WITH gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow; If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise; There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow; Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies, And Freedom fires the soul and sparkles in the eyes.

ALL that echoes to the song of even,

All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields.

THE shepherd swain of whom I mention made,
On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock;
The sickle, scythe, or plough he never swayed;
An honest heart was almost all his stock;
His drink, the living water from the rock:
The milky dams supplied his board, and lent

Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock;

And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent,

Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went.