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The race that wrote the Bible never bowed Before the priesthood of the tyrant crowd; The race that raised the banner of the free And gave the world its flower of chivalry; The race that never yet to man has knelt, And never will—while hearts of men can melt; The race that loves the mountain and the flood, And heather purple in the solitude; The race that loves the battle and the breeze, The rocky glen, the cataract, the trees; The race that loves the ocean and the sky, And bids the eagle on his pinions fly; The race that loves the tartan and the plaid, And scorns the tyrant as it scorns the slave; The race that loves the pibroch’s martial sound, And hears it echo through the hills around; The race that loves the claymore and the targe, And rushes fearless on the foeman’s charge; The race that loves the thistle’s purple crest, And bears it bravely on its manly breast; The race that loves the freedom of the brave— The Scottish race, that never owned a slave. |
| In
August last, a stranger, about five foot seven inches high, and
apparently about forty years old, left at the publishers a small
parcel, and withdrew. He was well dressed, in a black frock coat and
pantaloons, plain white neckcloth, tied behind, and low-crowned
broad-brimmed hat. There were in the shop at that time, beside the
shopman, a merchant of Thames Street, his daughter, and her
grandmother, who, in their descriptions of the stranger, differ most
unaccountably. They all agree that the expression of his countenance
was wild and half insane; that his manner was a strange compound of
awkwardness and audacity; and that, on the whole, he had the air of a
man who had been stealing sheep, or attending a meeting for reform of
parliament. The shopman is sure he has seen him play Jaques at Drury
Lane; the merchant has no doubt he is a quack doctor; but the old lady
knows him to be a Methodist parson, and has heard him preach; while the
young lady feels satisfied that he is an Irish fortune-hunter, too ugly
ever to succeed. The parcel was found to contain the manuscript of the
following poem, and a letter from the author, without signature, and
dated |Paris. I know little more of him. I have, however, reason to
believe, that he is now in North America; and I am in expectation of
receiving further information. In the meantime, the following
particulars may be collected from the book itself; that he is an
enthusiastic admirer of the Lake poets; that he is in politics a Whig,
in religion wavering between schism and orthodoxy; and that he is a
disappointed author, whose previous writings, whether deservedly or
not, having been unnoticed by our leading Reviews, are neglected by the
public. |
| The Title Page |

| Preface |
| Book One of "A Vision" |
| Book Two of "A Vision" |
| Book Three of "A Vision" |
Final Remarks About The Poem
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It's all a Mystery, isn't it ?
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