealing

A vision bright,

Before my sight,

Like distant star-beams o'er the night.

IV.

Ah! art thou still as fair as when

Thou shone upon my childhood?
When every bosky dell and den
I haunted in thy wild-wood,
Each flower and tree

Were dear to me,

More dear than aught again shall be!

V.

Thy stream through forests hanging green,

As clear may still be flowing

Thy flowers the woody heights between,

As bright may still be glowing;

But where are they,

My grandsires gray,

Who fondly watch'd my life's young day?

VI.

Oh! is there aught in manhood's wit,
Or all the hoarded treasure
Of manhood's skill, can equal yet
Young Love's still-springing pleasure?
Give wit to men,

The sword-the pen

Give me my boyhood's heart again.