Classic Poem

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE THISTLE,

A SONG ON THE FATE OF THE STEWARTS .

Peace rest in thy dwelling, thou true Son of Song,
That sing'st by the banks of the Cree;
Thou strik'st the bold numbers, thy grey rocks among,
And sweet sound thy harp-strings to me.

Thus lofty and lonely still let thy notes rise,
And tell of the times that are past;
They soothe the lone bosom in secret that sighs,
Like the wild-passing sound of the blast.

I see Caledonia descend in her car,
Thy brows to encircle with bays;
Tho' low lies her crest, like yon dim-setting star,
Her " Thistle " shall live in thy lays.