But now the bird saw some red coats, And he shook his wings wi’ anger: ‘Oh, this is no a land for me-- 35 I’ll tarry here nae langer.’ A while he hovered on the wing, Ere he departed fairly; But weel I mind the farewell strain-- ’Twas ‘Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’ 40 _William Glen._ CXLIV _AN ODE._ IN IMITATION OF ALCÆUS. What constitutes a State? Not high-raised battlement or laboured mound, Thick wall or moated gate; Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned; Not bays and broad-armed ports, 5 Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. No:--men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued 10 In forest, brake, or den, As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude; Men, who their duties know, But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, Prevent the long-aimed blow, 15 And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain: These constitute a State, And sovereign Law, that State’s collected will, O’er thrones and globes elate, Sits Empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 20 Smit by her sacred frown, The fiend, Dissension, like a vapour sinks, And e’en the all-dazzling Crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. Such was this heaven-loved isle, 25 Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore! No more shall Freedom smile? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave, 30 ’Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave. _Sir William Jones._ CXLV _ODE._ WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746. How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country’s wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod 5 Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 10 And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there! _William Collins._ CXLVI _ODE TO THE CUCKOO._ Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of spring! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing.