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And here while I linger beneath the scath'd pine,

The Muse of red chiefs and of heroes shall tell, Đf chiefs, who conceiv'd every hardy design,

Of heroes, in battle who conquer'd or fell.

Ye chiefs and ye heroes, ye once knew the day, When unrivall’d ye reign'd thro' the forest's wide

gloom, When your eye shot confusion abroad and dismay,

And victory danc'd on your tall nodding plume.

'Twas yours, when the nations were leaguing afar

On you all their force, all their fury to pour, To roll to their homes the red deluge of war,

Nor let one hostile step print Ontario's shore.

'Twas yours, when pale Europe long struggled in vain,

The wavering conflict at pleasure to sway, While the Briton disdain'd not your friendship to

gain, And France from her ramparts look'd forth with


I still trace their deeds in the day of the fight,

I still see the warclubs you brandish'd on high, I hear the shrill war-whoop that oft in the night,

Has waken'd the wretch to despair and to die.

I see the stern warriors that gloried to show

The wounds for their nation in fight that they bore, And to bear the grim trophy, fresh torn from the foe,

The long braided scalp-lock, distilling with gore.

But 'tis not this boast that awakens the Muse, Your force and your fierce spreading rage to de

clare, She weeps as your blood-streaming trophies she

views; She shrinks, as she hears the loud yell in the air.

'Twas the tension of virtue that nerved your breast,

That claims of applause and of wonder the line; 'Twas the unbending pride on your spirit imprest,

'Twas the soul that could die, and disdain to repine.


THROUGH the curtains, while the moon

Faintly pours her feeble ray,
And the cuckoo clock chimes its midnight tune,
And the distant watch-dog's bay,

Then I hear the cricket's cry,
Chirping shrill and merrily,

Cric, cricket, cric, cric;
Thus who would not waking lie,
To listen to the cricket's cry.

whom pain forbids to sleep,
Fever's fire or toothach's twang,
Ague chills, that shivering creep,
Gout, or fierce rheumatic pang,

From some hole or corner near,
Oft the cricket's note shall hear,

Cric, cricket, cric, cric;
And perhaps 'twill sooth his pain,
To listen to the simple strain.

Me, when softer cares molest,

Musing on my former loves,
Or friendships of the youthful breast,

Or through hope's bowers while fancy roves,

I love to hear the merry sound, Echoing from each corner round,

Cric, cricket, cric, cric. Always when I waking lie, May I hear the cricket's cry.

"TIS true the Muse's darling child

Too often droops to grief a prey, And while he trills his wood-notes wild,

Too often sorrow prompts the lay:

His bosom early learns to beat

At every woe with double heat, And every sorrow's barbed dart

Comes doubly venom'd to the heart.

'Tis true his heav'n distinguish'd soul

With finer sentiments is blest, That bid his passions scorn control,

And serve but to disturb his rest.

But tho' misfortune cloud thy brow,

And make thy feeling soul repine, Say, child of genius, say wilt thou

The treasure of thy soul resign?

Wilt thou the gentle sorrow scorn,

That bids thy swelling heart beat high, When widow'd virtue strays forlorn,

Her soft breast heaving with a sigh.

While curst with manliness profound

The hard ey'd many stand around, And bless their niggard hearts of steel,

That they such weakness do not feel.

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