DAISY. 
53 
Mould its green cup, its wiry stem, 
Its fringed border nicely spin, 
And cut the gold-embossed gem 
That, set in silver, gleams within; 
And fling it, unrestrained and free, 
O’er hill, and dale, and desert sod, 
That Man, where’er he walks, may see 
In every step the stamp of God! 
Mason Good. 
Malvina, bending over the tomb of Fingal, 
wept for the valiant Oscar, and a son of Oscar’s 
who never beheld the light of day, 
The maids of Morven, to soothe her grief, 
assembled around her, and sang the death of 
the hero and of the new-born infant. 
The hero is fallen, said they, he is fallen ! 
The crash of his arms hath rung over the plain. 
He is beyond the reach of disease, which enfee¬ 
bles the soul—of old age, which dishonours the 
brave. He has fallen, and the crash of his 
arms hath rung over the plain. In the palace of 
clouds, where dwell his ancestors, he now quaffs 
with them the cup of immortality. Dry the 
tears of thy grief, O daughter of Toscar ! The 
hero is fallen !—he is fallen !—and the crash of 
his arms hath rung over the plain ! 
