The Poetical Works of John Langhorne :: :: University of Virginia Library

Where Tweed's fair plains in liberal beauty lie,
And Flora laughs beneath a lucid sky;
Long winding vales where crystal waters lave,
Where blythe birds warble, and where green woods wave,
A bright-hair'd Shepherd, in young beauty's bloom,
Tun'd his sweet pipe behind the yellow broom.

Free to the gale his waving ringlets lay,
And his blue eyes diffus'd an azure day.
Light o'er his limbs a careless robe he flung;
Health rais'd his heart, and strength his firm nerves strung.

His native plains poetic charms inspir'd,
Wild scenes, where ancient Fancy oft retir'd!
Oft led her faeries to the Shepherd's lay,
By Yarrow's banks, or groves of Endermay.

Nor only his those images that rise
Fair to the glance of Fancy's plastic eyes;
His country's love his patriot soul possess'd,
His country's honour fir'd his filial breast.

Her lofty genius, piercing, bright, and bold,
Her valour witness'd by the world of old,
Witness'd once more by recent heaps of slain
On Canada's wild hills, and Minden's plain,
To sounds sublimer wak'd his pastoral reed—
Peace, Mountain-echoes! while the strains proceed.

Amyntor.
No more of Tiviot, nor the flowery braes,
Where the blythe Shepherd tunes his lightsome lays;
No more of Leader's faery-haunted shore,
Of Athol's lawns, and Gledswood banks no more.
Unheeded smile my country's native charms,
Lost in the glory of her arts and arms.
These, Shepherds, these demand sublimer strains
Than Clyde's clear fountains, or than Athol's plains.

Chorus of shepherds.
Shepherd, to thee sublimer lays belong,
The force divine of soul-commanding song.
These humble reeds have little learnt to play,
Save the light airs that cheer the pastoral day.
Of the clear fountain, and the fruitful plain
We sing, as Fancy guides the simple strain.
If then thy country's sacred fame demand
The high-ton'd music of a happier hand—
Shepherd, to thee sublimer lays belong,
The force divine of soul-commanding song.

Amyntor.

In spite of faction's blind, unmanner'd rage,
Of various fortune and destructive age,
Fair Scotland's honours yet unchang'd are seen,
Her palms still blooming, and her laurels green.

Freed from the confines of her Gothic grave,
When her first light reviving Science gave,
Alike o'er Britain shone the liberal ray,
From Enswith's mountains to the banks of Tay.

For James the Muses tun'd their sportive lays,
And bound the monarch's brow with Chaucer's bays.
Arch Humour smil'd to hear his mimic strain,
And plausive Laughter thrill'd thro' every vein.

When Taste and Genius form the royal mind,
The favour'd arts a happier era find.
By James belov'd the Muses tun'd their lyres
To nobler strains, and breath'd diviner fires.
But the dark mantle of involving Time
Has veil'd their beauties, and obscur'd their rhyme.

Yet still some pleasing monuments remain,
Some marks of genius in each later reign.

In nervous strains Dunbar's bold music flows,
And Time yet spares the Thistle and the Rose.

O, while his course the hoary warrior steers
Thro' the long range of life-dissolving years,
Thro' all the evils of each changeful age,
Hate, Envy, Faction, Jealousy, and Rage,
Ne'er may his scythe these sacred plants divide,
These plants by Heaven in native union tied!
Still may the flower its social sweets disclose,
The hardy Thistle still defend the Rose!

Hail happy days! appeas'd by Margaret's charms,
When rival Valour sheath'd his fatal arms;
When kindred realms unnatural war supprest,
Nor aim'd their arrows at a sister's breast.

Kind to the Muse is Quiet's genial day;
Her olive loves the foliage of the bay.

With bold Dunbar arose a numerous choir
Of rival bards that strung the Dorian lyre.
In gentle Henryson's unlabour'd strain
Sweet Arethusa's shepherd breath'd again.

Nor shall your tuneful visions be forgot,
Sage Bellentyne, and fancy-painting Scott.
But, O my country! how shall Memory trace
Thy bleeding anguish, and thy dire disgrace?
Weep o'er the ruins of thy blasted bays,
Thy glories lost in either Charles's days?
When thro' thy fields destructive Rapine spread,
Nor sparing infant's tears, nor hoary head.
In those dread days the unprotected swain
Mourn'd on the mountains o'er his wasted plain.
Nor longer vocal with the Shepherd's lay
Were Yarrow's banks, or groves of Endermay.

Chorus of shepherds.
Amyntor, cease! the painful scene forbear,
Nor the fond breast of filial duty tear.
Yet in our eyes our fathers' sorrows flow,
Yet in our bosoms lives their lasting woe.
At eve returning from their scanty fold,
When the long sufferings of their sires they told,
Oft we have sigh'd the piteous tale to hear,
And infant wonder dropt the mimic tear.

Amyntor.

Shepherds, no longer need your sorrows flow,
Nor pious duty cherish endless woe.
Yet should Remembrance, led by filial love,
Thro' the dark vale of old afflictions rove,
The mournful shades of sorrows past explore,
And think of miseries that are no more;
Let those sad scenes that ask the duteous tear,
The kind return of happier days endear.

Hail, Anna, hail! O may each muse divine
With wreaths eternal grace thy holy shrine!
Grav'd on thy tomb this sacred verse remain,
This verse more sweet than Conquest's sounding strain:
“She bade the rage of hostile nations cease,
“The glorious arbitress of Europe's peace.”
She, thro' whose bosom roll'd the vital tide
Of Britain's Monarchs in one stream allied,
Clos'd the long jealousies of different sway,
And saw united Sister-Realms obey.

Auspicious days! when Tyranny no more
Rais'd his red arm, nor drench'd his darts in gore.
When, long an exile from his native plain,
Safe to his fold return'd the weary swain.
Return'd, and, many a painful summer past,
Beheld the green bench by his door at last.

Auspicious days! when Scots, no more opprest,
On their free mountains bar'd the fearless breast;

With pleasure saw their flocks unbounded feed,
And tun'd to strains of ancient joy the reed.

Then, Shepherds, did your wondering sires behold
A form divine, whose vesture flam'd with gold;
His radiant eyes a starry lustre shed,
And solar glories beam'd around his head.
Like that strange power by fabling poets feign'd,
From east to west his mighty arms he strain'd.
A rooted olive in one hand he bore,
In one a globe, inscrib'd with sea and shore.
From Thames's banks to Tweed, to Tay he came,
Wealth in his rear, and Commerce was his name.

Glad Industry the glorious stranger hails,
Rears the tall masts, and spreads the swelling sails;
Regions remote with active hope explores,
Wild Zembla's hills, and Afric's burning shores.

But chief, Columbus, of thy various coast,
Child of the Union, Commerce bears his boast.
To seek thy new-found worlds, the vent'rous swain,
His lass forsaking, left the lowland plain.
Aside his crook, his idle pipe he threw,
And bade to Music, and to Love adieu.

Hence, Glasgow fair, thy wealth-diffusing hand,
Thy groves of vessels, and thy crowded strand.
Hence, round his folds the moorland Shepherd spies
New social towns, and happy hamlets rise.

But me not splendor, nor the hopes of gain
Should ever tempt to quit the peaceful plain.
Shall I, possest of all that life requires,
With tutor'd hopes, and limited desires,
Change these sweet fields, these native scenes of ease,
For climes uncertain, and uncertain seas?

Nor yet, fair Commerce, do I thee disdain,
Tho' Guilt and Death and Riot swell thy train.
Cheer'd by the influence of thy gladdening ray,
The liberal arts sublimer works essay.
Genius for thee relumes his sacred fires,
And Science nearer to her heaven aspires.

The sanguine eye of tyranny long clos'd,
By Commerce foster'd, and in Peace repos'd,
No more her miseries when my country mourn'd,
With brighter flames her glowing genius burn'd.
Soon wandering fearless many a muse was seen
O'er the dun mountain, and the wild wood green.
Soon, to the warblings of the pastoral reed,
Started sweet Echo from the shores of Tweed.

O favour'd stream! where thy fair current flows,
The child of nature, gentle Thomson, rose.
Young as he wander'd on thy flowery side,
With simple joy to see thy bright waves glide,
Thither, in all thy native charms array'd,
From climes remote the sister Seasons stray'd.

Long each in beauty boasted to excel,
(For jealousies in sister-bosoms dwell)
But now, delighted with the liberal boy,
Like Heaven's fair rivals in the groves of Troy,
Yield to an humble swain their high debate,
And from his voice the palm of beauty wait.

Her naked charms, like Venus, to disclose,
Spring from her bosom threw the shadowing rose;
Bar'd the pure snow that feeds the lover's fire,
The breast that thrills with exquisite desire;
Assum'd the tender smile, the melting eye,
The breath favonian, and the yielding sigh.
One beauteous hand a wilding's blossom grac'd,
And one fell careless o'er her zoneless waist.

Majestic Summer, in gay pride adorn'd,
Her rival sister's simple beauty scorn'd.
With purple wreathes her lofty brows were bound,
With glowing flowers her rising bosom crown'd.
In her gay zone, by artful Fancy fram'd,
The bright rose blush'd, the full carnation flam'd.
Her cheeks the glow of splendid clouds display,
And her eyes flash insufferable day.

With milder air the gentle Autumn came,
But seem'd to languish at her sister's flame.
Yet, conscious of her boundless wealth, she bore
On high the emblems of her golden store.

Yet could she boast the plenty-pouring hand,
The liberal smile, benevolent and bland.
Nor might she fear in beauty to excel,
From whose fair head such golden tresses fell;
Nor might she envy Summer's flowery zone,
In whose sweet eye the star of evening shone.

Next, the pale power, that blots the golden sky,
Wreath'd her grim brows, and roll'd her stormy eye;
“Behold,” she cried, with voice that shook the ground,
(The Bard, the Sisters trembled at the sound)
“Ye weak admirers of a grape, or rose,
“Behold my wild magnificence of snows!
“See my keen frost her glassy bosom bare!
“Mock the faint sun, and bind the fluid air!
“Nature to you may lend a painted hour,
“With you may sport, when I suspend my power.
“But you and Nature, who that power obey,
“Shall own my beauty, or shall dread my sway.”

She spoke: the Bard, whose gentle heart ne'er gave
One pain or trouble that he knew to save,
No favour'd nymph extols with partial lays,
But gives to each her picture for her praise.

Mute lies his lyre in death's uncheerful gloom,
And Truth and Genius weep at Thomson's tomb.
Yet still the Muse's living sounds pervade
Her ancient scenes of Caledonian shade.

Still Nature listens to the tuneful lay,
On Kilda's mountains and in Endermay.

Th' ethereal brilliance of poetic fire,
The mighty hand that smites the sounding lyre,
Strains that on Fancy's strongest pinion rise,
Conceptions vast, and thoughts that grasp the skies,
To the rapt youth that mus'd on Shakespear's grave,
To Ogilvie the muse of Pindar gave. Time, as he sung, a moment ceas'd to fly,
And lazy Sleep unfolded half his eye.

O wake, sweet bard, the Theban lyre again;
With ancient valour swell the sounding strain;
Hail the high trophies by thy country won,
The wreaths that flourish for each valiant son.

While Hardyknute frowns red with Norway's gore,
Paint her pale matrons weeping on the shore.
Hark! the green clarion pouring floods of breath
Voluminously loud; high scorn of death
Each gallant spirit elates; see Rothsay's thane
With arm of mountain oak his firm bow strain!
Hark! the string twangs—the whizzing arrow flies:
The fierce Norse falls—indignant falls—and dies.

O'er the dear urn, where glorious Wallace sleeps,
True Valour bleeds, and patriot Virtue weeps.
Son of the lyre, what high ennobling strain,
What meed from thee shall generous Wallace gain?
Who greatly scorning an Usurper's pride,
Bar'd his brave breast for liberty, and died.

Boast, Scotland, boast-thy sons of mighty name,
Thine ancient chiefs of high heroic fame,
Souls that to death their country's foes oppos'd,
And life in freedom, glorious freedom clos'd.

Where, yet bewail'd, Argyle's warm ashes lie,
Let music breathe her most persuasive sigh.
To him, what Heaven to man could give, it gave,
Wise, generous, honest, eloquent and brave.
Genius and Valour for Argyle shall mourn,
And his own laurels flourish round his urn.
O, may they bloom beneath a fav'ring sky,
And in their shade Reproach and Envy die!

A chain of mountains near Folkstone in Kent.

James the First, King of Scotland, author of the famous old song, entitled Christ's Kirk on the Green.

A poem so called, written in honour of Margaret, daughter of Henry VII. on her marriage to James IV.King of Scots By Mr.William Dunbar.

Mr. Robert Henryson, an ingenious pastoral poet.

Mr. John Bellentyne, Archdean of Murray, author of beautiful allegorical poem, entitled, Virtue and Vice.

Mr. Archibald Scott, in the year 1524, translated the Vision, a poem, said to have been written in the year 1360. He was author of the Eagle and the Redbreast also, and several other pieces written with uncommon elegance for their day.

See Mr. Ogilvie's Ode to the Genius of Shakespear.

Ode to Time. Ibid.

Ode to Sleep. Ibid.

William Wallace, who, after bravely defending his country against the arms of Edward I. was executed as a rebel, though he had taken no oath of allegiance.