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The shape will vanish, and behold 
A silver shield with boss of gold, 
That spreads itself, some fairy bold, 
In flight to cover ! 
I see thee glittering from afar ;— 
And then thou art a pretty star ; 
Not quite so fair as many are 
In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air, thou seem’st to rest ;— 
May peace come never to his nest ; 
Who shall reprove thee ! 
Sweet flower ! for by that name at last, 
When all my reveries are past, 
I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 
Sweet silent creature ! 
That breath’st with me in sun and air, 
Do then, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 
Of thy meek nature ! 
‘© Malvina, leaning o’er Fingal’s tomb, mourns 
for the valiant Oscar, and his son who died 
before he had seen the light. 
“ The virgins of Morven, to calm her grief, 
walk often around her, celebrating, by their 
songs, the death of the brave and the new- 
born. 
“«The hero is fallen,’ say they; ‘he is 
fallen ! and the sound of his arms echoes over 
the plain; disease, which takes away courage ; 
> 
