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Poems by the Late Reverend Dr. Thomas Blacklock

Together with an Essay on the Education of the Blind. To Which is Prefixed A New Account of the Life and Writings of the Author
Blacklock, Thomas (1721-1791)

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[section]
  
To Mr. THOMAS BLACKLOCK.
  
AN EPISTLE FROM Dr. BEATTIE, TO THE Reverend Mr. THOMAS BLACKLOCK.
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POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.
  
HORACE, ODE I. IMITATED.
  
PSALM I.
  
An HYMN to the SUPREME BEING,
  
PSALM CXXXIX.
  
An HYMN to DIVINE LOVE.
  
An HYMN to BENEVOLENCE.
  
An HYMN to FORTITUDE.
  
THE WISH SATISFIED.
  
To HAPPINESS.
  
On EUANTHE's ABSENCE.
  
To a Young Gentleman bound for Guinea.
  
An IRREGULAR ODE.
  
To a COQUETTE.
  
On the Refinements in Metaphysical Philosophy.
  
To Mrs. R--- On the Death of a promising Infant.
  
An ODE.
  
To HEALTH:
  
To a little Girl whom I had offended:
  
To LESBIA.
  
A TRANSLATION of an Old SCOTTISH SONG.
  
SONG
  
The RAVISH'D SHEPHERD.
  
A PASTORAL SONG.
  
On the Death of STELLA;
  
A PASTORAL.
  
The PLAINTIVE SHEPHERD.
  
DESIDERIUM LUTETIAE;
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PHILANTHES:
  
[epigraph]
  
[argument]
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
 IX. 
IX.
 X. 
X.
 XI. 
XI.
  
The WISH: An Elegy.
  
On the Death of Mr. POPE.
  
ELEGY:
  
A SOLILOQUY
  
Miss ------ to the AUTHOR.
  
The Author's Answer.
  
EPISTLE I.
  
EPISTLE II.
  
EPISTLE III.
  
To Miss D. H.
  
To Miss A. H. on her Marriage.
  
To the Reverend Mr. Jameson.
  
An EPITAPH, on his Father.
  
To Mrs. Anne Blacklock, the Author's Mother.
  
PROLOGUE to OTHELLO
  
PROLOGUE to HAMLET
  
To a Gentleman, who asked my Sentiments of him.
  
On PUNCH:
  
On MARRIAGE:
  
On the SAME:
  
An EPITAPH,
  
The Author's PICTURE.
  
ADDRESS TO THE LADIES,
  
HORACE, Ode XIII. Book I.
  
To a LADY, With HAMMOND's ELEGIES;
  
ODE to AMYNTA.
  
An ELEGY.
  
To John M'Laurin, Esq; (now Lord Dreghorn, one of the Senators of the College of Justice).
  
EXTEMPORE VERSES,
  
To the Reverend Mr. Spence, late Professor of Poetry at Oxford.
  
To Dr. BEATTIE.
  
To the Rev. Dr. OGILVIE.
  
To a FRIEND, of whose Health and Success the Author had heard, after a long Absence.
  
The GENEALOGY of NONSENSE.
  
ODE, on Melissa's Birth-day.
  
ODE to AURORA.
  
To Dr. EVANS.
  
To Mr. DALZEL, Professor of Greek in the University of Edinburgh.
  
To Dr. DOWNMAN, in London.
  
To the SAME.
  
To MELISSA.
  
On Dr. BLACKLOCK's Birth-day.
  
From Dr. DOWNMAN to Mrs. BLACKLOCK.
  
From Dr. DOWNMAN to Dr. BLACKLOCK.

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65

A TRANSLATION of an Old SCOTTISH SONG.

Since robb'd of all that charm'd my view,
Of all my soul e'er fancied fair,
Ye smiling native scenes, adieu!
With each delightful object there.
Ye vales, which to the raptur'd eye
Disclos'd the flow'ry pride of May;
Ye circling hills, whose summits high
Blush'd with the morning's earliest ray:
Where, heedless oft how far I stray'd,
And pleas'd my ruin to pursue;
I sung my dear, my cruel maid:
Adieu for ever! ah! adieu!
Ye dear associates of my breast,
Whose hearts with speechless sorrow swell;
And thou, with hoary age opprest,
Dear author of my life, farewel!
For me, alas! thy fruitless tears,
Far, far remote from friends and home,
Shall blast thy venerable years,
And bend thee pining to the tomb.
66

Sharp are the pangs by nature felt,
From dear relations torn away,
Yet sharper pangs my vitals melt,
To hopeless love a destin'd prey:
While she, as angry heav'n and main
Deaf to the helpless sailor's pray'r,
Enjoys my soul-consuming pain,
And wantons with my deep despair.
From cursed gold what ills arise!
What horrors life's fair prospect stain!
Friends blast their friends with angry eyes,
And brothers bleed, by brothers slain.
From cursed gold I trace my woe;
Could I this splendid mischief boast,
Nor would my tears unpitied flow,
Nor would my sighs in air be lost.
Ah! when a mother's cruel care
Nurs'd me an infant on the breast,
Had early fate surpris'd me there,
And wrapt me in eternal rest:
Then had this breast ne'er learn'd to beat,
And tremble with unpitied pain;
Nor had a maid's relentless hate,
Been, ev'n in death, deplor'd in vain.
67

Oft, in the pleasing toils of love,
With ev'ry winning art I try'd
To catch the coyly flutt'ring dove,
With killing eyes and plumy pride:
But, far on nimble pinions borne
From love's warm gales and flow'ry plains,
She sought the northern climes of scorn,
Where ever-freezing winter reigns.
Ah me! had heav'n and she prov'd kind,
Then full of age, and free from care,
How blest had I my life resign'd,
Where first I breath'd this vital air!
But since no flatt'ring hope remains,
Let me my wretched lot pursue:
Adieu, dear friends, and native scenes,
To all, but grief and love, adieu!
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