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Honour.

HONOUR ITS OWN REWARD.

BY HEBER.

SWELL, Swell the shrill trumpet, clear sounding afar,

Our sabres flash splendour around,

For freedom has summon'd her sons to the war, Nor Britain has shrunk from the sound.

.

Let plunder's vile thirst the invaders inflame,
Let slaves for their wages be bold,

Shall valour the harvest of avarice claim?
Shall Britons be barter'd for gold?

No! free be our aid, independent our might,
Proud honour our guerdon alone;
Unhired be the hand that we raise in the fight,
The sword that we brandish our own.

Still all that we love to our thoughts shall succeed, Their image each labour shall cheer,

For them we will conquer-for them we will bleed, And our pay be a smile or a tear!

And oh! if returning triumphant we move,
Or sink on the land that we save,

Oh! blest by his country, his kindred, his love,
How vast the reward of the brave!

THE PRIDE OF HONOUR.

BY THOMSON.

Honour, my lord, is much too proud to catch
At every tender twig of nice distinctions.
These for th' unfeeling vulgar may do well:
But those, whose souls are by the nicer rule
Of virtuous delicacy nobly sway'd,
Stand at another bar than that of laws.

Honour hurt is wont to rage

With pain no med'cine can assuage.
Quoth he, that honour's very squeamish
That takes a basting for a blemish;
For what's more honourable than scars,
Or skin to tatters rent in wars?
Some have been beaten till they know
What wood a cudgel's of, by th' blow,
Some kick'd, until they can feel whether
A shoe be Spanish or neat's leather.

Butler,

HONOUR UNAFFECTED BY SLANDER.

BY BYRON.

I PREFER

My honour to a thousand lives, could such
Be multiplied in mine, but would not have
A single life of others lost for that

Which nothing human can impugn-the sense
Of virtue, looking not to what is called
A good name for reward, but to itself
To me the scorner's words were as the wind
Unto the rock: but as there are-alas!-
Spirits more sensitive, on which such things
Light as the whirlwind on the waters, souls
To whom dishonour's shadow is a substance
More terrible than death, here and hereafter;
Men whose vice is to start at vice's scoffing,
And who, though proof against all blandishments
Of pleasure, and all pangs of pain, are feeble
When the proud name on which they pinnacled
Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the eagle
Of her high aerie; let what we now

Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson
To wretches how they tamper in their spleen
With beings of a higher order.

HIGHLAND HONOUR.

BY SCOTT.

BESIDE its embers, red and clear,
Bask'd, in his plaid, a mountaineer;
And up he sprung with sword in hand,-
"Thy name and purpose! Saxon, stand!"—
"A stranger."-"What dost thou require ?".
"Rest and a guide, and food and fire.
My life's beset, my path is lost,

The gale has chill'd my limbs with frost."-
"Art thou a friend to Roderick ?"-"No,"
"Thou darest not call thyself a foe?"—
"I dare! to him and all the band

He brings to aid his murderous hand."
"Bold words!-but though the best of game
The privilege of chace may claim,
Though space and law the stag we lend,
Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend,
Who ever reck'd, where, how, or when,
The prowling fox was trapp'd or slain?
Thus treacherous scouts,-yet sure they lie,

Who say thou camest a secret spy!"—

"They do, by Heaven!-Come, Roderick Dhu, And of his clan the boldest two,

And let me but till morning rest,

I write the falsehood on their crest."

"If by the blaze I mark aright,

Thou bear'st the belt and spur of knight. '-
"Then by these tokens may'st thou know
Each proud oppressor's mortal foe."
"Enough, enough; sit down and share
A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare."-
He gave him of his Highland cheer,
The harden'd flesh of mountain deer;
Dry fuel on the fire he laid,

And bade the Saxon share his plaid.
He tended him like welcome guest,
Then thus his further speech address'd.
"Stranger, I am to Roderick Dhu
A clansman born, a kinsman true;
Each word against his honour spoke,
Demands of me avenging stroke;
Yet more,-upon thy fate, 'tis said,
A mighty augury is laid.

It rests with me to wind my horn,-
Thou art with numbers overborne:
It rests with me, here, brand to brand,
Worn as thou art, to bid thee stand:
But, not for clan, nor kindred's cause,
Will I depart from honour's laws,
To assail a wearied man were shame,
And stranger is a holy name;
Guidance and rest, and food and fire,
In vain he never must require.
Then rest thee here till dawn of day;
Myself will guide thee on the way,

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