LINES TO MISS ——,

Is it that plaided thus you wish to prove

How northern is the region of your love?

Ah, Mary! tho’, within that far-fam'd clime,

Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time;

Tho’ there the brave have bled, or, o'er the wave,

On distant shores have found a glorious grave;

Tho’ there the mountain-nymph of song has pour'd

Her loftiest strain, to bless the hero's sword;

Still, lovely wand'rer, with a jealous eye,

O'er Scotia's hills we see thy fancy fly;

For here the warrior oft has rais'd his sword,

The patriot too his noble blood has pour'd;

Here too the sweet Recorder of the brave

Has sat and sung upon her hero's grave.

Then cease, romantic maid! ah, cease to rove;

The very wood-dove loves its native grove:

Oh! then, let Nature bid thy guileless heart

Here shed its love, and all its warmth impart;

And on the land that gave thee birth bestow

The fondness which it claims, and treasures too.