And here while I linger beneath the scath'd pine, 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 dismay. I still trace their deeds in the day of the fight, 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, 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. THE CRICKET. THROUGH the curtains, while the moon And the cuckoo clock chimes its midnight tune, He whom pain forbids to sleep, Me, when softer cares molest, 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 His bosom early learns to beat f Comes doubly venom'd to the heart. 'Tis true his heav'n distinguish'd soul But tho' misfortune cloud thy brow, Wilt thou the gentle sorrow scorn, Her soft breast heaving with a sigh. While curst with manliness profound |