But bleeding and bound though “the Wallace wight,” For his much-loved country die, The bugle ne’er sung to a braver knight Than Wallace of Elderslie. But the day of his glory shall never depart, His head unentombed shall with glory be palmed, From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start; Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart— A nobler was never embalmed. JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE; THREE CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BEAUTIES. Adieu! Romance’s heroines— Give me the nymphs who this good hour May charm me, not in Fiction’s scenes, But teach me Beauty’s living power. My harp that has been mute too long Shall sleep at Beauty’s name no more, So but your smiles reward my song— Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore. In whose benignant eyes are beaming The rays of purity and truth; Such as we fancy woman’s seeming In the creation’s golden youth. The more I look upon thy grace, Rosina, I could look the more; But for Jemima’s witching face, And the sweet smile of Eleanore. Had I been Lawrence, kings had wanted Their portraits, till I painted yours; And these had future hearts enchanted, When this poor verse no more endures. I would have left the Congress faces, A dull-eyed diplomatic corps, Till I had grouped you as the Graces— Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore. The Catholic bids fair saints befriend him, Your poet’s heart is Catholic too; His rosary shall be flowers ye send him, His saints’ days when he visits you. And my sere laurels for my duty, Miraculous at your touch would rise; Could I give verse one trait of beauty Like that which glads me from your eyes. Unsealed by you these lips have spoken, Disused to song for many a day, Ye’ve tuned a harp whose strings were broken, And warmed a heart of callous clay; So when my fancy next refuses To twine for you a garland more, Come back again and be my Muses— Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore. THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND