 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
168
EPISTLES.
169
EPISTLE THE FIRST.
TO ONE WHO PREFERRED THE JOYS OF LONDON, TO THE RURAL PLEASURES OF THE COUNTRY.
And will my friend then run life's race,
Where virtue oft to vice gives place;
For quiet wishing every hour;
Cloy'd with the noise he must endure;
For ever toiling in the crowd,
Expos'd to insults meanly rude,
Forc'd to be rakish, vain, and proud.
Now busier than the veriest slave;
Now bowing to some artful knave;
Now gadding thro' the restless town,
For fashion seeking up and down;
Or idly trifling time away,
At noisy tavern, park, or play.
Methinks I see you panting sit,
In Colman's elbow-pinching pit;
Or with their godships, (dismal groupe)
Yclep'd hoarse Bully Uproar's troop,
A slave to pleasure, pain, and fear,
Laugh at the wit you cannot hear,
Or weep, 'cause others drop a tear.
Or if to loud debate you fly,
Where dunce gives dunce the dull reply;
Where reason's rul'd by impudence,
And wit to virtue gives offence;
You hear each ignoramus prate,
'Bout Whig and Tory, church and state;
But with as much success might draw
Instruction from a pert jackdaw.
This hubbub over; next you view
Disease, and all her ghastly crew;
Here danger lurks in every street,
Here injur'd innocence you meet;
Here the remains of beauty trace,
In some poor midnight wand'rer's face;
For, well, my friend, I know your breast
Of each fine feeling is possest:
But may you, ever with disgust,
Avoid the foul embrace of lust;
Whether the luring wanton smiles
At proud St. James's or St. Giles'!
Thro' scenes of riot thus you reel,
To pent-up garret forc'd to steal;
Where, wak'd by watchmen's toneless chime,
Discordant nightingales of time,
You taste not ease; for calm repose
Is what the city seldom knows:
Thus youth you spend in real pain,
For misery in age to gain!
Where virtue oft to vice gives place;
For quiet wishing every hour;
Cloy'd with the noise he must endure;
For ever toiling in the crowd,
Expos'd to insults meanly rude,
Forc'd to be rakish, vain, and proud.
Now busier than the veriest slave;
Now bowing to some artful knave;
Now gadding thro' the restless town,
For fashion seeking up and down;
Or idly trifling time away,
At noisy tavern, park, or play.
170
In Colman's elbow-pinching pit;
Or with their godships, (dismal groupe)
Yclep'd hoarse Bully Uproar's troop,
A slave to pleasure, pain, and fear,
Laugh at the wit you cannot hear,
Or weep, 'cause others drop a tear.
Or if to loud debate you fly,
Where dunce gives dunce the dull reply;
Where reason's rul'd by impudence,
And wit to virtue gives offence;
You hear each ignoramus prate,
'Bout Whig and Tory, church and state;
But with as much success might draw
Instruction from a pert jackdaw.
This hubbub over; next you view
Disease, and all her ghastly crew;
Here danger lurks in every street,
Here injur'd innocence you meet;
Here the remains of beauty trace,
In some poor midnight wand'rer's face;
For, well, my friend, I know your breast
Of each fine feeling is possest:
But may you, ever with disgust,
Avoid the foul embrace of lust;
171
At proud St. James's or St. Giles'!
Thro' scenes of riot thus you reel,
To pent-up garret forc'd to steal;
Where, wak'd by watchmen's toneless chime,
Discordant nightingales of time,
You taste not ease; for calm repose
Is what the city seldom knows:
Thus youth you spend in real pain,
For misery in age to gain!
If e'er you steal an hour from care,
And leave the town for purer air,
Think sometimes of an absent friend;
And fancy thus the hours I spend.
When evening bids my labour cease,
In nook retir'd I muse in peace,
On these remember'd, those belov'd,
Or books peruse, by you approv'd;
Or with a friend, (tho' few I own,
For friendship is but little known)
In summer o'er the meadows rove,
Or trace the wood, and beechen grove,
Where Eden's winding current strays,
And thro' the fruitful valley plays;
Or range, elate, the plenteous fields,
When earth to man her produce yields.
What tho' no syren's voice we hear,
Still sweeter minstrels charm the ear;
While straining Mara you encore,
The feather'd choir delight me more.
No costly painted domes we view;
No glitt'ring palaces, 'tis true:
Yet num'rous landscapes meet the eye,
That domes and palaces outvie.
In peace, reclining at our ease,
We taste the health-bestowing breeze,
Beneath some osier's cooling shade;
Or mark the changes time hath made,
Since youth his fairy gambols play'd.
We laugh at love, and all his tricks,
And scorn with fashion's fools to mix;
Nor envy nor the rich, nor great,
Nor heed who rules o'er church or state.
And leave the town for purer air,
Think sometimes of an absent friend;
And fancy thus the hours I spend.
When evening bids my labour cease,
In nook retir'd I muse in peace,
On these remember'd, those belov'd,
Or books peruse, by you approv'd;
Or with a friend, (tho' few I own,
For friendship is but little known)
In summer o'er the meadows rove,
Or trace the wood, and beechen grove,
Where Eden's winding current strays,
And thro' the fruitful valley plays;
172
When earth to man her produce yields.
What tho' no syren's voice we hear,
Still sweeter minstrels charm the ear;
While straining Mara you encore,
The feather'd choir delight me more.
No costly painted domes we view;
No glitt'ring palaces, 'tis true:
Yet num'rous landscapes meet the eye,
That domes and palaces outvie.
In peace, reclining at our ease,
We taste the health-bestowing breeze,
Beneath some osier's cooling shade;
Or mark the changes time hath made,
Since youth his fairy gambols play'd.
We laugh at love, and all his tricks,
And scorn with fashion's fools to mix;
Nor envy nor the rich, nor great,
Nor heed who rules o'er church or state.
Tho' different thoughts lead you and me,
Yet friendship bids our hearts agree;
Of pleasures, rural, or the town,
No more, my Willy; both must own,
That happiness is but a name,
By prince, by peasant known the same
But when self-interest sways the mind,
Man seeks in vain that gem to find.
Did riches ease the aching heart,
Or sorrow's tear forbid to start;
lOr add to th' number of our days,
Then might the miser claim our praise:
But they give seldom health or peace,
And oft, too oft, our cares increase.
Yet friendship bids our hearts agree;
Of pleasures, rural, or the town,
No more, my Willy; both must own,
That happiness is but a name,
By prince, by peasant known the same
173
Man seeks in vain that gem to find.
Did riches ease the aching heart,
Or sorrow's tear forbid to start;
lOr add to th' number of our days,
Then might the miser claim our praise:
But they give seldom health or peace,
And oft, too oft, our cares increase.
Regardless, then, of fortune's smile,
Be ours, my friend, content and toil;
And blest with friendship, peace, and health,
E'en let who will contend for wealth!
Be ours, my friend, content and toil;
And blest with friendship, peace, and health,
E'en let who will contend for wealth!
Carlisle, September, 1798.
174
EPISTLE THE SECOND.
TO MISS E. C---E, IN SCOTLAND.
Ye Pow'rs abuin, O hear me now!
If I'm to cla' an auld man's pow,
Just grant a circle o' leel friends,
To cheer me, ere life's journey ends!
If I'm to cla' an auld man's pow,
Just grant a circle o' leel friends,
To cheer me, ere life's journey ends!
Sin' first I wrote R. A. his book,
God gie him grace on it to look!
I've fash'd my friens wi' monie a line;
In tuneless rhyme, in senseless prose;
Now teazin' these, now pleasin' those,
As folly, whim, or friendship chose
To rule this head o' mine.
God gie him grace on it to look!
I've fash'd my friens wi' monie a line;
In tuneless rhyme, in senseless prose;
Now teazin' these, now pleasin' those,
As folly, whim, or friendship chose
To rule this head o' mine.
Tho' weel acquaint wi' monie a ane,
Of a' the lave, how few I ken,
Wha can for sense wi' ye compare!
Woo lass! had I auld Ramsay's skill,
Or like Ayr's Bardie, wit at will,
'Twou'd pleasure gie, to drive the quill,
That ye my verse might share!
Of a' the lave, how few I ken,
175
Woo lass! had I auld Ramsay's skill,
Or like Ayr's Bardie, wit at will,
'Twou'd pleasure gie, to drive the quill,
That ye my verse might share!
But he wha cheerfu' does his best,
Guid-natur'd sauls forgie the rest;
Sae nought hae I frae ye to fear.
Driv'n by wild Autumn frae ilk bow'r,
Where linties late did wild notes pour,
In cot retir'd, I'll ryhme an hour,
To please a frien sae dear.
Guid-natur'd sauls forgie the rest;
Sae nought hae I frae ye to fear.
Driv'n by wild Autumn frae ilk bow'r,
Where linties late did wild notes pour,
In cot retir'd, I'll ryhme an hour,
To please a frien sae dear.
Now far frae town the sportsman flies,
Proud to ensnare the harmless prize;
Be his, sic pleasures to enjoy!
To range o'er mountain, muir, and heath,
Charm'd wi' ilk sound that echoes death;
My aim shall be, while I draw breath,
To save but ne'er destroy!
Proud to ensnare the harmless prize;
Be his, sic pleasures to enjoy!
To range o'er mountain, muir, and heath,
Charm'd wi' ilk sound that echoes death;
My aim shall be, while I draw breath,
To save but ne'er destroy!
The hollow blasts begin to bla',
And frae the trees, leaves twitt'rin' fa';
A lesson seemin' aft to gie:
For ere anither Autumn come,
They'll rustle o'er the narrow tomb
O' monie, wha now boast health's bloom,
And may be, thee, or me!
And frae the trees, leaves twitt'rin' fa';
A lesson seemin' aft to gie:
For ere anither Autumn come,
176
O' monie, wha now boast health's bloom,
And may be, thee, or me!
Life's simmer, Bess, is thine and mine,
But hastnin' quick to a decline;
That 'tis sae, haith, I find fu' weel!
Time's snatch'd the forelock frae my pate,
And hope that made this heart elate,
Now lea's me mourning o'er my fate,
A luckless, rhymin' chiel.
But hastnin' quick to a decline;
That 'tis sae, haith, I find fu' weel!
Time's snatch'd the forelock frae my pate,
And hope that made this heart elate,
Now lea's me mourning o'er my fate,
A luckless, rhymin' chiel.
What then, like me, baith rich and puir,
Maun painfu' trials here endure;
Yet man, weak man's his greatest foe:
A something ay appears in view,
The fleetin' shadow we pursue;
And if o'erta'en, this aft is true,
It adds but to our woe.
Maun painfu' trials here endure;
Yet man, weak man's his greatest foe:
A something ay appears in view,
The fleetin' shadow we pursue;
And if o'erta'en, this aft is true,
It adds but to our woe.
Wou'd we enjoy the envied state,
Whilk mortals truly may ca' great,
On pleasure we shou'd ne'er be bent;
Reason shou'd o'er ilk thought preside,
And honesty ay act as guide;
Syne let what will on earth betide,
We ay may rest content.
Whilk mortals truly may ca' great,
On pleasure we shou'd ne'er be bent;
Reason shou'd o'er ilk thought preside,
And honesty ay act as guide;
Syne let what will on earth betide,
We ay may rest content.
177
Niest to give life a double charm,
And slander o' her rage disarm,
Friendship shou'd temper weel the whole:
But true it is, we seldom find
That social tie amang mankind;
Int'rest o'er aft enslaves the mind
That ought to think for all.
And slander o' her rage disarm,
Friendship shou'd temper weel the whole:
But true it is, we seldom find
That social tie amang mankind;
Int'rest o'er aft enslaves the mind
That ought to think for all.
To this gie riches, that a name;
To ane gie pow'r, anither fame;
And let ambition's sons ay rule:
Gie me a sonsy honest friend,
On whom I may wi' truth depend,
And cheerfu' I'll to puirtith bend,
Nor envy fortune's fool!
To ane gie pow'r, anither fame;
And let ambition's sons ay rule:
Gie me a sonsy honest friend,
On whom I may wi' truth depend,
And cheerfu' I'll to puirtith bend,
Nor envy fortune's fool!
But in life's journey, gin we meet
A leel true saul, whase converse sweet
Can soothe a while the throbbing heart;
That jillet, fortune, steps atween,
And changes quick the happy scene;
Syne a' we boast is what has been,
Ay laith sae suin to part.
A leel true saul, whase converse sweet
Can soothe a while the throbbing heart;
That jillet, fortune, steps atween,
And changes quick the happy scene;
Syne a' we boast is what has been,
Ay laith sae suin to part.
178
Just sae it far'd wi' us, I trow,
Ere hawf acquaint, awa' thou flew;
Tho' distant, Bess, I swear to thee,
While genius, worth, I can discern,
Or aught o' virtue wish to learn,
Howe'er by fate I'm thrawn astern,
Remember'd thou wilt be!
Ere hawf acquaint, awa' thou flew;
Tho' distant, Bess, I swear to thee,
While genius, worth, I can discern,
Or aught o' virtue wish to learn,
Howe'er by fate I'm thrawn astern,
Remember'd thou wilt be!
Carlisle.
179
EPISTLE THE THIRD.
TO MR. ROBERT CARLYLE.
O thou, my long-lov'd, and much-honour'd friend,
Why on the winding banks of Tay,
Doth sorrow ay point out thy way,
And melancholy still thy steps attend?
When virtue fires the youthful breast,
Her vot'ry, pure, should live secure;
And be, where'er he strays, a welcome guest.
Why on the winding banks of Tay,
Doth sorrow ay point out thy way,
And melancholy still thy steps attend?
When virtue fires the youthful breast,
Her vot'ry, pure, should live secure;
And be, where'er he strays, a welcome guest.
Now smiles the season gay, which erst thine eye
Beheld, while by thy native streams,
Ting'd oft by Sol's departing beams,
The sober landscape made thy heart beat high:
Shall Spring, with all her joyous train,
Her sweets diffuse, of various hues,
And thou, in pensive numbers mark her reign?
Beheld, while by thy native streams,
Ting'd oft by Sol's departing beams,
The sober landscape made thy heart beat high:
Shall Spring, with all her joyous train,
Her sweets diffuse, of various hues,
And thou, in pensive numbers mark her reign?
Ah! no.—Since science hath illum'd thy mind,
And genius pour'd to thee her store,
Let sadness twine the wreath no more,
Of faded flow'rs, thy youthful brows to bind!
If reason bids us joy despise,
And guiltless mirth gives sorrow birth,
All may exclaim, “'Tis folly to be wise!”
And genius pour'd to thee her store,
Let sadness twine the wreath no more,
Of faded flow'rs, thy youthful brows to bind!
180
And guiltless mirth gives sorrow birth,
All may exclaim, “'Tis folly to be wise!”
Self-exil'd mid' majestic scenes to roam,
Where Tay's proud streams incessant roar,
Or Lomond laves the wood-fring'd shore;
With grief, I saw thee quit thy happy home,
Where scowling pride thy merit view'd,
And mark'd a youth in quest of truth,
But mock'd his sufferings with ingratitude.
Where Tay's proud streams incessant roar,
Or Lomond laves the wood-fring'd shore;
With grief, I saw thee quit thy happy home,
Where scowling pride thy merit view'd,
And mark'd a youth in quest of truth,
But mock'd his sufferings with ingratitude.
Alas! that genius e'er should know distress!
Or bend, in spite of reason's rules,
An abject slave to fortune's fools;
While bloated ignorance mankind caress!
Yet, heed not thou the world's sharp frown,
Content, and health, to haughty wealth,
And humble poverty, alike are known.
Or bend, in spite of reason's rules,
An abject slave to fortune's fools;
While bloated ignorance mankind caress!
Yet, heed not thou the world's sharp frown,
Content, and health, to haughty wealth,
And humble poverty, alike are known.
Bethink thee of the cares that all await;
Nor let dejection cloud thy brow,
If to the world thou'rt doom'd to bow;
Nor view with partial eye the pomp of state:
To nature's child, a virtuous name
Can give repose, and heal his woes,
More than doth e'er the air-blown bubble fame.
Nor let dejection cloud thy brow,
If to the world thou'rt doom'd to bow;
Nor view with partial eye the pomp of state:
To nature's child, a virtuous name
Can give repose, and heal his woes,
More than doth e'er the air-blown bubble fame.
181
Why labours o'er his midnight lamp, the sage,
Still teaching man himself to know?
'Tis his, to trace the source of woe,
And ours, to glean instruction from his page;
To make the most of life's short span,
And seek of Heav'n, the promise giv'n;
These are the noblest studies of frail man.
Still teaching man himself to know?
'Tis his, to trace the source of woe,
And ours, to glean instruction from his page;
To make the most of life's short span,
And seek of Heav'n, the promise giv'n;
These are the noblest studies of frail man.
Then court not, ere thy prime, the sombrous shade,
Where dwell disease, and cank'ring care;
Nor let the haggard fiend despair
Thy steps mislead; if by the world betray'd.
But, ah! if hope no more can cheer
Thy bosom, torn, in life's fair morn,
Long, long for thee shall Friendship shed the silent tear!
Where dwell disease, and cank'ring care;
Nor let the haggard fiend despair
Thy steps mislead; if by the world betray'd.
But, ah! if hope no more can cheer
Thy bosom, torn, in life's fair morn,
Long, long for thee shall Friendship shed the silent tear!
Carlisle, April 27, 1800.
182
EPISTLE THE FOURTH.
TO MARIA OF THE COTTAGE,
The late Mrs. Munster of Belfast. She has long been known as an authoress, and chose that appellation in Magazines, Newspapers, &c. She commenced her literary career in early youth, by publishing the “Cottage of the Appenines,” a Romance, in 4 vols. This work, which was completed in her sixteenth year, proves her to be a warm admirer of the celebrated Mrs. Radcliffe. In “Rosa,” a Tale, she has displayed a knowledge of the world in a story replete with interesting incident. Her language and pathos cannot fail to please the lovers of Sterne, or the author of the “Man of Feeling.” Although she may truly assert with Camoens,
“My cradle was the couch of care,
And sorrow rock'd me in it,”
yet no one ever bore the crosses of life with greater fortitude, nor did cheerfulness forsake her when the tomb seemed yawning for her reception. Sensibility, vivacity, and a philanthropic spirit, could not fail to make Maria the admiration of many a learned and respectable circle. She died in January 1818, and was interred in the new burial ground, Belfast.
ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
The late Mrs. Munster of Belfast. She has long been known as an authoress, and chose that appellation in Magazines, Newspapers, &c. She commenced her literary career in early youth, by publishing the “Cottage of the Appenines,” a Romance, in 4 vols. This work, which was completed in her sixteenth year, proves her to be a warm admirer of the celebrated Mrs. Radcliffe. In “Rosa,” a Tale, she has displayed a knowledge of the world in a story replete with interesting incident. Her language and pathos cannot fail to please the lovers of Sterne, or the author of the “Man of Feeling.” Although she may truly assert with Camoens,
“My cradle was the couch of care,
And sorrow rock'd me in it,”
yet no one ever bore the crosses of life with greater fortitude, nor did cheerfulness forsake her when the tomb seemed yawning for her reception. Sensibility, vivacity, and a philanthropic spirit, could not fail to make Maria the admiration of many a learned and respectable circle. She died in January 1818, and was interred in the new burial ground, Belfast.
“Long may she live,
The care of Heav'n; and her declining years
Be crown'd with plenty, and with happiness!”
The care of Heav'n; and her declining years
Be crown'd with plenty, and with happiness!”
This is thy natal day. Now thrice seven times
Hath Spring, still welcome, scatter'd o'er the earth
Her fost'ring dews, then with her joyous train
A flow'r-wov'n carpet spread o'er many a mead,
While caroll'd each wild warbler; thrice seven times
Hath savage Winter ravish'd Autumn's charms,
Since first thou saw the light. Fair innccent!
From that blest hour which gave thee to this world,
This world of vanity, this world of care,
Where wealth is honour'd, worth oft doom'd to pine,
Ne'er hath bright Sol shone on a sweeter flow'r;
A winter rose, not “born to blush unseen.”
May'st thou, when many years have o'er thee roll'd,
And time, relentless tyrant, beauty's foe,
Hath furrow'd that fair face, with smiles behold,
In blest retirement, tranquilliz'd thy mind,
Sol's cheering beams, then think of well-spent years;
Prepar'd to seek the Christian's sure reward,
As sinking to thy last sad narrow bed!
This thy friend wisheth. Friend unknown to fame;
Who spite of jaundic'd slander, bloated wealth,
Who spite of the fool's scorn, will ever give
To modest worth, to genius pure, its due.
Hath Spring, still welcome, scatter'd o'er the earth
Her fost'ring dews, then with her joyous train
A flow'r-wov'n carpet spread o'er many a mead,
While caroll'd each wild warbler; thrice seven times
Hath savage Winter ravish'd Autumn's charms,
Since first thou saw the light. Fair innccent!
From that blest hour which gave thee to this world,
This world of vanity, this world of care,
Where wealth is honour'd, worth oft doom'd to pine,
Ne'er hath bright Sol shone on a sweeter flow'r;
A winter rose, not “born to blush unseen.”
183
And time, relentless tyrant, beauty's foe,
Hath furrow'd that fair face, with smiles behold,
In blest retirement, tranquilliz'd thy mind,
Sol's cheering beams, then think of well-spent years;
Prepar'd to seek the Christian's sure reward,
As sinking to thy last sad narrow bed!
This thy friend wisheth. Friend unknown to fame;
Who spite of jaundic'd slander, bloated wealth,
Who spite of the fool's scorn, will ever give
To modest worth, to genius pure, its due.
Health, rosy health, presided at thy birth,
And watch'd thy infant slumbers. Plump-cheek'd mirth
Enraptur'd, gaz'd, then mark'd thee for her own.
Next, mild religion with parental care,
Rear'd the young shoot, with finger held to Heav'n.
Genius, who scorns the multitude, whose smile
No diadem can purchase, heav'nly maid;
Who with a spark divine the mind illumes,
And makes each fav'rite soothe a brother's woes,
Nurs'd thee, her darling. Hope, with uplift hands,
The cherub bless'd; then promis'd happy days.
But hope's a fair deceiver. Gaily drest,
She whispers man of countless joys in store;
And by her smiles, alas! he's oft undone!
Grave wisdom, with instruction by her side,
Oft pleas'd to hear thy lisping accents sweet,
Wou'd point to many a flow'ry path, which leads
To fame's far distant temple. High it stands;
And thousands try in vain to climb the mount,
Access still eager hoping. Careful, she
The thorns secreted from thy ardent gaze,
And lur'd thy feet the steps they oft have trod.
And watch'd thy infant slumbers. Plump-cheek'd mirth
Enraptur'd, gaz'd, then mark'd thee for her own.
Next, mild religion with parental care,
Rear'd the young shoot, with finger held to Heav'n.
Genius, who scorns the multitude, whose smile
No diadem can purchase, heav'nly maid;
Who with a spark divine the mind illumes,
And makes each fav'rite soothe a brother's woes,
Nurs'd thee, her darling. Hope, with uplift hands,
The cherub bless'd; then promis'd happy days.
But hope's a fair deceiver. Gaily drest,
She whispers man of countless joys in store;
184
Grave wisdom, with instruction by her side,
Oft pleas'd to hear thy lisping accents sweet,
Wou'd point to many a flow'ry path, which leads
To fame's far distant temple. High it stands;
And thousands try in vain to climb the mount,
Access still eager hoping. Careful, she
The thorns secreted from thy ardent gaze,
And lur'd thy feet the steps they oft have trod.
Ne'er was thy cradle the sad couch of care,
Nor did pale sorrow ever rock thee in it.
Life's morn was fair as fleeting: all a dream;
A fev'rish dream, time ne'er must realize!
Nor did pale sorrow ever rock thee in it.
Life's morn was fair as fleeting: all a dream;
A fev'rish dream, time ne'er must realize!
How little thought the rose-cheek'd beauteous groupe,
When dear associates in each fairy scene,
Rev'lers in bliss uncloy'd, a few short years
Wou'd find thee musing o'er the midnight lamp;
A young but great instructress. Chilling, now,
With horror wild, the youthful reader's frame;
As in idea, o'er thy glowing works,
He fondly bends, and shudders at each sound,
Some spectre dreading. Next the gothic stairs,
Scar'd, slow ascending, he at length beholds
In chamber gloomy, some sad captive, pale,
Woe-worn, and ghastly. Some angelic maid,
Stol'n from her home, a virtuous sacrifice
To lordly man, foul image of his Maker.
The scene now changes; nature's children please;
And love's delights, Arcadian sweets surprise.
The reader mingles with some village groupe,
And joins the evening dance; and revelry;
Or with them roams, aided by Luna's beam,
Pale empress of the night. Perchance he sees
Some tow'r half-hid, and half-embrown'd by shade;
While on his ear the bird of sorrow flings
Her sad, but soothing song.
When dear associates in each fairy scene,
Rev'lers in bliss uncloy'd, a few short years
Wou'd find thee musing o'er the midnight lamp;
A young but great instructress. Chilling, now,
With horror wild, the youthful reader's frame;
As in idea, o'er thy glowing works,
He fondly bends, and shudders at each sound,
Some spectre dreading. Next the gothic stairs,
Scar'd, slow ascending, he at length beholds
185
Woe-worn, and ghastly. Some angelic maid,
Stol'n from her home, a virtuous sacrifice
To lordly man, foul image of his Maker.
The scene now changes; nature's children please;
And love's delights, Arcadian sweets surprise.
The reader mingles with some village groupe,
And joins the evening dance; and revelry;
Or with them roams, aided by Luna's beam,
Pale empress of the night. Perchance he sees
Some tow'r half-hid, and half-embrown'd by shade;
While on his ear the bird of sorrow flings
Her sad, but soothing song.
Long may'st thou lead,
Daughter of magic, with thy high-wrought scenes
(Where pure morality adorns thy page,
And virtue shines a mirror to each sex,
While guilt's dark deeds provoke Heav'n's bitter wrath)
The mind a willing captive. May reward
Still crown thy labors, friend to all mankind!
Nor e'er the Muse desert thee! Yes! ev'n now,
Methinks thy name 'midst Erin's gifted fair
Will live recorded, on the lists of fame.
Daughter of magic, with thy high-wrought scenes
(Where pure morality adorns thy page,
And virtue shines a mirror to each sex,
While guilt's dark deeds provoke Heav'n's bitter wrath)
The mind a willing captive. May reward
Still crown thy labors, friend to all mankind!
Nor e'er the Muse desert thee! Yes! ev'n now,
Methinks thy name 'midst Erin's gifted fair
Will live recorded, on the lists of fame.
186
Ah! little dreamt thou, child of innocence,
In infancy, life's golden happy age,
A few short years wou'd find thee sorrow's child;
And sickness spread for thee a painful couch!
Guileless thy heart. How little didst thou know
Ev'n with a mind well stor'd, th' unfeeling world!
But let me o'er thy wrongs throw friendship's veil,
Nor irritate a sore, not yet half heal'd.
The feeling heart my pen shall never wound;
No man is he, who sports with virtue's tears!
In infancy, life's golden happy age,
A few short years wou'd find thee sorrow's child;
And sickness spread for thee a painful couch!
Guileless thy heart. How little didst thou know
Ev'n with a mind well stor'd, th' unfeeling world!
But let me o'er thy wrongs throw friendship's veil,
Nor irritate a sore, not yet half heal'd.
The feeling heart my pen shall never wound;
No man is he, who sports with virtue's tears!
Now when December with his thousand storms,
Ah! dreaded month, to many a houseless wretch!
In frozen snow-clad mantle sweeps the vale,
Wither'd and leafless, ruin scattering round,
Peaee to thy cot! May health, coy, rosy fair,
And blithe content long thy companions be;
While changing seasons yield thee greater bliss!
Ah! dreaded month, to many a houseless wretch!
In frozen snow-clad mantle sweeps the vale,
Wither'd and leafless, ruin scattering round,
Peaee to thy cot! May health, coy, rosy fair,
And blithe content long thy companions be;
While changing seasons yield thee greater bliss!
Unenvying, thou canst view yon bustling town,
Where high ambition rears a haughty head;
And all is commerce, craft, and cank'ring care.
This wild unpolish'd lay should'st thou approve,
I'll smiling, scorn the learn'd reader's sneer.
Where high ambition rears a haughty head;
And all is commerce, craft, and cank'ring care.
This wild unpolish'd lay should'st thou approve,
I'll smiling, scorn the learn'd reader's sneer.
December 26, 1808.
187
EPISTLE THE FIFTH.
TO ROBERT ANDERSON.
While on the Lyne's romantic stream,
Meek ev'ning threw her farewell beam,
In mem'ry's soft reflected hue
Those rapt'rous hours return'd to view,
When you, in vales that blush'd with flow'rs,
Entranc'd the ear with music's pow'rs:
But, since you bade these vales farewell,
No bard awakes the vocal shell;
No flute e'er breathes the woods among,
Symphonious to the milk-maid's song:
Our merry-nights, where pleasure ties
Her garlands of a hundred dies,
Where love glows with his purest flame,
Leave no memorials of their fame;
Our meddings, where the dance and bowl
Bathe, in the fount of bliss, the soul,
Pass like the dreams of night away,
The subject of no minstrel's lay:
And the fair maids of Eden's plain
Implore a poet's aid in vain,
To paint their roses ere they die,
And the blue languish of their eye.
Meek ev'ning threw her farewell beam,
In mem'ry's soft reflected hue
Those rapt'rous hours return'd to view,
When you, in vales that blush'd with flow'rs,
Entranc'd the ear with music's pow'rs:
But, since you bade these vales farewell,
No bard awakes the vocal shell;
No flute e'er breathes the woods among,
Symphonious to the milk-maid's song:
Our merry-nights, where pleasure ties
Her garlands of a hundred dies,
Where love glows with his purest flame,
Leave no memorials of their fame;
Our meddings, where the dance and bowl
Bathe, in the fount of bliss, the soul,
Pass like the dreams of night away,
The subject of no minstrel's lay:
188
Implore a poet's aid in vain,
To paint their roses ere they die,
And the blue languish of their eye.
Come, then, my friend, and bring with thee
That welcome heart—the heart of glee;
Thy flute will cheer my bow'rs once more,
And all my long-lost joys restore;
Bright will my ev'ning star go down,
Though Fortune and my Juliet frown;
'Mid social hours of radiant hue,
To pallid care I'll bid adieu;
O'er Gibson's ale, the festive night
Shall fly on pinions soft and light;
The tale and song's enchanting pow'r
Shall long protract the parting hour;
And, till on Eden's chrystal stream
The morning's purple splendour beam,
The glass, in streamy pride, shall roll
A tide of transport o'er the soul.
That welcome heart—the heart of glee;
Thy flute will cheer my bow'rs once more,
And all my long-lost joys restore;
Bright will my ev'ning star go down,
Though Fortune and my Juliet frown;
'Mid social hours of radiant hue,
To pallid care I'll bid adieu;
O'er Gibson's ale, the festive night
Shall fly on pinions soft and light;
The tale and song's enchanting pow'r
Shall long protract the parting hour;
And, till on Eden's chrystal stream
The morning's purple splendour beam,
The glass, in streamy pride, shall roll
A tide of transport o'er the soul.
Oh! tell me, soon, in prose or rhyme,
What fills the void of vacant time:
Are still th' inspiring Muses kind?
Do their green wreathes thy temples bind?
On Erin's shore, oh! do they meet
Their poet with their visions sweet?
And do the loves and young desires
Still flutter o'er thy joyous wires?
Still does the enchantress beauty dart
Her charms upon thy captiv'd heart?
Or does the harp of sorrow mourn
O'er love or friendship's timeless urn?
What fills the void of vacant time:
Are still th' inspiring Muses kind?
Do their green wreathes thy temples bind?
189
Their poet with their visions sweet?
And do the loves and young desires
Still flutter o'er thy joyous wires?
Still does the enchantress beauty dart
Her charms upon thy captiv'd heart?
Or does the harp of sorrow mourn
O'er love or friendship's timeless urn?
Perhaps, in fancy's magic glass,
Thy native vales before thee pass;
Those scenes of sweet delight appear
That to the eye of youth were dear:
Perhaps the nymphs of Eden's stream
My smile in some poetic dream;
May come in each attractive form,
With beauty, love, or virtue warm!
'Twas thus the sweetest bard of Rome,
When banished from his friends and home,
Upon the ling'ring moment threw
Reflected joys of every hue;
More precious far than Cæsar's throne
An imag'd world he made his own!
In fancy's visionary light
The Tyber darted on his sight;
And every scene o'er which he hung
With exstacy, when life was young,
Return'd to soothe an exile's hours,
And gleam upon his shadowy bow'rs.
Then, oh! then, no longer frown'd
The wildness of the desart round;
The howling of the tempest's blast,
Unheard, amidst the grey rocks, past;
And, on the bosom of the deep,
The angry surges seem'd to sleep.
Thy native vales before thee pass;
Those scenes of sweet delight appear
That to the eye of youth were dear:
Perhaps the nymphs of Eden's stream
My smile in some poetic dream;
May come in each attractive form,
With beauty, love, or virtue warm!
'Twas thus the sweetest bard of Rome,
When banished from his friends and home,
Upon the ling'ring moment threw
Reflected joys of every hue;
More precious far than Cæsar's throne
An imag'd world he made his own!
In fancy's visionary light
The Tyber darted on his sight;
And every scene o'er which he hung
With exstacy, when life was young,
190
And gleam upon his shadowy bow'rs.
Then, oh! then, no longer frown'd
The wildness of the desart round;
The howling of the tempest's blast,
Unheard, amidst the grey rocks, past;
And, on the bosom of the deep,
The angry surges seem'd to sleep.
Oh! could, dear friend, a verse of mine
The treasures of the soul enshrine,
The richness of thy worth should glow,
When o'er my grave the wild winds blow;
And green should distant ages find
The wreath that sacred friendship twin'd:
But, ah! my rude, unpolished lay
Is but the record of a day;
Soon, soon, dear friend, my rustic rhyme
Shall feel the deadly touch of time;
Oblivion's ruthless hand shall shed
Her night-shades o'er thy Crito's head;
And not a line of living fame
Shall bear to future times his name!
The treasures of the soul enshrine,
The richness of thy worth should glow,
When o'er my grave the wild winds blow;
And green should distant ages find
The wreath that sacred friendship twin'd:
But, ah! my rude, unpolished lay
Is but the record of a day;
Soon, soon, dear friend, my rustic rhyme
Shall feel the deadly touch of time;
Oblivion's ruthless hand shall shed
Her night-shades o'er thy Crito's head;
And not a line of living fame
Shall bear to future times his name!
CRITO.
191
EPISTLE THE SIXTH.
TO CRITO.
This ingenious and virtuous man, Mr. Thomas Sanderson, whose works, in prose or poetry, have justly gained him the admiration and esteem of his enlightened countrymen, is a native of Sebergham, and resides in the Parish of Kirklinton, Cumberland. To him the public are indebted, for his well-written and interesting notes on the “Cumberland Ballads.” His friendship will always be gratefully remembered by the Author of this publication; whose wish it is, that health, peace, plenty, and the Muse, may long be his welcome companions.
“Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul,
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society,
I owe thee much!”
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society,
I owe thee much!”
My harp I neglected, and careless threw by;
Its tones became feeble, beguil'd not the night;
And oft as I view'd it, I said, with a sigh,
“Sweet soother of woe, thou'lt no longer delight!
The wild-flow'rs of fancy now charm me no more,
The pictures of hope, and her visions are flown;
When loves, joys, and friendships for ever are o'er,
Remembrance will linger on years that are gone!”
Its tones became feeble, beguil'd not the night;
And oft as I view'd it, I said, with a sigh,
“Sweet soother of woe, thou'lt no longer delight!
The wild-flow'rs of fancy now charm me no more,
The pictures of hope, and her visions are flown;
When loves, joys, and friendships for ever are o'er,
Remembrance will linger on years that are gone!”
O, Cumbria! thy pine-clad bills rise to my view;
Thy wide-spreading valleys in livery of green;
Thy hoarse-murm'ring streams where enraptur'd I flew,
To mark the romantic, the heart-soothing scene;
These still haunt my pillow, for there with the Muse,
Forgetful of sorrows, I wove the rude song
That nature dictated. Ah! who cou'd refuse
To paint her gay pictures, thy wild woods among?
Thy wide-spreading valleys in livery of green;
Thy hoarse-murm'ring streams where enraptur'd I flew,
To mark the romantic, the heart-soothing scene;
192
Forgetful of sorrows, I wove the rude song
That nature dictated. Ah! who cou'd refuse
To paint her gay pictures, thy wild woods among?
And oft, in idea, with lingering pace,
Thy landscape enchants, while thy meadows I tread,
And o'er haunts of my youth, still with Spring fondly trace
Her glories, new-born, that so lavish were spread:
I wind Eden's stream, where I first sought the maid,
Whose coy looks of witch'ry cou'd raptures impart;
Or press thy dark woods, and each thrush-haunted glade,
'Mid the smiles of the few, ever dear to my heart.
Thy landscape enchants, while thy meadows I tread,
And o'er haunts of my youth, still with Spring fondly trace
Her glories, new-born, that so lavish were spread:
I wind Eden's stream, where I first sought the maid,
Whose coy looks of witch'ry cou'd raptures impart;
Or press thy dark woods, and each thrush-haunted glade,
'Mid the smiles of the few, ever dear to my heart.
Ev'n now, when dun evening bedews these bleak vales,
And pensive reflection past pleasure calls forth,
I mark thy blithe groups, care no longer assails,
Assemble, o'erjoy'd, round the neatly-trimm'd hearth.
There wisdom is gather'd, of mortals and states,
O'er heart-cheering liquor, in calumny's spite;
News foreign or local, each freely narrates,
And the song, jest, and story give wings to the night.
And pensive reflection past pleasure calls forth,
I mark thy blithe groups, care no longer assails,
Assemble, o'erjoy'd, round the neatly-trimm'd hearth.
There wisdom is gather'd, of mortals and states,
O'er heart-cheering liquor, in calumny's spite;
News foreign or local, each freely narrates,
And the song, jest, and story give wings to the night.
193
But time, the destroyer, hath numbers laid low;
Misfortune hath many to penury driv'n;
And others have tasted the gall-drop of woe,
To whom, when we parted, was happiness giv'n!
There are, who from poverty's gripe have got free,
The scoff of the wise, and the sport of the day:
A thousand such changes, in fancy, I see,
Since the hour when hope flatter'd, and tore me away.
Misfortune hath many to penury driv'n;
And others have tasted the gall-drop of woe,
To whom, when we parted, was happiness giv'n!
There are, who from poverty's gripe have got free,
The scoff of the wise, and the sport of the day:
A thousand such changes, in fancy, I see,
Since the hour when hope flatter'd, and tore me away.
Yes! Cumbria, I mark where thy aged oaks stood;
The groves where I pip'd with a heart free from care;
Or thought, as I trac'd nature's works up to God,
No bow'rs were so fragrant, no fields half so fair.
Then oft would I sigh, but the wish, ah! how vain,
That in youth and in manhood still clung to my breast,
When death gave relief to all sorrow, all pain,
Near the tombs of my fathers, in peace I might rest.
The groves where I pip'd with a heart free from care;
Or thought, as I trac'd nature's works up to God,
No bow'rs were so fragrant, no fields half so fair.
Then oft would I sigh, but the wish, ah! how vain,
That in youth and in manhood still clung to my breast,
When death gave relief to all sorrow, all pain,
Near the tombs of my fathers, in peace I might rest.
Thus oft have I ponder'd, when day's toil was done,
And Phoebus gave Erin his last ev'ning smile;
When sicken'd with tumult, life's Autumn steals on,
'Tis sweet o'er past pleasures the hours to beguile.
And oft have I said, why forgetful of me,
Are the few sons of science, whose converse I shar'd?
Sings the Bard of the Lyne now no longer with glee,
For whom all the Muses a chaplet prepar'd?
And Phoebus gave Erin his last ev'ning smile;
When sicken'd with tumult, life's Autumn steals on,
'Tis sweet o'er past pleasures the hours to beguile.
194
Are the few sons of science, whose converse I shar'd?
Sings the Bard of the Lyne now no longer with glee,
For whom all the Muses a chaplet prepar'd?
Long, long hath his page pour'd delight o'er the mind,
For sacred to virtue, and sweet are his strains;
O'er fancy's fair regions he roams unconfin'd,
And the wish to instruct in his bosom still reigns:
And fain with my Crito again would I range
The groves and the bow'rs, where each tree seem'd a friend;
And when we beheld, with a sigh, a sad change,
Reflect, soon like them, we must wither and bend.
For sacred to virtue, and sweet are his strains;
O'er fancy's fair regions he roams unconfin'd,
And the wish to instruct in his bosom still reigns:
And fain with my Crito again would I range
The groves and the bow'rs, where each tree seem'd a friend;
And when we beheld, with a sigh, a sad change,
Reflect, soon like them, we must wither and bend.
But the gales to my ears brought the song of the Bard,
That succour'd, like manna, from friendship's abode;
—While flows the red current, the song I'll regard,
That soothes a lone brother on life's flinty road!
Thou chief of the number whose sanction I boast,
Let friendship, long cherish'd, in death but expire;
And whatever my fate on life's perilous coast,
May I copy thy virtues, while list'ning thy lyre!
That succour'd, like manna, from friendship's abode;
—While flows the red current, the song I'll regard,
That soothes a lone brother on life's flinty road!
Thou chief of the number whose sanction I boast,
Let friendship, long cherish'd, in death but expire;
And whatever my fate on life's perilous coast,
May I copy thy virtues, while list'ning thy lyre!
Carnmoney, near Belfast.
195
EPISTLE THE SEVENTH.
TO MR. ROBERT ANDERSON, ON READING SOME OF HIS BEAUTIFUL POEMS IN THE BELFAST NEWS-LETTER, BY GAELUS.
Mr. Andrew M'Kenzie, of Dunover, in the County of Down, who chuses the signature of Gaelus, is a man of considerable abilities. In 1810, he published a volume of Poems which have been much perused and justly admired. His works abound in moral sentiment, and prove him to be a favourite with the Muse, and a friend to his fellow creatures. Blessed with an amiable partner and a promising offspring, he enjoys in his humble sphere that domestic tranquillity which can only be attained by the virtuous.
Hail Anderson! nature's sweet bard,
(For nature gives birth to thy lay;)
What praise could thy merit reward?
What fame thy effusions repay?
(For nature gives birth to thy lay;)
What praise could thy merit reward?
What fame thy effusions repay?
Permit me, tho' wild is the strain,
My tribute of praise to bestow;
Nor treat my rude verse with disdain,
Since heartfelt esteem bids it flow.
My tribute of praise to bestow;
Nor treat my rude verse with disdain,
Since heartfelt esteem bids it flow.
Thy songs with delight I have read,
Which flow like a smooth-gliding stream,
And sympathy's tear I have shed,
As oft as distress was thy theme.
Which flow like a smooth-gliding stream,
And sympathy's tear I have shed,
As oft as distress was thy theme.
Nor would I those pleasures resign,
Which flow from thy sorrowful strain,
To call the whole universe mine,
And rank with the unfeeling train.
Which flow from thy sorrowful strain,
196
And rank with the unfeeling train.
Thy Outcast, poor victim of woe,
I've heard on the desolate heath,
And seen the sad suff'rer laid low,
Releas'd from her sorrows by death.
I've heard on the desolate heath,
And seen the sad suff'rer laid low,
Releas'd from her sorrows by death.
Thy Widow's affecting complaint,
Might melt e'en a bosom of stone;
What mortal could hear her lament.
And not make her sorrows his own.
Might melt e'en a bosom of stone;
What mortal could hear her lament.
And not make her sorrows his own.
Poor Annie's extravagant song
Beguiles me of many a sigh;
Such wild accents fall from her tongue,
As oft steal a tear from my eye.
Beguiles me of many a sigh;
Such wild accents fall from her tongue,
As oft steal a tear from my eye.
Sweet Bard! what sensations divine
Thy exquisite ditties impart!
Simplicity dwells in each line,
Yet strongly they speak to the heart.
Thy exquisite ditties impart!
Simplicity dwells in each line,
Yet strongly they speak to the heart.
And still as I read with delight,
Hope tells me of some happy day,
When we shall in friendship unite,
And sing all our sorrows away.
Hope tells me of some happy day,
When we shall in friendship unite,
And sing all our sorrows away.
197
Oh! come thou dear moment of joy!
No anguish my bosom should rend,
Nor care my sweet visions destroy,
If blest with so gentle a friend.
No anguish my bosom should rend,
Nor care my sweet visions destroy,
If blest with so gentle a friend.
Sweet poet of nature! adieu!
May fame be the meed of thy lays;
That fame which no change will subdue,
When time shall have number'd thy days!
May fame be the meed of thy lays;
That fame which no change will subdue,
When time shall have number'd thy days!
198
EPISTLE THE EIGHTH.
TO GAELUS,ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS POEMS.
Whan cottars guid hae said their pray'rs,
An' wee tots sleep awa' their cares,
I musin', whyles think how it fares
Wi' friens a few;
But ane 'buin a', my wish aft shares—
I hint at you:
An' wee tots sleep awa' their cares,
I musin', whyles think how it fares
Wi' friens a few;
But ane 'buin a', my wish aft shares—
I hint at you:
Wha (gifted wi the saul o' Burns,
Whom monie a son o' wisdom mourns)
Now soaring, saint-like, sunk by turns,
Ay proud to gie
Man maxims rare, that folly spurns,
Appall'd to see.
Whom monie a son o' wisdom mourns)
Now soaring, saint-like, sunk by turns,
Ay proud to gie
Man maxims rare, that folly spurns,
Appall'd to see.
Yes, “wordy, wise, auld-farran'd” Gaelus,
Prince o' our poetizin fallows,
The serious truths ye bauldly tell us,
E'en gar us tremble;
Wha scorns yer warks, deserves a gallows;
I'll no' dissemble!
Prince o' our poetizin fallows,
The serious truths ye bauldly tell us,
E'en gar us tremble;
Wha scorns yer warks, deserves a gallows;
I'll no' dissemble!
199
Stern Winter's bleerin' frightfu form
Now maks us creep our ingles warm;
When readin' your true-pictur'd “Storm,”
I think o' thae,
Wretched, expos'd to ilka harm,
Wha houseless stray.
Now maks us creep our ingles warm;
When readin' your true-pictur'd “Storm,”
I think o' thae,
Wretched, expos'd to ilka harm,
Wha houseless stray.
But neist your soothin' “Broken Heart”
Can dry the tear grief bids to start;
Sic honied truths few Bards impart,
In these rank times;
They try owre aft, wi' strainin' art,
To gild curs'd crimes.
Can dry the tear grief bids to start;
Sic honied truths few Bards impart,
In these rank times;
They try owre aft, wi' strainin' art,
To gild curs'd crimes.
Your “Brook's” a type o' human kind,
Warm frae a Bard's religious mind;
Sic similies are weel design'd,
The warl to cheer;
And warn the wicked, weak, or blind,
What course to steer.
Warm frae a Bard's religious mind;
Sic similies are weel design'd,
The warl to cheer;
And warn the wicked, weak, or blind,
What course to steer.
The Peasant trudgin' hame at een,
Wi' heart untainted, thoughts serene,
Aft minds me o' yoursel, and Jean,
An weeans fair;
Sic lines gie pamper'd chiels the spleen,
But deil may care!
Wi' heart untainted, thoughts serene,
Aft minds me o' yoursel, and Jean,
An weeans fair;
Sic lines gie pamper'd chiels the spleen,
But deil may care!
200
Hail, nature's priest! unlike the lave,
Wha light as air, or idly grave,
Seek to bepraise some coward slave,
In spite o' truth;
Or wi' lewd rhymes, try to deprave
Believing youth.
Wha light as air, or idly grave,
Seek to bepraise some coward slave,
In spite o' truth;
Or wi' lewd rhymes, try to deprave
Believing youth.
Hale be thy pipe, Dunover's Bard!
The day's at haun ye'll meet reward,
For puir are ye; and times are hard,
And claithin' dear;
But thousans mae will ye regard,
Ere this neist year.
The day's at haun ye'll meet reward,
For puir are ye; and times are hard,
And claithin' dear;
But thousans mae will ye regard,
Ere this neist year.
Yes Erin lang will bless yer name;
Ay fain to raise her sons to fame;
Ye'll put the guilty aft to shame,
As sure as fate:
Rise, An'rew! fair-earn'd honours claim,
An' be na blate!
Ay fain to raise her sons to fame;
Ye'll put the guilty aft to shame,
As sure as fate:
Rise, An'rew! fair-earn'd honours claim,
An' be na blate!
For me, while I can think or luik,
Whare'er I hurkle in a nuik,
I'll pore wi' pleasure owre yer buik,
An' bless the time,
When Rab's advice ye fearfu' tuik,
To print ilk rhyme.
Whare'er I hurkle in a nuik,
I'll pore wi' pleasure owre yer buik,
An' bless the time,
When Rab's advice ye fearfu' tuik,
To print ilk rhyme.
201
Ye've whyles glanc'd owre his plaintive sang,
Studied auld Cumbria's glens amang,
Whar monie a burnie rowes alang,
An' mountain rill;
Ah! dear-lov'd scenes! whare'er I gang,
Ye haunt me still.
Studied auld Cumbria's glens amang,
Whar monie a burnie rowes alang,
An' mountain rill;
Ah! dear-lov'd scenes! whare'er I gang,
Ye haunt me still.
Whare Thames majestic seeks the sea,
I've stray'd; and by the streamless Cree,
Whan grass-plot, cottage, shrub, or tree,
Were seldom seen;
Eden, my thoughts ay turn'd to thee,
Mid' meadows green.
I've stray'd; and by the streamless Cree,
Whan grass-plot, cottage, shrub, or tree,
Were seldom seen;
Eden, my thoughts ay turn'd to thee,
Mid' meadows green.
I've liv'd, by warldlings aft dispis'd;
By lovers o' the Muse whyles priz'd;
But ne'er, no! ne'er could be advis'd,
Tho' weak my lays,
To wink at folly's whims disguis'd,
Or vice to praise.
By lovers o' the Muse whyles priz'd;
But ne'er, no! ne'er could be advis'd,
Tho' weak my lays,
To wink at folly's whims disguis'd,
Or vice to praise.
Whyles, lad, I trust we'll meet thegether,
In spite o' fortune, or rough weather;
An' ablins comfort ane anither,
In frienship blest:
We suin slip aff, we ken no' whither,
Let's hope the best!
In spite o' fortune, or rough weather;
An' ablins comfort ane anither,
In frienship blest:
202
Let's hope the best!
Life's like the journey o' a day,
And pleasure leads us aft astray;
Let friendship chace dull care away,
As on we drive:
I'm An'rew's frien, I proudly say,
Lang may he thrive!
And pleasure leads us aft astray;
Let friendship chace dull care away,
As on we drive:
I'm An'rew's frien, I proudly say,
Lang may he thrive!
Nae thought ye've wrote, ye e'er need blot,
Nor carpin' bodies heed a jot;
Content in hard-earn'd, hame-spun coat,
Man needs nae mair;
An' virtuous folk, howe'er forgot,
Are ay Heav'n's care!
Nor carpin' bodies heed a jot;
Content in hard-earn'd, hame-spun coat,
Man needs nae mair;
An' virtuous folk, howe'er forgot,
Are ay Heav'n's care!
Carnmoney, Oct. 29, 1809.
203
EPISTLE THE NINTH.
TO MISS B---Y, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
Sweet maid! thy birth a loftier verse doth claim,Than I, weak vot'ry of the Muse, can give;
Tuneless my harp. Had I been known to fame,
With such a theme, I'd hope my lays would live.
All nature smiles around; enchanting sight!
The feather'd throng their homage seem to pay;
Ev'n Sol, with rays more glorious, shines more bright,
As if rejoicing on thy natal day:
For while he lights our earth, ne'er will he smile
On one more worthy of a mortal's praise;
On one more virtuous, or more free from guile,
Unknown 'midst folly's throng, or fashion's blaze:
And O, when many chearful years have flown,
And thou to conq'ring time, like all, must bow;
May calm reflection dwell on pleasures known,
Nor sorrow till that hour e'er cloud thy brow!
Belfast.
204
EPISTLE THE TENTH.
TO MARIA OF THE COTTAGE.
Stern Winter frae the gelid north,
Wi' monie a storm comes howling forth;
And hills and glens are clad wi' sna':
While cottars roun, are wrapp'd in sleep,
O'er heartsome ingle fain I creep,
An' think o' friens, far, far awa'.
Wi' monie a storm comes howling forth;
And hills and glens are clad wi' sna':
While cottars roun, are wrapp'd in sleep,
O'er heartsome ingle fain I creep,
An' think o' friens, far, far awa'.
O' some nae mair I hope to see;
O' some wha ware nae thoughts o' me;
O' days when I to pleasure bow'd:
Pleasure, that caus'd me mickle pain,
And forc'd me aft the bowl to drain
Wi' life's unthinkin' senseless crowd.
O' some wha ware nae thoughts o' me;
O' days when I to pleasure bow'd:
Pleasure, that caus'd me mickle pain,
And forc'd me aft the bowl to drain
Wi' life's unthinkin' senseless crowd.
Fuils tell us, friendship's but a name;
They're blest wha feel the sacred flame,
And hourly mak it brighter burn!
Grant me but friens, upright, and leel,
They'll mak me fearless o' the Deil;
And warldly cuifs I'll bauldly scorn!
They're blest wha feel the sacred flame,
And hourly mak it brighter burn!
Grant me but friens, upright, and leel,
They'll mak me fearless o' the Deil;
And warldly cuifs I'll bauldly scorn!
205
Now exil'd frae the few I prize,
The town, and its misnomer'd joys,
In solitude some charms I find;
Yes, e'en in obscure lowly cot,
I thank my Maker for my lot,
For plenty, health, an' peace o' mind.
The town, and its misnomer'd joys,
In solitude some charms I find;
Yes, e'en in obscure lowly cot,
I thank my Maker for my lot,
For plenty, health, an' peace o' mind.
Contented wi' my daily toil;
Pleas'd wi' ilk comrade's unfeign'd smile;
What man needs wish, proud I enjoy:
Henceforth, in quiet let me live,
An' a' my thoughts to wisdom give,
The guide, whase precepts ne'er can cloy.
Pleas'd wi' ilk comrade's unfeign'd smile;
What man needs wish, proud I enjoy:
Henceforth, in quiet let me live,
An' a' my thoughts to wisdom give,
The guide, whase precepts ne'er can cloy.
And thou, her daughter, to me dear,
Wha strove to dry misfortune's tear,
When mis'ry sunk my spirits low;
Why now forgetfu' o' a friend,
Thou wha sic counsel erst would lend,
Ay first to soothe a suff'rer's woe?
Wha strove to dry misfortune's tear,
When mis'ry sunk my spirits low;
Why now forgetfu' o' a friend,
Thou wha sic counsel erst would lend,
Ay first to soothe a suff'rer's woe?
Has sickness numb'd thy tender frame?
Wou'd slander sully thy fair fame?
Does sorrow ca' thee still her ain?
Has hope been busy wi' new art,
To wound afresh thy feeling heart?
Has peace for ever frae thee gane?
Wou'd slander sully thy fair fame?
Does sorrow ca' thee still her ain?
Has hope been busy wi' new art,
To wound afresh thy feeling heart?
Has peace for ever frae thee gane?
206
Thou'st known enough o' pain and care;
O' sorrow thou'st e'en had thy share,
Sin youth ilk fairy picture drew:
Envy has sought to work thy fall,
Aft mix'd thy cup wi' bitterest gall;
For days o' bliss hae been but few.
O' sorrow thou'st e'en had thy share,
Sin youth ilk fairy picture drew:
Envy has sought to work thy fall,
Aft mix'd thy cup wi' bitterest gall;
For days o' bliss hae been but few.
Dear fav'rite o' the pensive Muse!
Thy smile a rhymin' brither woos,
O, quickly say, thou'rt yet his friend!
May He wha stills the ragin' storm,
Grant health, and shield thee ay frae harm,
Till life's last peacefu scene shall end!
Thy smile a rhymin' brither woos,
O, quickly say, thou'rt yet his friend!
May He wha stills the ragin' storm,
Grant health, and shield thee ay frae harm,
Till life's last peacefu scene shall end!
207
EPISTLE THE ELEVENTH.
TO A YOUNG LADY IN BELFAST
Thanks for thy letter, best of friends!
On it my life of life depends.
Fair moralizer! whose warm heart
May balm to any mind impart;
I gaze enraptur'd on each line,
Where wisdom shews in truths divine
The dang'rous path, the wily snare,
That still mislead, that cause each care;
The pois'ners of man's purest joy,
That wealth, and health, and life destroy.
On it my life of life depends.
Fair moralizer! whose warm heart
May balm to any mind impart;
I gaze enraptur'd on each line,
Where wisdom shews in truths divine
The dang'rous path, the wily snare,
That still mislead, that cause each care;
The pois'ners of man's purest joy,
That wealth, and health, and life destroy.
Dear beauteous comforter! whose smiles
Ev'n sorrow of her sting beguiles,
Whate'er thro' life my fate may be,
My grateful thanks are due to thee;
And till this pulse shall cease to beat,
Thy name with ardour I'll repeat;
Delighted, ever, to peruse
Thy favors, fav'rite of the Muse!
Ev'n sorrow of her sting beguiles,
Whate'er thro' life my fate may be,
My grateful thanks are due to thee;
And till this pulse shall cease to beat,
Thy name with ardour I'll repeat;
Delighted, ever, to peruse
Thy favors, fav'rite of the Muse!
208
To thee, this humble verse I pour,
The musing of a midnight hour;
Weak flows the lay, my friend must own,
For youth and fancy now are flown;
I mark life's autumn, overcast,
Whilst mem'ry pauses on the past:
Truth holds her mirror to my view,
And bids me virtue still pursue.
The musing of a midnight hour;
Weak flows the lay, my friend must own,
For youth and fancy now are flown;
I mark life's autumn, overcast,
Whilst mem'ry pauses on the past:
Truth holds her mirror to my view,
And bids me virtue still pursue.
No more of pleasure's airy round!
Too long I've slept in rose-leaf'd bow'rs;
And trod on fairy ground,
With folly by my side;
Nor number'd e'er the passing hours.
For hope, delusive flatterer, was my guide;
And with her fairest flow'rs,
That blossoming did decay,
She, smiling, strew'd my way;
And life's short morn was nought but empty pride.
By hope a willing victim led,
Soon reason from me fled;
Then pleas'd, each distant prospect fair
With partial eye I view'd;
And mock'd the busy spoiler care,
And laugh'd to hear of man's ingratitude.
Now wak'd, as from a dream,
How sad, alas! I seem!
While meek religion whispers, Heav'nwards turn!
Then, O my thoughts surmount the sky,
And from all worldly follies fly;
Ere dim life's lamp begins to burn!
While others vainly study how to live,
Let me the hours to meditation give;
And study how to die!
Too long I've slept in rose-leaf'd bow'rs;
And trod on fairy ground,
With folly by my side;
Nor number'd e'er the passing hours.
For hope, delusive flatterer, was my guide;
And with her fairest flow'rs,
That blossoming did decay,
She, smiling, strew'd my way;
And life's short morn was nought but empty pride.
By hope a willing victim led,
Soon reason from me fled;
Then pleas'd, each distant prospect fair
With partial eye I view'd;
And mock'd the busy spoiler care,
And laugh'd to hear of man's ingratitude.
209
How sad, alas! I seem!
While meek religion whispers, Heav'nwards turn!
Then, O my thoughts surmount the sky,
And from all worldly follies fly;
Ere dim life's lamp begins to burn!
While others vainly study how to live,
Let me the hours to meditation give;
And study how to die!
210
EPISTLE THE TWELFTH.
TO MR. ROBERT ANDERSON, ON HEARING HIM SAY HIS MUSE HAD PAID HIM A VISIT FOR THE FIRST TIME, SINCE HIS RETURN TO CARLISLE, BY THOMAS WANNUP, OF GREAT CORBY.
Rejoice with me, ye vocal train,
And raise the cheerful rustic strain;
Our Cumbrian Bard, with glee again,
The song renews:
Nor grief, nor absence, can restrain
His generous Muse.
And raise the cheerful rustic strain;
Our Cumbrian Bard, with glee again,
The song renews:
Nor grief, nor absence, can restrain
His generous Muse.
The sight of native fields and skies,
Revives the thoughts of youthful joys;
Thoughts absence blunts, but ne'er destroys,
And hark! his reed,
With double sweetness he employs
In dale and mead.
Revives the thoughts of youthful joys;
Thoughts absence blunts, but ne'er destroys,
And hark! his reed,
With double sweetness he employs
In dale and mead.
And thou, our Bard, though 'tis not thine
In battle's gory scenes to shine;
Scenes which too oft, in strains divine,
The Muses sing;—
And oh! with glory deeds combine,
That ruin bring.
In battle's gory scenes to shine;
Scenes which too oft, in strains divine,
The Muses sing;—
And oh! with glory deeds combine,
That ruin bring.
211
Nor mercenary talents thee
Have taught to bend the servile knee;
Though modest, humble, thou art free,
And know'st thy soul
To aid oppression, bribe, or fee,
Need'st no controul.
Have taught to bend the servile knee;
Though modest, humble, thou art free,
And know'st thy soul
To aid oppression, bribe, or fee,
Need'st no controul.
But thou hast been our fields among,
And thou hast mark'd the rural throng;
Our griefs and joys to thee belong,
And thine's the art
To soothe the mind with tender song,
And cheer the heart.
And thou hast mark'd the rural throng;
Our griefs and joys to thee belong,
And thine's the art
To soothe the mind with tender song,
And cheer the heart.
Sing on, sweet Bard, thy country's friend;—
Amuse, delight, instruct, amend;
And whilst our weal you ardent 'tend,
When faults you see,
Spare not the kindly lash; we'll bend,
And thankful be.
Amuse, delight, instruct, amend;
And whilst our weal you ardent 'tend,
When faults you see,
Spare not the kindly lash; we'll bend,
And thankful be.
So may'st thou live to see the day,
To wear an honour'd pow of grey;
When wife, and maid, united say,
And sire and son,—
“We aw for thee will gratefu' pray, R. Anderson.”
To wear an honour'd pow of grey;
When wife, and maid, united say,
And sire and son,—
“We aw for thee will gratefu' pray, R. Anderson.”
212
EPISTLE THE THIRTEENTH.
TO MR. THOS. WANNUP, OF GREAT CORBY.
Dear friend! (for friends too oft are few)
Thank Heaven! I boast of numbers true;
May such have happiness in view,
And rest in peace;
Still scorning the tyrannic crew,
Who cares increase.
Thank Heaven! I boast of numbers true;
May such have happiness in view,
And rest in peace;
Still scorning the tyrannic crew,
Who cares increase.
O that 'twere mine the pow'r to serve
Those, who a brother's praise deserve,—
Those who, rejoic'd, would strain each nerve
The poor to save;
Ne'er from that duty would I swerve
Till in the grave!
Those, who a brother's praise deserve,—
Those who, rejoic'd, would strain each nerve
The poor to save;
Ne'er from that duty would I swerve
Till in the grave!
But mortals' wishes oft are vain;
Oft prove the source of care and pain;
While some, exulting, seek to gain
What leads to woe,—
Ne'er may I scorn, with cold disdain,
Where much I owe.
Oft prove the source of care and pain;
While some, exulting, seek to gain
What leads to woe,—
Ne'er may I scorn, with cold disdain,
Where much I owe.
213
Return'd to each lov'd native scene,
Rocks, wood-crown'd hills, and valleys green,
Tho' long my Muse hath absent been,
With me she roves,
To paint—what may give some the spleen,
But merit moves.
Rocks, wood-crown'd hills, and valleys green,
Tho' long my Muse hath absent been,
With me she roves,
To paint—what may give some the spleen,
But merit moves.
Still may she wear the rustic dress,
And soothe the suff'rer in distress;
Now thousands round roam pennyless,
Of health bereft,—
That men may such with plenty bless,
Few hopes are left.
And soothe the suff'rer in distress;
Now thousands round roam pennyless,
Of health bereft,—
That men may such with plenty bless,
Few hopes are left.
Still may she mark each loving pair,
Who life enjoy, and laugh at care,
Who steer the course that's bright and fair—
To peace inclin'd;
Who scorn the world's entangling snare,
And serve mankind.
Who life enjoy, and laugh at care,
Who steer the course that's bright and fair—
To peace inclin'd;
Who scorn the world's entangling snare,
And serve mankind.
Yes, mine the theme shall ever be,
Friends to amuse with harmless glee;
To let the virtuous ploughman see
A portrait true;
For nature's rural scenes, to me,
Are still in view.
Friends to amuse with harmless glee;
To let the virtuous ploughman see
A portrait true;
For nature's rural scenes, to me,
Are still in view.
214
Those who oppose a brother's right;
The upstart proud; the worthless wight;
The wretch who errs in reason's spite,
May purchase praise;
Such, only, who in good delight,
Should grace our lays.
The upstart proud; the worthless wight;
The wretch who errs in reason's spite,
May purchase praise;
Such, only, who in good delight,
Should grace our lays.
Dear friend! to whom my thanks are due;
Till time to death shall bid thee bow,
May no dull cares e'er cloud thy brow,
But joy prevail;
And proud thy offspring speed the plough
O'er hill and dale.
Till time to death shall bid thee bow,
May no dull cares e'er cloud thy brow,
But joy prevail;
And proud thy offspring speed the plough
O'er hill and dale.
In fancy, I thy fields survey;
Thro' Corby's woods and valleys stray,
At op'ning morn, or evening grey,
In many a grove,
Where minstrels sweet their homage pay
To Him above.
Thro' Corby's woods and valleys stray,
At op'ning morn, or evening grey,
In many a grove,
Where minstrels sweet their homage pay
To Him above.
When rakes their midnight revels keep,
I trace the scenes near Eden deep;—
Oft that romantic rocky steep,
Where thousands bend;
And now, in age, I'll proudly creep,
To meet my friend.
I trace the scenes near Eden deep;—
Oft that romantic rocky steep,
Where thousands bend;
And now, in age, I'll proudly creep,
To meet my friend.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson | |