The poems and songs of William Hamilton of Bangour ::

The poems and songs of William Hamilton of Bangour

collated with the ms. volume of his poems, and containing several pieces hitherto unpublished; with illustrative notes, and an account of the life of the author. By James Paterson

Hamilton, William (1704-1754)

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viii

TO THE MEMORY OF MR WILLIAM CRAUFURD, MERCHANT IN GLASGOW, THE FRIEND OF MR HAMILTON,

xxxiv

AN EPITAPH ON THE AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POEMS,

WROTE BY HIMSELF IN THE YEAR 1738.

Does greatness splendid villany allure?
Go search in Walpole's trial for a cure.
Blest with enough, wouldst thou increase it still?
Examine Charters' life, and Ruchead's will.
True to thy party, would'st thou blunder thorough;
Cant be thy guide, and Culross be thy borough.
Wouldst thou be happy? then its rule receive,
Read this verse gratis, and thy soul shall live.
Learn from this man, who now lies five feet deep,
To drink when doubting, and when tempted sleep.
This led him safe through life's tempestuous steerage,
Poor by no place, ignoble by no peerage;
An easy mind, by no entails devised;
An humble virtue, by no kings excised;
Stated no law case, and no Bible quoted;
Spoke what he thought; ne'er swore, and never voted.
Courts he abhorred, their errors, their abuses,
St James', Versailles—all, all, but Sanctæ Crucis;
There, where no statesman buys, no bishop sells—
A virtuous palace, where no monarch dwells.
With kind Bargany, faithful to his word,
Whom heaven made honest, social, and—a lord;
The cities viewed of many-languaged men,
Popes, pimps, kings, gamesters; and saw all was vain.

xxxv

With gentlest Alves did these hours employ,
Wisdom unblushing yields to youthful joy.
In the chaste virgin the fond wife foretold
The household charm, the rich exchange for gold.
Virtue to charm, and sweetness to endear
A dowerless beauty that could please no peer.
From Hume learned verse with sense to criticise;
From Mein endeavoured to be good and wise;
With Craig oft friendship's holy vigil kept,
Oft on the genial hearth with Waughton slept;
With Ramsay nature mus'd, or nature's power,
Or sauntered comtemplation's faithful hour.
Enjoyed, what Hopetoun's groves could never yield,
The philosophic rapture of the field!
Nor asked, nor feared. His life, and humble lays,
No critics envy, and no flatterers praise.
Sure those who know how hard to write, and live,
Would judge with candour, pity and forgive.
Known but to few, as if he ne'er had been,
He stole through life unheeded, and unseen.
Envied no wit, with patience bore a dunce;
Saw Cochrane never, and not wish'd it once.
And often erring, broke no social duty;
Unbribed by statesmen, and unhurt by beauty.

Holyrood House.

TO A LADY, ON HER TAKING SOMETHING ILL THAT MR H. SAID.

Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow?
That beauteous heav'n erewhile serene?
Whence do these storms and tempests blow,
Or what this gust of passion mean?
And must then mankind lose that light,
Which in thine eyes was wont to shine,
And lie obscur'd in endless night
For each poor silly speech of mine?

Dear child, how could I wrong thy name?
Thy form so fair, and faultless stands,
That could ill tongues abuse thy fame,
Thy beauty could make large amends:
Or if I durst profanely try
Thy beauty's pow'rful charms t' upbraid,
Thy virtue well might give the lie,
Nor call thy beauty to its aid.

For Venus every heart t' ensnare,
With all her charms has deck'd thy face,
And Pallas, with unusual care,
Bids wisdom heighten every grace.
Who can the double pain endure?
Or who must not resign the field
To thee, celestial maid, secure
With Cupid's bow and Pallas' shield?

If, then, to thee such pow'r is given,
Let not a wretch in torment live,

But smile, and learn to copy heaven;
Since we must sin ere it forgive.
Yet pitying heaven not only does
Forgive th' offender and the offence,
But even itself appeas'd bestows,
As the reward of penitence.

UPON HEARING HIS PICTURE WAS IN A LADY'S BREAST.

Ye gods! was Strephon's picture blest
With the fair heaven of Chloe's breast?
Move softer, thou fond flutt'ring heart;
O gently throb—too fierce thou art.
Tell me, thou brightest of thy kind,
For Strephon was the bliss design'd?
For Strephon's sake, dear charming maid,
Didst thou prefer his wand'ring shade?

And thou, blest shade, that sweetly art
Lodged so near my Chloe's heart,
For me the tender hour improve,
And softly tell how dear I love.
Ungrateful thing! it scorns to hear
Its wretched master's ardent pray'r,
Engrossing all that beauteous heaven,
That Chloe, lavish maid, has given.

I cannot blame thee: were I lord
Of all the wealth those breasts afford,
I'd be a miser too, nor give
An alms to keep a god alive.
O smile not thus, my lovely fair,
On these cold looks, that lifeless air,
Prize him whose bosom glows with fire,
With eager love and soft desire.

'Tis true thy charms, O powerful maid,
To life can bring the silent shade;
Thou canst surpass the painter's art,
And real warmth and flames impart.

But, oh! it ne'er can love like me—
I've ever lov'd, and lov'd but thee.
Then, charmer, grant my fond request,
Say thou canst love, and make me blest.

SONG.

[Ye shepherds and nymphs that adorn the gay plain]

Ye shepherds and nymphs that adorn the gay plain,
Approach from your sports, and attend to my strain;
Amongst all your number a lover so true
Was ne'er so undone, with such bliss in his view.

Was ever a nymph so hard-hearted as mine?
She knows me sincere, and she sees how I pine;
She does not disdain me, nor frown in her wrath,
But calmly and mildly resigns me to death.

She calls me her friend, but her lover denies;
She smiles when I'm cheerful, but hears not my sighs.
A bosom so flinty, so gentle an air,
Inspires me with hope, and yet bids me despair!

I fall at her feet, and implore her with tears:
Her answer confounds, while her manner endears;
When softly she tells me to hope no relief,
My trembling lips bliss her in spite of my grief.

By night, while I slumber, still haunted with care
I start up in anguish, and sigh for the fair:
The fair sleeps in peace; may she ever do so!
And only when dreaming imagine me so!

Then gaze at a distance, nor farther aspire,
Nor think she should love whom she cannot admire;
Hush all thy complaining, and dying her slave,
Commend her to heaven, and thyself to the grave.

SONG.

[Ah the shepherd's mournful fate]

Ah the shepherd's mournful fate,
When doom'd to live, and doom'd to languish;
To bear the scornful fair one's hate,
Nor dare disclose his anguish.
Yet eager looks, and dying sighs,
My secret soul discover;
While rapture trembling thro' mine eyes,
Reveals how much I love her.

The tender glance, the redd'ning cheek,
O'erspread with rising blushes,
A thousand various ways they speak,
A thousand various wishes.
For oh! that form so heavenly fair,
Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling,
That artless blush, and modest air,
So fatally beguiling.

Thy every look and every grace,
So charm where'er I view thee;
Till death o'ertake me in the chase,
Still will my hopes pursue thee;
Then when my tedious hours are past,
Be this last blessing given,
Low at thy feet to breathe my last,
And die in sight of heaven.

HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XI., IMITATED.

To Miss Erskine.

Inquire not, Erskine fair, what end
The gods for thee or me intend;
How vain the search, that but bestows
The knowledge of our future woes?
Far happier they, who ne'er repine
To draw the lots their fates assign;
Then be advis'd, and try not thou
What spells and cunning men can do.

In mirth thy present years employ,
And consecrate thy charms to joy;
Whether the fates to thy old score
Propitious add a winter more;
Or this shall lay thee cold in earth,
Now raging o'er Edina's firth.
Let youth, while yet it blooms, excite
To mirth and wit and gay delight.

Nor thou refuse the voice that calls
To visits and to sprightly balls.
For time rides ever on the post,
Ev'n while we speak the moment's lost.
Then call each joy in to this day,
And spend them now while now you may;
Have every pleasure at command,
Fools let them lie in fortune's hand.

SONG.

[Adieu ye pleasant sports and plays]

Adieu ye pleasant sports and plays,
Farewell each song that was diverting;
Love tunes my pipe to mournful lays,
I sing of Del(ia) and Damon's parting.
Long had he lov'd, and long concealed
The dear tormenting, pleasant passion,
Till Delia's mildness had prevail'd
On him to shew his inclination.
Just as the fair one seem'd to give
A patient ear to his love story,

Damon must his Delia leave,
To go in quest of toilsome glory.
Half spoken words hung on his tongue,
Their eyes refus'd the usual greeting;
And sighs supplied their wonted song,
These charming sounds were changed to weeping.
A.
Dear idol of my soul adieu;
Cease to lament, but ne'er to love me;
While Damon lives, he lives for you,

B.
No other charms shall ever move me.
Alas! who knows, when parted far
From Delia, but you may deceive her?
The thought destroys my heart with care,

A.
Adieu, my dear I fear forever.
If ever I forget my vows,
May then my guardian angel leave me:
And more to aggravate my woes,
Be you so good as to forgive me.

TO MRS A. R.

Now spring begins her smiling round,
Lavish to paint th' enamel'd ground:
The birds exalt their cheerful voice,
And gay on ev'ry bough rejoice:
The lovely Graces, hand in hand,
Knit in love's eternal band,
With dancing step at early dawn,
Tread lightly o'er the dewy lawn;
Where'er the youthful sisters move,
They fire the soul to genial love.
Now by the river's painted side,
The swain delights his country bride,
While pleas'd she hears his artless vows
Above the feather'd songster's woes.
Soon will the ripen'd summer yield
Her various gifts to ev'ry field:
The fruitful trees, a beauteous show,
With ruby-tinctur'd births shall glow:
Sweet smells, from beds of lilies born,
Perfume the breezes of the morn:
The sunny day, and dewy night,
To rural play my fair invite.
Soft on a bank of violets laid,
Cool she enjoys the evening shade;

The sweets of summer feast her eye—
Yet soon, soon will the summer fly.
Attend my lovely maid, and know
To profit by the instructive show.
Now young and blooming thou art seen,
Fresh on the stalk forever green;
Now does th' unfolded bud disclose
Full-blown to light the blushing rose:
Yet, once the sunny season past,
Think not the coz'ning scene will last.
Let not the flatt'rer, Hope, persuade;
Ah! must I say that it will fade?
For see the summer posts away,
Sad emblem of our own decay.
Now winter from the frozen north
Drives his stiff iron chariot forth;
His grisly hand in icy chains
Fair Tueda's silver flood constrains:
Cast up thy eyes, how black and bare,
He wanders on the tops of Yare;
Behold, his footsteps dire are seen,
Confest on ev'ry with'ring green;
Griev'd at the sight, when thou shalt see
A snowy wreath to clothe each tree:
Frequenting now the stream no more
Thou fliest displeas'd the frozen shore:
When thou shalt miss the flow'rs that grew
But late to charm thy ravish'd view.
Shall I, ah horrid! wilt thou say,
Be like to this some other day?
Yet when in snow and dreary frost
The pleasure of the field is lost,
To blazing hearths at home we run,
And fires supply the distant sun,
In gay delights our hours employ,
We do not lose, but change our joy.
Happy, abandon ev'ry care,
To lead the dance, to court the fair;
To turn the page of sacred bards;
To drain the bowl, and deal the cards.
But when the lovely white and red
From the pale ashy cheek is fled;
When wrinkles dire, and age severe,
Make beauty fly we know not where;
The fair whom fates unkind disarm,
Have they forever ceas'd to charm?
Or is there left some pleasing art
To keep secure a captive heart?
Unhappy love! might lovers say,
Beauty, thy food, does swift decay:

When once that short-liv'd stock is spent,
What art thy famine can prevent?
Lay virtues in with early care,
That love may live on wisdom's fare.
Tho' ecstasy with beauty flies,
Esteem is born when beauty dies.
Happy to whom the fates decree
The gift of heav'n in giving thee:
Thy beauty shall his youth engage,
Thy virtues shall delight his age.

THE BRAES OF YARROW.

To Lady Jane Home.

[_]

IN IMITATION OF THE ANCIENT SCOTTISH MANNER.

A.
“Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride!
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow;
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.”

B.
“Where gat ye that bonnie, bonnie bride?
Where gat ye that winsome marrow?”

A.
“I gat her where I darena weil be seen,
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie bride!
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow;
Nor let thy heart lament to leive
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.”

B.
“Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride?
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow?
And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?”

A.

“Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,
Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow;
And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint her luver, luver dear,
Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow;

And I hae slain the comeliest swain
That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red?
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholeous weids
Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow?

What yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flude?
What yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!
'Tis he, the comely swain I slew
Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears, with dule and sorrow;
And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,
And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow,
And weep around, in waeful wise,
His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,
His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.

Did I not warn thee not to lue,
And warn from fight? but to my sorrow,
O'er rashly bald, a stronger arm
Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,
Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan;
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,
As green its grass, its gowan yellow;
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple frae the rock as mellow.

Fair was thy luve, fair, fair indeed thy luve,
In flow'ry bands thou him didst fetter;
Tho' he was fair and weil beluv'd again,
Than, me he never lued thee better.

Busk ye, then busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride!
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow;

Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.”

“How can I busk a bonnie, bonnie bride?
How can I busk a winsome marrow?
How lue him on the banks of Tweed,
That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow?

O Yarrow fields, may never, never rain,
No dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely slain my love,
My luve, as he had not been a luver.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing;
Ah! wretched me! I little, little ken'd
He was in these to meet his ruin.

The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed,
Unheedful of my dule and sorrow;
But ere the tofall of the night
He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

Much I rejoic'd that waeful, waeful day,
I sang, my voice the woods returning;
But lang ere night the spear was flown
That slew my luve, and left me mourning.

What can my barbarous, barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My luver's blood is on thy spear,
How can'st thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

My happy sisters may be, may be proud,
With cruel, and ungentle scoffin,
May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes
My luver nailed in his coffin.

My brother, Douglas, may upbraid,
And strive with threat'ning words to muve me:
My luver's blood is on thy spear,
How can'st thou ever bid me luve thee?

Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve,
With bridal sheets my body cover;
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,
Let in the expected husband luver.

But who the expected husband, husband is?
His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter;

Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,
Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down,
O lay his cold head on my pillow;
Take aff, take aff these bridal weids,
And crown my careful head with willow.

Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best belov'd,
O could my warmth to life restore thee!
Yet lie all night between my breists,
No youth lay ever there before thee.

Pale, pale indeed, O luvely, luvely youth!
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter;
And lie all night between my breists,
No youth shall ever lie there after.”

A.
“Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride,
Return and dry thy useless sorrow;
Thy luver heeds nought of thy sighs,
He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.”

TO THE COUNTESS OF EGLINTOUN,

WITH “THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.”

Accept, O Eglintoun! the rural lays,
Thine be the friend's, and thine the Poet's praise.

The Muse, that oft has rais'd her tuneful strains,
A frequent guest on Scotia's blessful plains,
That oft has sung, her list'ning youth to move,
The charms of Beauty, and the force of Love,
Once more resumes the still successful lay,
Delighted thro' the verdant meads to stray:
O! come, invok'd, and pleas'd, with her repair,
To breathe the balmy sweets of purer air;
In the cool evening negligently laid,
Or near the stream, or in the rural shade,
Propitious hear, and, as thou hear'st, approve
The Gentle Shepherd's tender tale of love.

Learn from these scenes what warm and glowing fires
Inflame the heart that real love inspires,
Delighted read of ardours, sighs and tears;
All that a lover hopes, and all he fears:
Hence, too, what passions in his bosom rise,
What dawning gladness sparkles in his eyes,
When first the fair is bounteous to relent,
And blushing beauteous, smiles the kind consent.
Love's passion here in each extreme is shown,
In Charlotte's smile, or in Maria's frown.

With words like these, that fail'd not to engage,
Love courted Beauty in a golden age,
Pure and untaught, such nature first inspir'd,
Ere yet the fair affected phrase admir'd.
His secret thoughts were undisguis'd with art,
His words ne'er knew to differ from his heart.
He speaks his loves so artless and sincere,
As thy Eliza might he pleas'd to hear.

Heaven only to the rural state bestows
Conquest o'er life, and freedom from its woes;
Secure alike from envy, and from care,
Nor rais'd by hope, nor yet depress'd my fear;
Nor want's lean hand its happiness constrains,
Nor riches torture with ill-gotten gains.
No secret guilt its stedfast peace destroys,
No wild ambition interrupts its joys.
Blest still to spend the hours that heav'n has lent,
In humble goodness, and in calm content.
Serenely gentle, as the thoughts that roll,
Sinless and pure, in fair Humeia's soul.

But now the rural state these joys has lost,
Even swains no more that innocence can boast.
Love speaks no more what Beauty may believe,
Prone to betray and practis'd to deceive.

Now Happiness forsakes her blest retreat,
The peaceful dwellings where she fix'd her seat,
The pleasing fields she wont of old to grace,
Companion to an upright sober race;
When on the sunny hill or verdant plain,
Free and familiar with the sons of men,
To crown the pleasures of the blameless feast,
She uninvited came a welcome guest:
Ere yet an age, grown rich in impious arts,
Seduc'd from innocence incautious hearts,
Then grudging Hate, and sinful Pride succeed,
Cruel Revenge, and false unrighteous deed:
Then dowerless Beauty lost the power to move;
The rust of lucre stain'd the gold of Love.
Bounteous no more, and hospitably good,
The genial hearth first blush'd with stranger's blood.
The friend no more upon the friend relies,
And semblant falsehood puts on Truth's disguise.
The peaceful household fill'd with dire alarms,
The ravish'd virgin mourns her slighted charms;
The voice of impious mirth is heard around;
In guilt they feast, in guilt the bowl is crown'd.
Unpunish'd violence lords it o'er the plains,
And Happiness forsakes the guilty swains.

O Happiness! from human search retir'd,
Where art thou to be found, by all desir'd?
Nun sober and devout! why art thou fled
To hide in shades thy meek contented head?
Virgin of aspect mild! ah why unkind,
Fly'st thou displeas'd, the commerce of mankind?
O! teach our steps to find the secret cell,
Where with thy sire, Content, thou lov'st to dwell.
Or say, dost thou a duteous handmaid wait
Familiar, at the chambers of the great?
Dost thou pursue the voice of them that call
To noisy revel, and to midnight ball?
O'er the full banquet when we feast our soul,
Dost thou inspire the mirth, or mix the bowl?
Or with th' industrious planter dost thou talk,
Conversing freely in an ev'ning walk?
Say, does the miser e'er thy face behold,
Watchful and studious of the treasur'd gold?
Seeks Knowledge, not in vain, thy much lov'd pow'r,
Still musing silent at the morning hour?
May we thy presence hope in war's alarms,
In S---'s wisdom' or Montgomery's arms!

In vain our flatt'ring hopes our steps beguile;
The flying good eludes the searcher's toil:
In vain we seek the city or the cell:
Alone with virtue knows the pow'r to dwell.

Nor need mankind despair these joys to know,
The gift themselves may on themselves bestow.
Soon, soon we might the precious blessing boast;
But many passions must the blessing cost;
Infernal malice, inly pining hate,
And envy grieving at another's state.
Revenge no more must in our hearts remain,
Or burning lust, or avarice of gain.
When these are in the human bosom nurst,
Can peace reside in dwellings so accurst?
Unlike, O Eglintoun! thy happy breast,
Calm and serene, enjoys the heavenly guest;
From the tumultuous rule of passions freed,
Pure in thy thought, and spotless in thy deed.
In virtues rich, in goodness unconfin'd,
Thou shin'st a fair example to thy kind;
Sincere and equal to thy neighbour's fame,
How swift to praise, how obstinate to blame!
Bold in thy presence bashful Sense appears,
And backward Merit loses all its fears.
Supremely blest by heaven, heav'n's richest grace
Confest is thine, an early blooming race,
Whose pleasing smiles shall guardian Wisdom arm,
Divine instruction! taught of thee to charm.
What transports shall they to thy soul impart!
(The conscious transports of a parent's heart.)
When thou behold'st them of each grace possest,
And sighing youths imploring to be blest,
After thy image form'd with charms like thine,
Or in the visit, or the dance to shine.
Thrice happy! who succeed their mother's praise,
The lovely Eglintouns of future days.

Meanwhile peruse the following tender scenes,
And listen to thy native Poet's strains.
In ancient garb the home-bred Muse appears,
The garb our muses wore in former years.
As in a glass reflected, here behold
How smiling goodness look'd in days of old.
Nor blush to read where Beauty's praise is shown,
And virtuous Love, the likeness of thy own;
While midst the various gifts that gracious heaven,
Bounteous to thee, with righteous hand has given;
Let this, O Eglintoun! delight thee most,
To enjoy that innocence the world has lost.

Lady Elizabeth, Lady Eglintoun's eldest daughter, married to Sir John Cuningham of Caprington, Bart. She died at the age of 93, and was the last Lady ‘Betty’ in Scotland.

THE MAID OF GALLOWSHIELS.

IN TWELVE BOOKS.

Aut credite factum:
Vel, si credites, facti quoque credite poenam.
Ov. Met.

Μηνιν αειδε, Θεα, Πηληιαδεω Αχιληος
Ουλομενην ------
Hom. Il. i.

BOOK I.

THE ARGUMENT:

THE FIDDLER CHALLENGES THE PIPER TO A TRIAL OF SKILL.

At a fair in Gallowshiels, the Fiddler endeavours to free himself from the accusation of having seduced the Maid of Gallowshiels from the Piper, who was her first lover, and to engage in a trial of skill—the Maid to be the judge, and the prize of the conqueror. The Piper sustains his charge against him, and consents to his proposal. Then Thomas, a carter, throws cross and pile who shall begin. The lot falls upon the Piper, who, as he is preparing, is interrupted by the Fiddler, who demands his genealogy, with the relation of which the Piper concludes the book.

The wrath of Elspet, Gallowshiels's Fair—

[_]

The first two lines of this poem are unnumbered in the text.

The fatal cause of all a Piper's care—
How by her changeful heart the dame misled,
Receiv'd a wand'ring Fiddler to her bed;
Forgetful she of all her former vows,
Her spotless fame and plighted Piper spouse;
Who, persevering in his early faith,
Wept her misdeed, and sorrow'd unto death,
Till plung'd in woes, and withering in her prime,
By late repentance she atoned her crime.
So did almighty destiny fulfil
The purpos'd counsels of his sovereign will.
Gracious, O muse! the mournful tale relate,
And warn the sex to shun the crime and fate.

For on that day when all the youths repair
From every quarter round to Gala's fair,
Industrious of gain, their wares to vend,
And copious mercats o'er the fields extend;
Where sprightly youths and virgins in the flow'r
Congenial meet, and hope the bridal hour;

With artful zeal the spacious tent they frame,
And to the linen dome invite the dame;
Or wait impatient for the setting light,
Behind the hedge to pass in joys the night.
To these, as circling in a ring they stand,
The Fiddler stretch'd the fiddle-bearing hand.

Ye men of Gallowshiels attentive hear,
Wives, matrons, widows, virgins, all give ear!
Unjustly blamed by a licentious tongue,
First let me speak, who first have suffer'd wrong.
No fault of mine your Piper's vengeance draws:
On me he throws the guilt of nature's laws.
True, in his dome, by friendly favours grac'd,
I joyful lived a fiddler and a guest;
What time rejoicing on the banks I stood
Of Gala's stream, and drank its unknown flood. [OMITTED]
For not to us, to love or hate is given
The appointment of our fates, and doom of heaven. [OMITTED]
Doom'd to the reaper's meal or bridal hour,
Who better brews the ale or kneads the flour,
Or who with her in needlework can vie,
Or swifter bid the whirling spindle fly?
Say Piper, then, ill judging as thou art,
Could I refuse so fair a damsel's heart?
Was I from offer'd blessings to abstain,
For that it gave my former host some pain?
But hear attentive what my thought decrees,
And set thy heart from idle fears at ease:
Ye men of Gallowshiels attentive hear,
Maids, widows, wives, and matrons, all give ear;
A conquest got with ease my soul disdains,
He's worse than conquer'd that but cheaply gains.
Before the fair let then our cause be tried,
And who her happy choice herself decide;
Sole in her breast the fav'rite youth shall reign,
Whose hand shall sweetest wake the warbled strain;
And if to me th' ill-fated Piper yield,
As sure I trust this well contended field,
High in the sacred dome his pipes I raise,
The trophy of my fame to after days;
That all may know, as they the pipes survey,
The Fiddler's deed, and this the signal day:
But if the Fates, his wishes to fulfil,
Shall give the triumph to his happier skill,
My fiddle his, to him be praises paid,
And joined with those the long contested maid.

All Gallowshiels the daring challenge heard,
Full blank they stood, and for their Piper fear'd;

Fearless, alone he rose in open view,
And in the midst his sounding bagpipe threw;
In act to speak, surveys with downward eye
The well-known instrument of melody:
Then on the maid he cast a mournful look,
He smote his breast, and sigh'd, while thus he spoke—

Alas for me that ever I was born!
Bred up to woes and to my Elspet's scorn!
For three long circling years, compell'd by fate,
My constant love has won her constant hate.
Can then so soft a mind so savage prove,
And is disdain a recompense for love?
Condemn'd, unblest, to waste my youthful prime,
Alas that constancy was e'er a crime!
Yet once, yet once, for happier days I knew,
She heard with pity then the sighs I drew.
In her soft breast consenting flames combin'd,
Each look confess'd the union of our mind.
But now these flames no more her heart inspire,
Far, far away, my hours of joy retire.
The hours of youth and joy fly first and fast,
To weeping and to age decreed the last.
These once consum'd, no more delights bestow,
But still remembrance keeps alive their woe.
Thus every joy exists before my mind
I shared ere yet my Elspet was unkind,
Ere yet the Fiddler, by insidious art,
Forc'd me from the possession of her heart;
By crafty lies seduced her easy youth,
(So much has flattery the odds of truth);
And now the more to aggravate the offence,
He styles his guilt the crime of Providence.
Base, to misname the gracious Pow'r above,
The Sire of Hate, who is the source of love;
He, all that we can boast from his dispose,
Or cheers with joys, or plunges us in woes.
Unerring he his bounties to misplace,
Our misery is a debt, our joys a grace.
Dar'st thou then say he prompts us from within,
Or draws aside from good, or drives to sin?
O impious thought of an abandon'd mind!
That daring tongue shall no just limits bind;
The scandal of thy kind and kindred born,
That treats thy Maker and his priests with scorn;
Opprobrious with thy baseborn thoughts to load,
To vindicate thy wrong, the man of God.
For this I hope to see thee mounted high,
Before the assembled church renounce the lie,
Where, clothed in sackcloth weeds, the failing dame
Her short-liv'd joys repays with long-liv'd shame,

Unable to endure his angry look,
The scoff of crowds, and suffering dire rebuke.
But would'st thou purge thyself of foul offence,
Thy surest pleader had been innocence;
For innocence to all commits its cause,
And, for it does no ill, it fears no laws.
But when the solid pow'r of justice fails,
Then eloquence with gaudy show assails,
Essays the hollow artifice of art,
And cheats the judgment, while it woos the heart.
My tongue shall speak but what my heart arreads,
Nor varnish use to blacken more thy deeds;
Nor shall I treat thy valued gifts with scorn,
But praise the talents that a foe adorn.
Thy lay of grief the mirthful bosom wounds,
None wakes the Fiddler to more sprightly sounds;
This to thy fame stern justice bade me say,
Then in the other scale thy vices lay.
Thy broken trust, thy false deceitful lies,
Dissembled fears, and real perjuries;
Skilled sore in wicked arts, a treacherous part,
Thou soothed my fair, and poisoned all her heart.
'Twas not for this I took thee to my dome,
A wandering stranger from thy native home;
Fool that I was! had it been given to know
What woes from thee were mine to undergo,
No power had from my vengeance set thee free,
Plunged in a well, or hanged on a tree, [mounted]
I with thy naked limbs had strown the plains,
Or mingled with the flinty rock thy brains.
But 'tis decreed, by heaven's disposing will,
Unknown to us, arrives our good or ill;
Nor heaven, in pity to his griefs, bestows
On man the fatal science of his woes.
But know, vain youth! thy falsehood I disdain,
Ingratitude be to itself a pain.
Suffice it not that with felonious hate,
Base and ungrateful, thou drove on my fate,
In secret wronged me, when I could not hear,
And stopped to my complaint my Elspet's ear.
Yet, now more impudent, thou dar'st to prove
Injurious, to accuse my want of love.
Ah! had I ne'er the fatal passion known,
Blest had I been, nor by the fair undone;
Then still with pity had she seen my tears,
Still sweet my bagpipe sounded in her ears.
Yet thus unhappy, thus supremely cursed,
In woes and misery decreed the first.
Yet this I owe, O Fiddler, to thy pride,
I once again may win the blooming bride,

I once again that tender strain essay,
That, bent on swiftest speed, has woo'd her stay,
When, by her mother sent at noon to bring
The limpid current from the distant spring,
Won by the song, until the golden light
Descending slow, resigned its place to night.
Pleased, from her honey lip then would I gain
A kiss, the sweet reward of all my pain.
But wert thou in my stead condemned to bear
Her constant hate, abandoned to despair;
Sole in her heavenly smiles if favoured I,
I'd not provoke again the doubtful die,
Of all my fortune could bestow secure
With her, and her alone, I'd live obscure.
But I too long from the expected scene
Myself and thee and those around detain.
Then haste thee, youth, begin thy loftiest lay,
The next be mine—in me is no delay.

The Piper ceased, then sadly silent sate,
And secret in his mind revolved his fate.
When slowly rising from the polished stone
That at the threshold fixed like marble shone,
Where their fair vestures laughing damsels lay
To bleach and whiten in the solar ray,
Thomas, the carter, grave of look, arose,
He loved the Piper much, and mourned his woes.
He now had seen three race of men decay,
Pleased with the first he passed his youth away;
Their sons he taught to drive the cart with skill,
And brush the well-shun'd goal with winged wheel;
Dext'rous the double-pointed fork to ply,
And rear with ease the golden sheaf on high.
That glory past, now mixed he with the young,
They heard, revered the counsels of his tongue.
Though full of years, yet still enjoyed the sage
A youthful vigour and a green old age.
He thus to the contending youths addressed
The artful words that laboured in his breast.

Hear me, O youths! whose now impending fates
The extreme of joy or misery awaits,
Or still to mourn your unavailing vows,
Or victor in the strife enjoy the spouse.
Then who shall first begin the important lay
Let lots determine, and those lots obey.
This coin, ordained through Scotia's realm to pass,
The monarch's face refulgent on the brass;
Fair, on the side opposed, the thistle rears
Its wand'ring foliage and its bristly spears.
This, from my hand flung upwards in the sky,
In countless circles whirls its orb on high;

If, when descended on the level ground,
The monarch's awful visage upward's found,
Then thou, O Fiddler, shall thy skill employ
The first, to try the song of grief or joy.
If, undeprised upon the blushing green
Its chance directs, the thistle's front is seen,
The Piper first the sweet melodious strain
Shall urge, and finish or increase his pain.
But thou, O Elspet, fair beyond the rest,
Whose fatal beauty breeds the dire contest,
O heedful of advice, attentive hear
My faithful counsels with no careless ear.
Fair (though) thou art, yet fairer have there been,
Such as of old these aged orbs have seen.
Lives there a maiden now that can compare
With Agnew's downy breasts and amber hair?
O, when shall I again the match behold
Of sprightly Henny, and her cheeks of gold!
Or her, adorn'd with every blushing grace,
Sweet Marion, comely as the Gentle's race!
If these in younger years I could engage,
Then blush not thou to hear my words of age.
View both the combatants with equal eyes,
Thyself at once the judge, at once the prize.
O dread to load thy tender soul with sin,
For love, I fear, corrupts the judge within.
For if misjudging, thou award'st the day
To him inferior in the sweet essay,
Each tongue shall rank thee with the worst of names,
Deep pierces scandal when 'tis truth that blames.
The perjury shall every age prolong,
To fright the changeful mind from doing wrong.
But if thy sentence speak an upright heart,
Where pride and female error has no part,
Thy name remembered in the feasting days,
The youths shall chant sweet ballads in thy praise,
The lover shall his faithless fair upbraid,
And quote the example of the Piper's Maid.
Then Elspet, Maid of Gallowshiels, take heed,
For infamy or fame attends thy deed.

This said, the mark of fate he upward threw,
Whirl'd round and round, thro' yielding air it flew;
Each pale beholds it hov'ring in the skies,
Each hopes his rival sign with ardent eyes.
Scarce could they frame the wish, when swift and prone
The joyful Piper views the lot his own.
Exulting thus: O thou who deign'st to bless
My sorrows with this omen of success;
By me, thy plant uninjured, ne'er shall feel
The treading footsteps nor the piercing steel;

O plant, that with perpetual verdure crown'd,
Wreathes our victorious monarch's temples round.
The carter took the word: Thy fate foreshows
A happy issue to thy tedious woes.
O may thy hopes enjoy their due success,
And heav'n still bless thee, that begins to bless!

No answer to the friendly speech returned,
The youth but inly for the trial burned.
He reared his pipes from earth, where dumb they lay,
But soon melodious, to speak forth the lay;
Then, as he tied the fair machine around,
To his strong arm, by gilded leather bound,
While all with secret joy and wonder gaze,
The Fiddler spoke in words of winged phrase.

Thus far indeed their way thy wishes find,
But flatt'ring shows do oft deceive the blind;
When skill superior shall thy hopes destroy,
Thou'lt mourn the chance of fate and short-liv'd joy.
Long labour yet, and various, thee remains,
If bold to vie with me in rural strains.
But now one moment let's suspend the day,
Nor join we yet in the harmonious fray.
By blood descending from a gentle race,
With thee contending I my kind disgrace;
Unless an equal birth renown thy name,
To conquer, not my glory, but my shame.
I, born where Tine her silver current pours,
And winds encircling round Hadina's towers.
A parson's daughter there retiring lay,
And pluck'd the springing flower in wanton play.
A lord, my sire, her in his walks beheld,
And to the pleasing deed of love compelled.
Hence I. Disclose thou, Piper, if thy veins
The blood of nobles or of thieves contains;
Say what thy ancestors in days of yore,
What sire begot thee, and what mother bore?

Vain are the tales of birth, the youth replies;
Vain he who on the empty boast relies.
The good man on himself alone depends,
His virtues and his merits are his friends.
The worthy oft lament the perished grace,
And wept the fool descending through the race.
Oft too, the son, the glory of his name,
Wipes from the tainted house the father's shame.
Fortune to noblest heights the low one brings,
And simple pipers have been sires of kings.
Their race, as heaven decrees, to fate must yield,
In after times, the labourers of the field.
Say, what avails it then, or to be born
The poor man's envy, or the rich man's scorn;

Since death, when once the race of life is past,
Demands the piper and the king at last;
Equal condemned to share their destined lot,
Alike the sceptre and the pipe's forgot.
Though the surviving friends lamenting tell
Who ruled with wisdom and who piped with skill,
And spread their glory wide from shore to shore,
Their praises charm the unconscious dead no more.
But for thou think'st thy ancestry divine
Diminished, if thou match thy skill with mine,
Then hear my tongue a faithful tale unfold,
Which but for thee had rested still untold.
Not great ones in the humble roll I call,
But honest swains and simple pipers all;
Nor yet unknown: To these our fame resounds,
Who drink of Glotta in their western bounds;
Or near the rising hills of Santry born,
Plough Preston fields, or thrash Tantallon corn.
Or even remote, where, far in northern lands,
Famed Johnny Groat's house and (its) table stands,
Reverend and peaceful o'er his sons he shined,
Twelve sons he shared that at one table dined.
The first famed author of our ancient race
Was Colin hight, and this his native place.
He the best piper Gallowshiels e'er saw,
The first who sung thy battle, Harry-Law.
For when, of old, by mad ambition fired,
The island chief to Scotia's rule aspired,
When bold in arms against his prince he stood,
And Harlaw's field dyed purple with his blood.
As to inspire his train to noble deeds,
Where raged the battle, and the mighty bleeds,
He played, and threw each thought of life behind,
And all on glory ran his restless mind,
Urged by the muses, for a sounding stone
Drove on his thigh, and crack'd the shattered bone.
Prone fell the youth, extended on the plain,
Yet still his slack'ning hands the pipes retain,
Still daring in the neighbourhood of death,
His labouring elbow roused the harmonious breath;
And safe returning to his native land,
He instituted games, and sports ordained.
With matchless art thy battle, Harlaw, sung,
Till Gallowshiels through all her echoes rung.
The wondrous skill did all his offspring grace,
From son to son transmissive through the race.
These oft have heard, and hearing can declare,
In the gay art, each son the father's heir.

But far, O far beyond the rest, he shone
Unrivalled, all the glorious art his own.
Long flourishing, the love of all he shared,
In youth regarded, and in age revered;
Till to the silent grave descending late,
Of years and honours full, he bowed to fate.
Three sons and one fair daughter blest their sire,
The eldest warmed with all his father's fire;
But, hapless youth! a dire disease invades
His heart, and sunk him to forgetful shades.
The second, sent a sailor to the main,
The storms o'ertook, and ne'er returned again.
Naked on some far distant shore he lies,
Bewailed, unconscious of his sister's sighs.
His blooming sister, rich in beauty's charms,
Refulgent glowed, and blessed a webster's arms.
He taught the web to shine with matchless art,
The matchless web allured the virgin's heart;
Nor knew, while she the workmanship approved,
The helpless maid, that she the workman loved.
The last a boy, by Gala's waters fed
His father's flocks, and in his art was bred.
But when the years of manhood he beheld,
His sire succeeding as his sire excelled,
No son was his; for so the fates ordain,
Those fates that cause our happiness or pain.
One only daughter sooth'd a father's care,
Her mother's likeness, and his fortune's heir.
From distant shires the am'rous youth repaired,
With her the dance, with her the feast they shared.
With gentle words and blandishments the dame
Soft they assault, to raise an equal flame.
Not all their words or blandishments could move;
Stubborn she stood, inflexible to love.
Oft would her sire essay the softest art,
Persuasive speech, to molify her heart;
Oft would adjure her by her virgin fears,
Her mother's ashes, and his aged years.
What grief was his, her's what immortal shame,
If by her fault should end the Piper's name!
He once of Gallowshiels the best delight,
Nor yet forgot, so famed from Harlaw fight;
How, would he say, th' harmonious founder mourn,
Would cruel fate release him from his urn,
Ill-fated to behold his pipes to grace
A foreign hand, the alien of his race.
This urged the father, but the nymph withstood,
Resolved and obstinate in virginhood.
The father urged in vain, averse she fled
The pleasing love-rights of the marriage bed.

But disobedient to thy chaste desires,
Thy form withstands, and wakes the lover's fires.
Thy wish unhappy! by thy wishes crost,
Thyself opposes what thou seek'st the most;
Severe thy bliss, thy beauty undecrees,
Thou would'st not be belov'd, and yet must please.
Her lov'd a lord, and fired by heavenly charms,
He sought to gain the damsel to his arms.
In vain to win her heart the youth assailed,
But force accomplished where his passion failed.
As with returning step at eve of day,
She from the finished revels shap'd her way,
Clandestine in a secret arbour laid,
He stood, resolved to seize the passing maid.
The passing maid, unknowing of th' event,
Securely paced and trod the deep descent.
Instant the youth his destined victim seized,
Compelled by strength, and with his victim pleased,
Swift to his chamber bore the ravished maid,
And drew her gently to the genial bed;
There in his arms the blushing fair comprest,
He held her panting, and was fully blest;
There mixing frequent, till a beauteous boy
She brought, the fruit of sweet forbidden joy.
For when the moon that monthly grows and fades,
Nine times renewed her light and changed her shades,
Born in her secret bower, the babe she laid
Soft in the ready cradle's silken shade.
But fortune, envious of her happy state,
Now shook the box, and threw another fate;
The stolen amour, until that hour concealed,
The infant's cries to the stern sire revealed:
Stern and resolved, the moody sire prepares
To wreck his rage, and plunge her soul in cares.
The youth foresaw, and fearful of her woes,
Dismissed the damsel when the fury rose.
O'er various fields she passed, and various floods,
And unknown mountains crown'd with sounding woods,
Till a far distant land concludes her toil,
Where Devern's waves enrich fair Bamfa's soil.
But when twelve years had run their destined race,
A strong desire to see his natal place
Impels the youth; then instant wand'ring home,
He seeks, with hopes erect, his father's dome.
He then, to share the sweets of nuptial bed,
A virgin equal to his birth had led.
Yet not unmindful of the hidden joy,
The pleasing rapture that produced the boy,
His wrathful sire and spouse he reconciles,
And meets the child with fond paternal smiles;

To him bestows, the witness of his care,
A house, defenceful of the piercing air,
Where Gala's waters run a blushing mead,
Where twenty sheep in plenteous pasture feed.
The youth, his filial virtue to approve,
Recalls his mother to the gifts of love.
Her, an unhappy exile, long withheld
From Gallowshiels's domes and native field,
A mason weds, and blest in all those charms
That pleased a lord, succeeded to her arms.
A numerous issue of the manly race,
And blooming girls, confess each soft embrace;
These sole survive. For, as in wanton play,
On Gala's bank in a fair summer's day,
Her noble-born on pastime bent, divides
With naked limbs the pure translucent tides,
Foredoomed to view his mother's face no more,
Fate sunk him helpless ere he reached the shore.
Great grief resounded loud through Gallowshiels,
Each social mourns, and for the damsel feels.
The damsel wastes in woes her youthful prime,
And helpless died, nor lived out half her time.
Raised by high hopes, and by ambition swayed,
Her son, the first of all his race that strayed,
To nobler glory the fond youth aspires,
And scorned the humble arts that fanned his fires.
A merchant vent'rous o'er the pathless main,
In foreign realms pursues the thirst of gain.
Scarce to his native land restored by fate,
He mourned his folly, but he mourned too late;
No consort blest his bed. A lovely boy,
The manly increase of his brother's joy,
Heired the famed pipes. He spoused a pleasing fair,
But still the dismal hour that caused his care
He to his death bewailed; for, fierce and bold,
The female sex ne'er bred so great a scold.
Abroad he roamed—the wise and happiest choice—
She persecuted so the dome with noise.
Full sore he toiled to please the clam'rous dame,
And all love's buckets plied to quench her flame.
To please her pride, mortgaged his house and land,
Nay, e'en the pipes—the far-famed pipes—she pawned!
Thus cursed, till death brought the long-wish'd relief,
The patient youth sustained all, dumb and deaf;
But when descending to the worms a feast,
He from the ill-meant blessing was releast.
Though not forgetful of his first estate,
He boldly dared to draw a second fate;
A gentle virgin she, the son she bore
With wisdom did his sinking race restore.

For, learned in frugal arts, the youth regained
The fated pipes, the pledge of debts detained.
But pow'rless yet his fortunes to repair,
Sunk by neglect and want of thrifty care,
The griping usurer claims his destined prey,
In prison dire his life to waste away,
Unless a slave; his hard commands he bears,
No wage demanded three revolving years:
The youth consents, and in his chains he mourned,
Till o'er his head three circling years returned.
But when old time, with softly stealing pace,
Had full of sorrows run the measured race,
The monster's daughter, of sweet gentle mind,
Bloomed far the fairest of the fairest kind;
Constrained by love he to the virgin bore,
He plights his service for six winters more.
In labours long and dire divides his toil,
To delve the glebe, to turn the furrowed soil.
No labour e'er so great he reckoned hard,
Her love the motive and the sweet reward.
But when his tedious months of bondage past,
The days of liberty looked out at last.
Struck by the hand of fate, the miser dies,
The youth possessed his wealth and blooming prize;
Who, warm in years, and faithful to his fires,
Blest his embraces with my grandsire's sires.
In good old age submitting to the grave,
Safe to his son the pipes redeemed he gave;
The pipes redeemed, he to my sire consigned
The shining gift, he dying, left behind
To the dear guardian of my tender age,
Whose faith in strictest ties he did engage.
He, studious of his charge, when years began
To shoot in strength, and blossom up to man,
On me the pipes bestowed, preserved with care,
And dying, blessed me with his latest prayer.
These, treasured in my dome, I still retain,
Nor fear shall rob, or hopes of greatest gain.
But if with me the glorious purchase ends,
Or to my son the pledge of fate descends,
Heaven suffers not my ignorance to know,
Or whether it decrees me joy or woe.
But now in empty words no more contend,
Words rise on words, and wrangling has no end.
Instant commence I then the stern debate,
And leave the event to Elspet and to fate.
He said; and all around the shouts arise,
The joint applauses mingle in the skies.

Donald of the Isles, in King James the First's reign.

BOOK II.

THE ARGUMENT:

THE TRIAL OF SKILL.

The Piper takes his pipes to play. The several songs are particularly described. The Fiddler is entirely confounded with the dexterity of his antagonist, and not being able to perform anything, gives it up. The Maid of the Gallowshiels, however, gives him the preference, and retires with him. The Piper's lamentation on his misfortunes.

Now in his artful hand the bagpipe held
Elate, the Piper wide surveys the field.
O'er all he throws his quick discerning eyes,
And views their hopes and fears alternate rise.
Old Glenderule, in Gallowshiels long famed
For works of skill, the perfect wonder framed;
His shining steel first lopped with dext'rous toil,
From a tall spreading elm, the branchy spoil:
The clouded wood he next divides in twain,
And smoothes them equal to an oval plain;
Six leather folds, in still connected rows,
To either plank conformed, the sides compose,
The wimble perforates the bass with care,
A destined passage opening to the air,
But once enclosed within the narrow space,
The opposing valve forbids the backward race;
Fast to the swelling bag two reeds combined
Receive the blasts of the melodious wind;
Round from the turning loom, with skill divine
Embossed, the joints in silver circles shine;
In secret prison pent the accents lie,
Until his arm the lab'ring artist ply;
Then duteous they forsake their dark abode,
Fellows no more, and wing a separate road;
These upwards through the narrow channel glide,
In ways unseen, a solemn murmuring tide;
Those through the narrow path their journey bend,
Of sweeter sort, and to the earth descend;
O'er the small pipe at equal distance lie
Eight shining holes, o'er which his fingers fly;
From side to side the aerial spirit bounds,
The flying fingers form the passing sounds,

That issuing gently through the polished door,
Mix with the common air, and charm no more.

This gift long since old Glenderule consigned,
The lasting witness of his friendly mind,
To the famed author of the Piper's line:
Each empty space shone rich in fair design;
Himself appears high in the sculptur'd wood,
As bold in the Harlean field he stood,
Serene, amidst the dangers of the day,
Full in the van you might behold him play;
There in the humbler mood of peace he stands,
Before him pleased are seen the dancing bands;
In mazy rounds the flying ring they blend,
So lively framed they seem from earth t' ascend.
Four gilded straps the artist's arm surround,
Two knit by clasps, and two by buckles bound
His artful elbow; now the youth essays
A tuneful squeeze, to wake the sleeping lays.
With labouring bellows thus the smith inspires,
To frame the polished lock, the forge's fires;
Concealed in ashes lie the flames below,
Till the resounding lungs of bellows blow;
Then mounting high, o'er the illumined room
Spreads the brown light, and gilds the dusky gloom.
The bursting sounds, in narrow prison pent,
Rouse in their cells, loud-rumbling for a vent,
Rude tempests now the deafened ear assail,
Now gently sweet is breathed a sober gale.
As when the hawk his mountain nest forsakes,
Fierce for his prey, his rustling wings he shakes,
The air, impelled by the unharmonious shock,
Sounds clatt'ring and abrupt through all the rock;
But as he flies, he shapes, to smoother pace,
His winnowing vans, and swims the aerial space. [OMITTED]

EPITAPH ON LORD BINNY.

Beneath this sacred marble ever sleeps
For whom a father, mother, consort weeps;
Whom brothers', sisters' pious griefs pursue,
And children's tears with virtuous drops bedew:
The Loves and Graces grieving round appear,
Ev'n Mirth herself becomes a mourner here;
The stranger who directs his steps this way
Shall witness to thy worth, and wond'ring say
Thy life, tho' short, can we unhappy call!
Sure thine was blest, for it was social all:
O may no hostile hand this place invade,
For ever sacred to thy gentle shade,
Who knew in all life's offices to please,
Join'd taste to virtue, and to virtue ease;
With riches blest did not the poor disdain,
Was knowing, humble, friendly, great, humane,
By good men honour'd, by the bad approv'd,
And lov'd the Muses, by the Muses lov'd;
Hail! and farewell, who bore the gentlest mind,
For thou indeed hast been of human kind.

EPITAPH ON LORD BARGANY.

Go hence instructed from this early urn,
Wise as you weep, and better as you mourn;
This urn, where titles, fortune, youth repose,
How vain the fleeting good that life bestows!
Learn Age, when now it can no more supply,
To quit the burden, and consent to die;
Secure, the truly virtuous never tell,
How long the part was acted, but how well;
Youth, stand convicted of each foolish claim,
Each daring wish of lengthen'd life and fame,
Thy life a moment, and thy fame a breath,
The natural end, oblivion and death;
Hear then this solemn truth, obey its call,
Submit, adore, for this is mankind's all.

EPITAPH ON SIR JAMES SOOTY.

This unambitious stone preserves a name
To friendship sanctified, untouch'd by fame,

A son this rais'd, by holy duty fir'd,
These sung a friend, by friendly zeal inspir'd.
No venal falsehood stain'd the filial tear
Unbought, unask'd, the friendly praise sincere;
Both for a good man weep; without offence,
Who led his days in ease and innocence,
His tear rose honest; honest rose his smile,
His heart no falsehood knew, his tongue no guile;
A simple mind with plain, just notions fraught,
Nor warp'd by wit, nor by proud science taught,
Nature's plain light still rightly understood,
That never hesitates the fair and good—
Who view'd self balanc'd from his calm retreat,
The storms that vex the busy and the great,
Unmingling in the scene, whate'er befel,
Pitied his suff'ring kind, and wish'd them well;
Careless if monarchs frown'd or statesmen smil'd,
His purer joy, his friend, his wife or child;
Constant to act the hospitable part,
Love in his look, and welcome in his heart,
Such unpriz'd blessings did his life employ,
The social moment, the domestic joy,
A joy beneficent, warm, cordial, kind,
That leaves no doubt, no grudge, no sting behind:
The heart-born rapture that from Virtue springs,
The poor man's portion, God withheld from kings;
This life at decent time was bid to cease,
Finish'd among his weeping friends in peace;
Go traveller, wish his shade eternal rest,
Go, be the same, for this is to be blest.

EPITAPH ON LORD NEWHALL.

To fame let Flatt'ry the proud column raise,
And guilty greatness load with venal praise,
This monument for nobler use design'd
Speaks to the heart, and rises for mankind;
Whose moral strain, if rightly understood,
Invites thee to be humble, wise and good.
Learn here of life, life's ev'ry sacred end,
Hence form the father, husband, judge and friend:
Here wealth and greatness found no partial grace,
The poor look'd fearless in th' oppressor's face;

One plain good meaning thro' his conduct ran,
And if he err'd, alas! he err'd as man.
If then unconscious of so fair a fame
Thou read'st without the wish to be the same,
Tho' proud of titles, or of boundless store,
By blood ignoble, and by wealth made poor,
Yet read; some vice perhaps thou may'st resign,
Be ev'n that momentary virtue thine,
Heav'n in thy breast here work its first essay,
Think on this man, and pass unblam'd one day.

EPITAPH ON MR BAILLIE OF JERVISWOOD.

The pious parents rais'd this hallow'd place
A monument for them, and for their race.
Descendants, be it your successive cares,
That no degen'rate dust e'er mix with their's.

CONTEMPLATION: OR THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE.

TO A YOUNG LADY WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM.

Read here the pangs of unsuccessful love,
View the dire ills the weary sufferers prove,
When Care in every shape has leave to reign,
And keener sharpens ev'ry sense of pain:
No charm the cruel spoiler can control,
He blasts the beauteous features of the soul;
With various conflict rends the destin'd breast,
And lays th' internal fair creation waste:
The dreadful demon raging unconfin'd,
To his dire purpose bends the passive mind,

Gloomy and dark the prospect round appears,
Doubts spring from doubts, and fears engender fears;
Hope after hope goes out in endless night,
And all is anguish, torture, and affright.

O! beauteous friend, a gentler fate be thine;
Still may thy star with mildest influence shine;
May heav'n surround thee with peculiar care,
And make thee happy, as it made thee fair;
That gave thee sweetness, unaffected ease,
The pleasing look, that ne'er was taught to please,
True genuine charms, where falsehood claims no part,
Which not alone entice, but fix the heart:
And far beyond all these, supreme in place,
The virtuous mind, an undecaying grace.
Still may thy youth each fond endearment prove
Of tender friendship and complacent love;
May love approach thee in the mildest dress,
And court thee to domestic happiness;
And bring along the pow'r that only knows
To heighten human joys and soften woes;
For woes will be in life; these still return,
The good, the beauteous, and the wise must mourn:
Doubl'd the joy that friendship does divide,
Lessen'd the pain when arm'd the social side:
But ah! how fierce the pang, how deep the groan,
When strong affliction finds the weak alone!
Then many a friend still guard thy shelter'd days,
And guide thee safe thro' Fortune's mystic ways;
The happy youth, whom most thy soul approves,
Friend of thy choice and husband of thy loves,
Whose holy flame heav'n's altar does inspire,
That burns thro' life one clear unsullied fire,
A mutual warmth that glows from breast to breast,
Who loving is belov'd and blessing blest.
Then all the pleasing scenes of life appear,
The charms of kindred and relations dear,
The smiling offspring, Love's far better part,
And all the social meltings of the heart:
Then harlot Pleasure, with her wanton train,
Seduces from the perfect state in vain;
In vain to the lock'd ear the syren sings,
When angels shadow with their guardian wings.
Such, fair Monimia, be thy sacred lot,
When ev'ry memory of him forgot,
Whose faithful muse inspir'd the pious pray'r,
And wearied heaven to keep thee in its care;
That pleas'd it would its choicest influence show'r,
Or on thy serious, or thy mirthful hour;
Conspicuous known in ev'ry scene of life,
The mother, sister, daughter, friend, and wife;

That joy may grow on joy, and constant last,
And each new day rise brighter than the past.

O voice divine, whose heavenly strain
No mortal measure may attain,
O powerful to appease the smart,
That festers in a wounded heart,
Whose mystic numbers can assuage
The bosom of tumult'ous Rage,
Can strike the dagger from Despair,
And shut the watchful eye of Care.
Oft lur'd by thee, when wretches call,
Hope comes, that cheers or softens all;
Expell'd by thee, and dispossest
Envy forsakes the human breast.
Full oft with thee the bard retires,
And lost to earth, to heav'n aspires;
How nobly lost! with thee to rove
Thro' the long deep'ning solemn grove,
Or underneath the moonlight pale,
To Silence trust some plaintive tale,
Of nature's ills, and mankind's woes,
While kings and all the proud repose;
Or where some holy, aged oak,
A stranger to the woodman's stroke,
From the high rock's aerial crown,
In twisting arches bending down,
Bathes in the smooth pellucid stream,
Full oft he waits the mystic dream
Of mankind's joys right understood,
And of the all-prevailing good.
Go forth invok'd, O voice divine
And issue from thy sacred shrine;
Go search each solitude around,
Where Contemplation may be found,
Where'er apart the goddess stands
With lifted eyes and heaven-rais'd hands;
If rear'd on Speculation's hill
Her raptur'd soul enjoys its fill
Of far transporting Nature's scene,
Air, ocean, mountain, river, plain;
Or if with measur'd step she go
Where Meditation spreads below,
In hollow vale her ample store,
Till weary Fancy can no more;
Or inward if she turn her gaze,
And all th' internal world surveys;

With joy complacent sees succeed
In fair array, each comely deed.
She hears alone thy lofty strain,
All other music charms in vain;
In vain the sprightly notes resound,
That from the fretted roofs rebound,
When the deft minstrelsie advance
To form the quaint and orbed dance;
In vain unhallow'd lips implore,
She hearkens only to thy lore.
Then bring the lonely nymph along,
Obsequeous to thy magic song;
Bid her to bless the sacred bow'r
And heighten Wisdom's solemn hour.

Bring Faith, endued with eagle eyes,
That joins this earth to distant skies;
Bland Hope that makes each sorrow less,
Still smiling calm amidst distress;
And bring the meek-ey'd Charitie,
Not least, tho' youngest of the three.
Knowledge the sage, whose radiant light
Darts quick across the mental night,
And add warm Friendship to the train,
Social, yielding, and humane;
With Silence, sober-suited maid,
Seldom on this earth survey'd:
Bid in this sacred band appear,
That aged venerable seer,
With sorrowing pale, with watchings spare,
Of pleasing yet dejected air,
Him, heavenly Melancholy hight,
Who flies the sons of false delight;
Now looks serene thro' human life,
Sees end in peace the moral strife;
Now to the dazzling prospect blind,
Trembles for heaven and for his kind;
And doubting much, still hoping best,
Late with submission finds his rest:
And by his side advance the dame
All glowing with celestial flame,
Devotion, high above that soars,
And sings exulting, and adores;
Dares fix on heav'n a mortal's gaze,
And triumph 'midst the seraph's blaze:
Last, to crown all, with these be join'd
The decent nun, fair Peace of Mind,
Whom Innocence, e'er yet betray'd,
Bore young in Eden's happy shade:
Resign'd, contented, meek and mild,
Of blameless mother, blameless child.

But from these woods, O thou retire!
Hood-wink'd Superstition dire:
Zeal that clanks her iron bands,
And bathes in blood her ruthless hands;
Far hence, Hypocrisy, away,
With pious semblance to betray,
Whose angel outside fair, contains
A heart corrupt, and foul with stains;
Ambition mad, that stems alone
The boistrous surge, with bladders blown;
Anger, with wild disorder'd pace;
And Malice pale of famish'd face;
Loud-tongued Clamour, get thee far
Hence, to wrangle at the bar;
With opening mouths vain Rumour hung;
And falsehood with her serpent tongue;
Revenge, her bloodshot eyes on fire,
And hissing Envy's snaky tire;
With Jealousy, the fiend most fell
Who bears about his inmate hell,
Now far apart with haggard mien
To lone Suspicion list'ning seen,
Now in a gloomy band appears
Of sallow doubts, and pale-eyed fears,
Whom dire Remorse of giant kind
Pursues with scorpion lash behind;
And thou Self-love, who tak'st from earth,
With the vile crawling worm, thy birth,
Untouch'd with others' joy or pain,
The social smile, the tear humane,
Thyself thy sole intemperate guest,
Uncall'd thy neighbour to the feast,
As if heaven's universal heir
'Twas thine to seize and not to share:
With these away, base wretch accurst,
By pride begot, by madness nurst,
Impiety! of hard'ned mind,
Gross, dull, presuming, stubborn, blind,
Unmov'd amidst this mighty all,
Deaf to the universal call:
In vain above the systems glow,
In vain earth spreads her charms below,
Confiding in himself to rise,
He hurls defiance to the skies,
And steel'd in dire and impious deeds
Blasphemes his feeder whilst he feeds.
But chiefly Love, Love far off fly,
Nor interrupt my privacy;
'Tis not for thee, capricious pow'r,
Weak tyrant of a feverish hour,

Fickle, and ever in extremes,
My radiant day of reason beams,
And sober Contemplation's ear
Disdains thy syren song to hear,
Speed thee on changeful wings away,
To where thy willing slaves obey,
Go herd amongst thy wonted train,
The false, th' inconstant, lewd and vain:
Thou hast no subject here, begone;
Contemplation comes anon.

Above, below, and all around,
Now nought but awful quiet's found,
The feeling air forgets to move,
No zephyr stirs the leafy grove,
The gentlest murmur of the rill
Struck by the potent charm is still,
Each passion in this troubled breast
So toiling once lies hush'd to rest,
Whate'er man's bustling race employs,
His cares, his hopes, his fears, his joys,
Ambition, pleasure, interest, fame,
Each nothing of important name,
Ye tyrants of this restless ball,
This grove annihilates you all.
Oh power unseen, yet felt, appear!
Sure something more than nature's here.

Now on the flow'ring turf I lie,
My soul conversing with the sky.
Far lost in the bewild'ring dream
I wander o'er each lofty theme;
Tour on Inquiry's wings on high,
And soar the heights of Deity:
Fain would I search the perfect laws
That constant bind th' unerring cause,
Why all its children, born to share
Alike a father's equal care:
Some weep by partial Fate undone,
The ravish'd portion of a son;
Whilst he whose swelling cup o'erflows,
Heeds not his suff'ring brother's woes;
The good, their virtues all forgot,
Mourn need severe, their destined lot;
While Vice, invited by the great,
Feasts under canopies of state.
Ah! when we see the bad preferred,
Was it eternal justice erred?
Or, when the good could not prevail,
How could almighty prowess fail?
When, underneath the oppressor's blow,
Afflicted innocence lies low,

Has not the all-seeing eye beheld?
Or has a stronger arm repelled?
When death dissolves this brittle frame,
Lies ever quenched the soul's bright flame?
Or shall the etherial breath of day
Relume once more this living ray?
From life escape we all in vain?
Heaven finds its creature out again,
Again its captive to control,
And drive him to another goal.
When Time shall let his curtain fall,
Must dreary Nothing swallow all?
Must we the unfinished piece deplore,
Ere half the pompous piece be o'er?
In his all-comprehensive mind,
Shall not the Almighty Poet find
Some reconciling turn of fate
To make his wond'rous work complete,
To finish fair his mingled plan,
And justify his ways to man?
But who shall draw these veils that lie
Unpierced by the keen cherub's eye?
Cease, cease, the daring flight give o'er,
Thine to submit and to adore.
Learn then: into thyself descend,
To know thy being's use and end,
For thee what nature's kind intent,
Or on what fatal journey bent.
Is mean self-love the only guide?
Must all be sacrificed to pride?
What sacred fountains then supply
The feeling heart and melting eye?
Why does the pleading look disarm
The hand of rage with slaughter warm?
Or in the battle's generous strife,
Does Britain quell the lust of life?
Next the bold inquiry tries,
To trace our various passions' rise;
This moment hope exalts the breast,
The next it sinks by fear deprest;
Now fierce the storms of wrath begin,
Now all is holy calm within.
What strikes ambition's stubborn springs,
What moves compassion's softer strings;
How we in constant friendships join,
How in constant hates combine;
How nature, for her favourite man,
Unfolds the wonders of her plan;
How, fond to treat her chosen guest,
Provides for every sense a feast;

Gives to the wide excursive eye
The radiant glories of the sky;
Or bids each odorous bloom exhale
His soul, to enrich the balmy gale;
Or pour upon the enchanted ear
The music of the opening year;
Or bids the limpid fountain burst,
Friendly to life, and cool to thirst;
What arts the beauteous dame employs
To lead us on to genial joys,
When in her specious work we join
To propagate her fair design,
The virgin face divine appears
In bloom of youth and prime of years,
And ere the destined heart's aware,
Fixes Monimia's image there.

Ah me! what helpless have I said?
Unhappy by myself betrayed!
I deemed, but, ah! I deemed in vain,
From the dear image to refrain;
For when I fixed my musing thought,
Far on solemn views remote;
When wandering in the uncertain round
Of mazy doubt, no end I found;
O, my unblest and erring feet!
What most I sought to shun, ye meet.
Come then, my serious maid, again:
Come and try another strain;
Come and nature's dome explore,
Where dwells retired the matron hoar;
There her wondrous works survey,
And drive the intruder Love away.

'Tis done. Ascending heaven's height,
Contemplation take thy flight:
Behold the sun, through heaven's wide space,
Strong as a giant, run his race:
Behold the moon exert her light,
As blushing bride on her love-night:
Behold the sister starry train,
Her bridemaids, mount the azure plain.
See where the snows their treasures keep;
The chambers where the loud winds sleep;
Where the collected rains abide
Till heaven set all its windows wide,
Precipitate from high to pour,
And drown in violence of shower:
Or, gently strained, they wash the earth,
And give the tender fruits a birth.
See where thunder springs his mine;
Where the paths of lightning shine.

Or, tired those heights still to pursue,
From heaven descending with the dew,
That soft impregns the youthful mead,
Where thousand flowers exalt the head,
Mark how nature's hand bestows
Abundant grace on all that grows,
Tinges, with pencil slow unseen,
The grass that clothes the valley green;
Or spread the tulip's parted streaks,
Or sanguine dyes the rose's cheeks,
Or points with light Monimia's eyes,
And forms her bosom's beauteous rise.

Ah! haunting spirit, art thou there?
Forbidden in these walks to appear.
I thought, O love! thou would'st disdain
To mix with wisdom's black, staid train;
But when my curious searching look
A nice survey of nature took,
Well pleased, the matron set to show
Her mistress' work on earth below.
Then fruitless knowledge turn aside;
What other art remains untried
This load of anguish to remove,
And heal the cruel wounds of love?
To friendship's sacred force apply,
That source of tenderness and joy—
A joy no anxious fears profane—
A tenderness that feels no pain:
Friendships shall all these ills appease,
And give the tortured mourner ease.
The indissoluble tie that binds,
In equal chains, two sister minds;
Not such as servile interests choose,
From partial ends and sordid views;
Nor when the midnight banquet fires
The choice of wine-inflamed desires,
When the short fellowships proceed
From casual mirth and wicked deed,
Till the next morn estranges quite
The partners of one guilty night;
But such as judgment long has weighed,
And years of faithfulness have tried;
Whose tender mind is framed to share
The equal portion of my care;
Whose thoughts my happiness employs
Sincere, who triumphs in my joys;
With whom in raptures I may stray,
Through study's long and pathless way;
Obscurely blest in joys—alone—
To the excluded world unknown.

Forsook, the weak fantastic train
Of flattery, mirth, all false and vain;
On whose soft and gentle breast
My weary soul may take her rest,
While the still tender look and kind,
Fair springing from the spotless mind,
My perfected delights insure
To last immortal, free and pure.
Grant, heaven—if heaven means bliss for me—
Monimia such, and long may be!

Here, here again! how just my fear!
Love ever finds admittance here;
The cruel sprite, intent on harm,
Has quite dissolved the feeble charm;
Assuming friendship's saintly guise,
Has passed the cheated sentry's eyes,
And once attained his hellish end,
Displays the undissembled fiend.
O say, my faithful fair ally!
How did'st thou let the traitor by?
I from the desert bade thee come,
Invoked thee from thy peaceful home,
More to sublime my solemn hour,
And curse this demon's fatal power;
Lo! by superior force opprest,
Thou these three several times hast blest.
Shall we the magic rites pursue,
When Love is mightier far than thou?
Yes, come, in blest enchantment skilled,
Another altar let us build;
Go forth as wont, and try to find
Where'er devotion lies reclined;
Thou her fair friend, by heaven's decree,
Art one with her, and she with thee.

Devotion come with sober pace,
Full of thought and full of grace;
While humbled on the earth I lie,
Wrapt in the vision of the sky,
To noble heights and solemn views
Wing my heaven-aspiring muse;
Teach me to scorn, by thee refined,
The low delights of human kind:
Sure thine to put to flight the boy
Of laughter, sport, and idle joy.
O plant these guarded groves about,
And keep the treacherous felon out!

Now, see! the spreading gates unfold,
Displayed the sacred leaves of gold.

Let me with holy awe repair
To the solemn house of prayer;
And as I go, O thou, my heart,
Forget each low and earthly part:
Religion enter in my breast,
A mild and venerable guest!
Put off, in contemplation drowned,
Eeach thought impure in holy ground,
And cautious tread, with awful fear,
The courts of heaven—for God is here.
Now my grateful voice I raise:
Ye angels swell a mortal's praise,
To charm with your own harmony
The ear of Him who sits on high!
Grant me, propitious heavenly Power,
Whose love benign we feel each hour,
An equal lot on earth to share,
Nor rich, nor poor, my humble prayer,
Lest I forget, exalted proud,
The hand supreme that gave the good;
Lest want o'er virtue should prevail,
And I put forth my hand and steal:
But if thy sovereign will shall grant
The wealth I neither ask nor want—
May I the widow's need supply,
And wipe the tear from sorrow's eye;
May the weary wanderer's feet
From me a blest reception meet!
But if contempt and low estate
Be the assignment of my fate,
O, may no hope of gain entice
To tread the green broad path of vice!
And, bounteous, O vouchsafe to clear
The errors of a mind sincere.
Illumine thou my searching mind,
Groping after truth and blind.
With stores of science be it fraught
That bards have dreamed, or sages taught;
And, chief, the heaven-born strain impart,
A muse according to thy heart;
That, wrapt in sacred ecstasy,
I may sing and sing of thee:
Mankind instructing in thy laws,
Blest poet in fair virtue's cause,
Her former merit to restore,
And make mankind again adore,
As when conversant with the great,
She fixed in palaces her seat.
Before her all-revealing ray
Each sordid passion should decay:

Ambition shuns the dreaded dame,
And pales his ineffectual flame;
Wealth sighs her triumphs to behold,
And offers all his sums of gold;
She in her chariot seen to ride,
A noble train attend her side:
A cherub first, in prime of years,
The champion Fortitude appears;
Next Temperance, sober mistress, seen
With look composed, and cheerful mien;
Calm Patience, still victorious found,
With never-fading glories crowned;
Firm Justice last the balance rears,
The good man's praise, the bad man's fears;
While chief in beauty as in place,
She charms with dear Monimia's grace.

Monimia still! here once again!
O fatal name! O dubious strain!
Say, heaven-born virtue, power divine,
Are all these various movements thine?
Was it thy triumphs, sole inspired
My soul, to holy transports fired?
Or say, do springs less sacred move?
Ah! much, I fear, 'tis human love.
Alas! the noble strife is o'er,
The blissful visions charm no more;
Far off the glorious rapture flown,
Monimia rages here alone.
In vain, love's fugitive, I try
From the commanding power to fly;
Though grace was dawning on my soul,
Possessed by heaven sincere and whole,
Yet still in fancy's painted cells
The soul-inflaming image dwells.
Why didst thou, cruel love, again
Thus drag me back to earth and pain?
Well hoped I, love, thou would'st retire
Before the blest Jessean lyre.
Devotion's harp would charm to rest
The evil spirit in my breast;
But the deaf adder fell disdains,
Unlist'ning to the chanter's strains.

Contemplation, baffled maid!
Remains there yet no other aid?
Helpless and weary, must thou yield
To love supreme in every field?
Let melancholy last engage,
Rev'rend, hoary-mantled sage.

Sure, at his sable flag's display,
Love's idle troop will flit away;
And bring with him his due compeer,
Silence, sad, forlorn, and drear.

Haste thee, Silence, haste and go,
To search the gloomy world below.
My trembling steps, O sybil, lead
Through the dominions of the dead;
Where Care, enjoying soft repose,
Lays down the burden of his woes;
Where meritorious Want no more
Shivering begs at Grandeur's door;
Unconscious Grandeur, sealed his eyes
On the mouldering purple lies.
In the dim and dreary round,
Speech in eternal chains lies bound.
And see a tomb, its gates displayed,
Expands an everlasting shade.
O, ye inhabitants that dwell
Each forgotten in your cell,
O say, for whom of human race
Has fate decreed this hiding place?

And hark! methinks a spirit calls,
Low winds the whisper round the walls;
A voice, the sluggish air that breaks,
Solemn amid the silence speaks.
Mistaken man, thou seek'st to know
What known will but afflict with woe;
There thy Monimia shall abide,
With the pale bridegroom rest a bride;
The wan assistants there shall lay,
In weeds of death, her beauteous clay.

O words of woe! what do I hear?
What sounds invade a lover's ear?
Must then thy charms, my anxious care,
The fate of vulgar beauty share?
Good heaven retard (for thine the power)
The wheels of time, that roll the hour.

Yet, ah! why swells my breast with fears?
Why start the interdicted tears?
Love, dost thou tempt again? depart,
Thou devil, cast out from my heart.
Sad I forsook the feast, the ball,
The sunny bower and lofty hall,
And sought the dungeon of despair;
Yet thou overtakest me there.
How little dreamed I thee to find
In this lone state of human kind!
Nor melancholy can prevail,
The direful deed, nor dismal tale.

Hoped I for these thou would'st remove?
How near akin is grief to love!
Then no more I strive to shun
Love's chains. O heaven, thy will be done!
The best physician here I find,
To cure a sore diseased mind,
For soon this venerable gloom
Will yield a weary sufferer room;
No more a slave to love decreed—
At ease and free among the dead.
Come then, ye tears, ne'er cease to flow
In full satiety of woe:
Though now the maid my heart alarms,
Severe and mighty in her charms,
Doomed to obey, in bondage prest,
The tyrant Love's commands unblest;
Pass but some fleeting moments o'er,
This rebel heart shall beat no more;
Then from my dark and closing eye
The form beloved shall ever fly.
The tyranny of love shall cease,
Both laid down to sleep in peace;
To share alike our mortal lot,
Her beauties and my cares forgot.

Numb. xxiii.

See Hamiet.

See Characteristics, vol. ii. p. 252.

ODE I.—TO FANCY.

Fancy, bright and winged maid!
In thy night-drawn car conveyed,
O'er the green earth and wide-spread main,
A thousand shadows in thy train,
A varied, air-embodied host,
To don what shapes thou pleasest most;

Brandish no more thy scorpion stings
Around the destined couch of kings;
Nor in rebellion's ghastly size
A dire gigantic spectre rise:
Cease, for a while, in rooms of state
To damp the slumbers of the great;
In merit's lean-looked form to appear,
And holloa traitor in their ear:
Or freedom's holier garb belie,
While justice grinds her axe fast by:
Nor o'er the miser's eyelids pour
The unrefreshing golden shower;
Whilst, keen the unreal bliss to feel,
His breast bedews the ruffian steel.

With these (when next thou tak'st thy round)
The thoughts of guilty pride confound:
These swell the horrors and affright
Of conscience' keen condemning night.
For this (nor, gracious power! repine)
A gentler ministry be thine:
Whate'er inspires the poet's theme,
Or lover's hope-enlivened dream.
Monimia's mildest form assume;
Spread o'er thy cheeks her youthful bloom;
Unfold her eyes unblemished rays,
That melt to virtue as we gaze;
That envy's guiltiest wish disarm,
And view benign a kindred charm:
Call all the graces from thy store,
Till thy creative power be o'er;
Bid her each breathing sweet dispense,
And robe in her own innocence.

My wish is given: the spells begin;
The ideal world awakes within;
The lonely void of still repose
Pregnant with some new wonder grows;
See, by the twilight of the skies,
The beauteous apparition rise;
Slow, in Monimia's form, along
Glides to the harmony of song.

But who is he the virgin leads,
Whom high a flaming torch precedes,
In a gown of stainless lawn,
O'er each manly shoulder drawn?
Who, clad in robe of scarlet grain,
The boy that bears her flowing train?
Behind his back a quiver hung,
A bended bow across is flung;
His head and heels two wings unfold,
The azure feathers girt with gold.

Hymen! 'tis he who kind inspires
Joys unfeign'd and chaste desires.
And thou, of Love, deceitful child!
With tiger-heart, yet lamb-like mild,
Fantastic by thyself, and vain,
But seemly seen in Hymen's train;
If Fate be to my wishes kind,
O! may I find ye ever join'd;
But if the Fates my wish deny,
My humble roof come ye not nigh.

The spell works on: yet stop the day
While in the house of sleep I stay.
About me swells the sudden grove,
The woven arbourette of Love;
Flow'rs spring unbidden o'er the ground,
And more than nature plants around.
Fancy, prolong the kind repose;
Still, still th' enchanting vision glows;
And now I gaze o'er all her charms,
Now sink transported in her arms.
Oh sacred energy divine!
All these enraptur'd scenes are thine.
Hail! copious source of pure delight;
All hail! thou heaven-revealed rite;
Endearing Truth thy train attends,
And thou and meek-ey'd Peace are friends:
Closer entwine the magic bow'r;
Thick rain the rose-empurpl'd show'r;
The mystic joy impatient flies
Th' unhallow'd gaze of vulgar eyes.
Unenvied let the rich and great
Turmoil without, and parcel Fate,
Indulging here, in bliss supreme,
Might I enjoy the golden dream:
But, ah! the rapture must not stay;
For see! she glides, she glides away.

Oh Fancy! why did'st thou decoy
My thoughts into this dream of joy,
Then to forsake me all alone,
To mourn the fond delusion gone?
O! back again, benign, restore
The pictur'd vision as before.
Yes, yes: once more I fold my eyes;
Arise, ye dear deceits, arise.
Ideas bland! where do ye rove?
Why fades my visionary grove?
Ye fickle troop of Morpheus' train,
Then will you, to the proud and vain,
From me, fantastic, wing your flight,
T' adorn the dream of false delight?

But now, seen in Monimia's air,
Can you assume a form less fair,
Some idle Beauty's wish supply,
The mimic triumphs of her eye?
Grant all to me this live-long night,
Let charms detain the rising light;
For this one night my liv'ries wear,
And I absolve you for the year.

What time your poppy-crowned God
Sends his truth-telling scouts abroad,
Ere yet the cock to matins rings,
And the lark with mounting wings,
The simple village swain has warn'd
To shake off sleep by labour earn'd;
Or on the rose's silken hem,
Aurora weeps her earliest gem;
Or beneath the opening dawn,
Smiles the fair-extended lawn.
When in the soft encircled shade
Ye find reclined the gentle maid,
Each busy motion laid to rest,
And all compos'd her peaceful breast:
Swift paint the fair internal scene,
The phantom labours of your reign;
The living imag'ry adorn
With all the limnings of the morn,
With all the treasures nature keeps
Conceal'd below the forming deeps;
Or dress'd in the rich waving pride,
That covers the green mountain's side,
Or blooms beneath the am'rous gale
In the wide embosom'd vale.
Let pow'rful Music too essay
The magic of her hidden lay:
While each harsh thought away shall fly
Down the full stream of harmony,
Compassion mild shall fill their place,
Each gentle minister of grace,
Pity, that often melts to Love,
Let weeping Pity, kind improve,
The soften'd heart, prepar'd to take
Whate'er impressions Love shall make.
Oh! in that kind, that sacred hour,
When Hate, when Anger have no pow'r;
When sighing Love, mild simple boy,
Courtship sweet, and tender joy,
Alone possess the fair one's heart;
Let me then, Fancy, bear my part.

Oh goddess! how I long t'appear;
The hour of dear success draws near:

See where the crowding shadows wait;
Haste and unfold the iv'ry gate:
Ye gracious forms, employ your aid,
Come in my anxious look array'd,
Come Love, come Hymen, at my pray'r
Led by blyth Hope, ye decent pair
By mutual confidence combin'd,
As erst in sleep I saw you join'd.
Fill my eyes with heart-swell'd tears,
Fill my breast with heart-born fears,
Half-utter'd vows and half-suppress'd,
Part look'd, and only wish'd the rest;
Make sighs, and speaking sorrows prove,
Suffering much, how much I love;
Make the Muse's lyre complain,
Strung by me in warbled strain;
Let the melodious numbers flow
Pow'rful of a lover's woe,
Till, by the tender Orphean art,
I through her ear shall gain her heart.

Now, Fancy, now the fit is o'er;
I feel my sorrows vex no more:
But when condemn'd again to mourn,
Fancy, to my aid return.

ODE II.

[Begone, pursuits so vain and light]

Begone, pursuits so vain and light,
Knowledge, fruitless of delight;
Lean Study, sire of sallow Doubt,
I put thy musing taper out:
Fantastic all, a long adieu;
For what has Love to do with you?
For, lo, I go where Beauty fires,
To satisfy my soul's desires;
For lo, I seek the sacred walls
Where Love, and gentle Beauty, calls:
For me she has adorn'd the room?
For me has shed a rich perfume:
Has she not prepar'd the tea?
The kettle boils—she waits for me.

I come, nor single, but along
Youthful sports a jolly throng!
Thoughtless joke, and infant wiles;
Harmless wit, and virgin smiles;
Tender words, and kind intent;
Languish fond, and blandishment;

Yielding curtsy, whisper low:
Silken blush, with cheeks that glow;
Chaste desires, and wishes meet;
Thin-clad Hope, a foot-man fleet;
Modesty, that turns aside,
And backward strives her form to hide;
Healthful Mirth, still gay and young,
And Meekness with a maiden's tongue;
Satire, by good humour dress'd
In a many-colour'd vest:
And enter leaning at the door,
Who send'st thy flaunting page before,
The roguish boy of kind delight,
Attendant on the lover's night,
Fair his ivory shuttle flies
Through the bright threads of mingling dies,
As swift his rosy fingers move
To knit the silken cords of Love;
And stop, who softly stealing goes?
Occasion, high on her tiptoes,
Whom Youth with watchful look espies,
To seize the forelock ere she flies,
Ere he her bald pate shall survey,
And well-plied heels to run away.

But, anxious Care, be far from hence;
Vain surmise, and alter'd sense;
Mishapen doubts, the woes they bring;
And Jealousy, of fiercest sting;
Despair, that solitary stands,
And wrings a halter in his hands;
Flatt'ry false and hollow found,
And Dread, with eye still looking round;
Avarice, bending under pelf;
Conceit, still gazing on herself:
O Love! exclude high-crested Pride,
Nymph of amazonian stride:
Nor in these walls, like waiting-maid,
Be Curiosity survey'd,
That to the key-hole lays her ear,
List'ning at the door to hear;
Nor Father Time, unless he's found
In triumph led by Beauty bound,
Forc'd to yield to Vigour's stroke,
His blunted scythe and hour-glass broke.

But come, all ye who know to please;
Inviting glance, and downy ease;

The heart-born joy, the gentle care;
Soft-breath'd wish, and power of prayer;
The single vow, that means no ill;
Believing Quiet, submissive Will;
Constancy of meekest mind,
That suffers long, and still is kind;
All ye who put our woes to flight;
All ye who minister delight;
Nods, and wreaths, and becks and tips;
Meaning winks, and roguish trips;
Fond deceits, and kind surprises;
Sudden sinks and sudden rises;
Laughs, and toys, and gamesome sights;
Jolly dance, and girds, and flights;
Then, to make me wholly blest,
Let me be there a welcome guest.

The running foctmen of former days, who preceded carriages, were dressed in thin white linen.

MISS AND THE BUTTERFLY,

A FABLE.

[_]

IN THE MANNER OF THE LATE MR GAY.

A tender Miss, whom mother's care
Bred up in wholesome country air,
Far from the follies of the town,
Alike untaught to smile or frown;
Her ear unus'd to flatt'ry's praise,
Unknown in woman's wicked ways;
Her tongue from modish tattle free,
Undipp'd in scandal and Bohea;
Her genuine form and native grace
Were strangers to a looking-glass:
Nor cards she dealt, nor flirted fan,
And valued not quadrille or man;
But simple liv'd, just as you know
Miss Cloe did—some weeks ago.

As now the pretty innocent
Walk'd forth to taste the early scent,
She tripp'd about the murm'ring stream,
That oft had lull'd her thoughtless dream.
The morning sweet, the air serene,
A thousand flow'rs adorn'd the scene;
The birds rejoicing round appear
To choose their consorts for the year;
Her heart was light and full of play,
And, like herself, all nature gay.

On such a day, as sages sing,
A Butterfly was on the wing;
From bank to bank, from bloom to bloom,
He stretch'd the gold-bespangled plume:

Now skims along, and now alights
As smell allures, or grace invites;
Now the violet's freshness sips;
Now kiss'd the rose's scarlet lips;
Becomes anon the daisy's guest;
Then press'd the lily's snowy breast;
Nor long to one vouchsafes a stay,
But just salutes, and flies away.

The virgin saw with rapture fired;
She saw, and what she saw desired,
The shining wings, and starry eyes,
And burns to seize the living prize:
Her beating breast and glowing face
Betray her native love of dress,
And all the woman full exprest
First flutters in her little breast,
Ensnar'd by empty outward show,
She swift pursues the insect-beau:
O'er gay parterres she runs in haste,
Nor heeds the gardens flow'ry waste.

Long as the sun, with genial pow'r
Increasing, warm'd the sultry hour,
The nymph o'er every border flew,
And kept the shining game in view:
But when, soft-breathing through the trees,
With coolness came the evening breeze;
As hov'ring o'er the tulip's pride
He hung with wing diversified,
Caught in the hollow of her hand,
She held the captive at command.

Flutt'ring in vain to be releas'd,
He thus the gentle nymph address'd:
Loose, gen'rous virgin, loose my chain;
From me what glory can'st thou gain?
A vain, unquiet, glitt'ring thing,
My only boast a gorgeous wing;
From flow'r to flow'r I idly stray,
The trifler of a summer's day:
Then let me not in vain implore,
But leave me free again to soar.

His words the little charmer moved,
She the poor trembler's suit approved.
His gaudy wings he then extends,
And flutters on her fingers' ends:
From thence he spoke, as you shall hear,
In strains well worth a woman's ear.

When now thy young and tender age
Is pure, and heedless to engage;
When in thy free and open mein
No self-important air is seen;

Unknowing all, to all unknown,
Thou liv'st, or prais'd, or blam'd by none.
But when, unfolding by degrees
The woman's fond desire to please,
Studious to heave the artful sigh,
Mistress of the tongue and eye,
Thou sett'st thy little charms to show,
And sports familiar with the beau;
Forsaking then the simple plain,
To mingle with the courtly train,
Thou in the midnight ball shalt see
Things apparel'd just like me;
Who round and round, without design,
Tinsel'd in empty lustre shine:
As dancing through the spacious dome,
From fair to fair the friskers roam,
If charm'd with the embroider'd pride,
The victim of a gay outside,
From place to place, as me just now,
The glitt'ring gewgaw you pursue,
What mighty prize shall crown thy pains?
A Butterfly is all thy gains!

ODE I.—TO FANCY.

[_]

Ode I., “To Fancy,” differs so thoroughly from the copy in the MS. volume, that we are induced to append the latter:

Fancy, bright and winged maid!
In weed of every hue arrayed,
O, when to soothe a lover's pain,
Wilt thou a friendly visit deign?
O, when to minister delight,
Set her I love before my sight?
With her—how blest in low degree!
Without her—what the world to me!

And, see! she comes, all blushing sweet;
Eager I spring my bliss to meet.
But who is he the virgin leads,
Whom high a flaming torch precedes,
In a gown of stainless lawn
O'er his decent shoulders drawn?
Who, clad in robe of scarlet grain,
The boy that bears her flowing train?
Behind his back a quiver hung,
A bow across his shoulders flung;

His head and heels two wings unfold,
The azure feathers girt with gold?
Hymen! 'tis he; who kind inspires
Joys unfeigned and chaste desires.
And thou of love, deceitful child!
With tiger heart, yet lamb-like mild,
Fantastic by thyself and vain,
But seemly seen in Hymen's train,
If fate be to my wishes kind,
O may I find ye always joined;
But if hard fate my wish deny,
My humble roof come ye not nigh.
And now I gaze o'er all her charms,
Now sink transported in her arms;
Fierce to her lips my lips I join,
Fierce in amorous folds we twine;
Fierce in rage of love compressed,
Swells throbbing to the touch her breast.
Thus rioting in bliss supreme,
Might I enjoy the golden dream!
But, ah! the rapture will not stay,
For see she glides, she glides away!

Ah! Fancy, why didst thou decoy
My thoughts into this dream of joy;
Then to forsake me all alone,
To weep my joys, far hence and gone?
Or, back again, benign restore
The kind delusion as before;
Or, to melt the fair unkind,
This scene frame soft into her mind.

In whatever arbour laid
Thou find'st reclined my blushing maid,
Retiring from the scorching ray
To hear the feathered poet's lay;
Or view the honey-making bee
Load with sweets her amber thigh;
Or with museful eye behold
The clouds of eve with skirts of gold;
Or, soothed asleep by murmuring stream,
Rapt in contemplation's dream,
Her thoughts do scenes of joy restore,
She hears the sighing youth implore;
In fancy views the visage pale,
That best bespeaks the lover's tale:
O, in that soft and secret hour,
When hate, when anger, have no power;
When sighing love, mild, simple boy!
Courtship, sweet and tender joy,
Alone possess the fair one's heart,
Fancy, let me act my part:
At her feet then make me fall,
And for tender mercy call;

Make sighs and speaking sorrows prove,
Suffering much, how much I love;
Make the muse's lyre complain,
Strung by me in warbling strain;
Make the melodious numbers flow,
Powerful of a lover's woe;
Till, through the moving Orphean art,
I through her ear shall gain her heart.

Now, Fancy, now the fit is o'er,
The pleasing scene appears no more;
But, when again condemned to mourn,
Oft, Fancy, to my aid return.

Hamilton must have pronounced “thigh” “thee,” after the Scottish manner!

ODE IV.—ON THE NEW YEAR M.DCC.XXXIX.

Janus, who with sliding pace,
Run'st a never-ending race,
And driv'st about, in prone career,
The whirling circle of the year,
Kindly indulge a little stay,
I beg but one swift hour's delay.
O! while th' important minutes wait,
Let me revolve the books of fate;
See what the coming year intends
To me, my country, kind and friends.
Then may'st thou wing thy flight, and go,
To scatter blindly joys and woe;
Spread dire disease, or purest health,
And, as thou lists, grant place or wealth.
This hour, withheld by potent charms,
Ev'n Peace shall sleep in Pow'rs mad arms;
Kings feel their inward torments less,
And for a moment wish to bless.

Life now presents another scene,
The same strange farce to act again;
Again the weary human play'rs
Advance, and take their several shares:
Clodius riots, Cæsar fights,
Tully pleads, and Maro writes,
Ammon's fierce son controls the globe,
And Harlequin diverts the mob.

To Time's dark cave the year retreats,
These hoary unfrequented feats;
There from his loaded wing he lays
The months, the minutes, hours and days;
Then flies, the seasons in his train,
To compass round the year again.

See there, in various heaps combin'd,
The vast designs of human kind:
Whatever swell'd the statesman's thought,
The mischiefs mad ambition wrought,
Public revenge and hidden guilt,
The blood by secret murder spilt,
Friendships to sordid interest given,
And ill-match'd hearts, ne'er pair'd in heaven;

What Avarice, to crown his store,
Stole from the orphan, and the poor;
Or Luxury's more shameful waste,
Squander'd on the unthankful feast.
Ye Kings, and guilty great, draw near;
Before this awful court appear:
Bare to the Muse's piercing eye
The secrets of all mortal lie;
She, strict avenger, brings to light
Your crimes conceal'd in darkest night;
As conscience, to her trust most true,
Shall judge between th' oppress'd and you.

This casket shows, ye wretched train,
How often merit sued in vain.
See, there, undried, the widow's tears;
See, there, unsooth'd the orphan's fears:
Yet, look, what mighty sums appear,
The vile profusion of the year.
Could'st thou not, impious Greatness, give
The smallest alms, that want might live?
And yet, how many a large repast,
Pall'd the rich glutton's sickly taste!
One table's vain intemp'rate load,
With ambush'd death, and sickness strow'd,
Had bless'd the cottage, peaceful shade,
And given its children health and bread:
The rustic sire, and faithful spouse,
With each dear pledge of honest vows,
Had, at the sober-tasted meal,
Repeated oft the grateful tale;
Had hymn'd, in native language free,
The song of thanks to heaven and thee;
A music that the great ne'er hear,
Yet sweeter to the internal ear,
Than any soft, seducing note
E'er thrill'd from Farinelli's throat.

Let's still search on—This bundle's large.
What's here? 'Tis Science' plaintive charge.
Hear Wisdom's philosophic sigh,
(Neglected all her treasures lie)
That none her secret haunts explore,
To learn what Plato taught before;
Her sons seduc'd to turn their parts
To Flattery's more thriving arts;
Refine their better sense away,
And join Corruption's flag for pay.
See his reward the gamester share,
Who painted moral virtue fair;
Inspir'd the minds of gen'rous youth
To love the simple mistress, Truth;

The patriot path distinctly show'd,
That Rome and Greece to glory trode;
That self-applause is noblest fame,
And kings may greatness link to shame,
While Honesty is no disgrace,
And Peace can smile without a place.
Hear, too, Astronomy repine,
Who taught unnumber'd worlds to shine;
Who travels boundless æther through,
And brings the distant orbs to view.
Can she her broken glass repair,
Though Av'rice has her all to spare?
What mighty secrets had been found,
Was Virtue mistress of five pound?
Yet see where, given to wealth and pride,
A bulky pension lies beside.

Avaunt, then, Riches; no delay;
I spurn th' ignoble heaps away.
What though your charms can purchase all
The giddy honours of this ball;
Make nature's germans all divide,
And haughty peers renounce their pride;
Can buy proud Flavia's sordid smile,
Or, ripe for fate, this destin'd isle.
Though Greatness condescends to pray,
Will time indulge one hour's delay,
Or give the wretch intent on pelf,
One moment's credit with himself?
Virtue, that true from false discerns,
The vulgar courtly phrase unlearns,
Superior far to Fortune's frown,
Bestows alone the stable crown,
The wreath from honour's root that springs,
That fades upon the brows of kings.

EPITAPH ON MRS KEITH.

Whate'er all-giving nature could impart,
Whate'er or charm'd the eye, or warm'd the heart,
Beauty, by candid Virtue still approv'd
Virtue, by Beauty render'd most belov'd;

Whate'er kind Friendship, or endearing Truth,
For blest old age, had treasured up in youth;
What blest old age, in its last calm adieu,
Might with applause and conscious joy review,
Reposes here, to wake in endless bliss,
Too early ravish'd from a world like this!
Where fair examples strike, but not inspire
To imitate the virtues all admire:
Yet listen, virgins! to this saving strain,
If she has liv'd—Let her not die in vain.

EPITAPH ON MRS HEPBURN.

Stay, passenger; this stone demands thy tear;
Here rest the hopes of many a tender year:
Our sorrow now—so late our joy and praise!
Lost in the mild aurora of her days.
What virtues might have grac'd her fuller day!
‘But ah! the charm just shown and snatch'd away.’
Friendship, Love, Nature, all reclaim in vain;
Heav'n, when it wills, resumes its gifts again.

ON THE DEATH OF MR BASIL HAMILTON.

This verse, O gentle Hamilton! be thine,
(Each softer grace bedew thy darling shrine);
Nature to thee did her best gifts impart,
The mildest manners and the warmest heart;
Honour erected in thy breast its throne,
And kind Humanity was all thy own.

Yet when thy country's wrong to action moved,
You rose to save, and left that ease you loved;
For this she grieves thy early fate to see;
And 'midst her sufferings finds a tear for thee.
But thou perhaps hast well escaped her doom,
Thy eyes are closed, nor sees her ills to come;
Abandon'd o'er, to shameless men a prey,
And slow, deceiving friends, far worse than they;
The kindred triumph of thy noble blood,
Thy name enroll'd amidst the few that stood.
Fair, beaming clear, through life, the patriot flame,
And deaf to honours that begun in shame;
Each duty paid that friendship could demand;
Each nobler deed to save a destin'd land.
An age, corrupt amidst the civil storm,
Would suffer struggling Virtue to perform;
To fix his country, ever free, he tried—
Found the brave labour vain, resigned, and died.

AN ODE ON THE BATTLE OF GLADSMUIR, 1745.

As over Gladsmuir's blood-stain'd field,
Scotia, imperial goddess flew,
Her lifted spear and radiant shield
Conspicuous blazing to the view;
Her visage lately clouded with despair,
Now reassum'd its first majestic air.

Such seen, as oft in battle warm,
She glow'd through many a martial age;
Or mild to breathe the civil charm,
In pious plans and counsel sage:
For, o'er the mingling glories of her face,
A manly greatness heighten'd female grace.

Loud as the trumpet rolls its sound,
Her voice the power celestial rais'd;
Whilst her victorious sons around
In silent joy and wonder gaz'd:

The sacred Muses heard the immortal lay,
And thus to earth the notes of Fame convey:—

“'Tis done! my sons! 'tis nobly done!
Victorious over tyrant pow'r;
How quick the race of fame was run!
The work of ages in one hour:
Slow creeps th' oppressive weight of slavish reigns;
One glorious moment rose and burst your chains.

But late, forlorn, dejected, pale,
A prey to each insulting foe;
I sought the grove and gloomy vale,
To vent in solitude my woe:
Now to my hand the balance fair restor'd;
Once more I wield on high the imperial sword.

What arm has this deliverance wrought?
'Tis he! the gallant youth appears;
O warm in field, and cool in thought,
Beyond the slow advance of years!
Haste, let me, rescued now from future harms,
Strain close the filial virtue in my arms.

Early I nurs'd this royal youth,
Ah! ill detain'd on foreign shores;
I fill'd his mind with love of truth,
With fortitude and wisdom's stores:
For when a noble action is decreed,
Heav'n forms the hero for the destin'd deed.

Nor could the soft seducing charms
Of mild Hesperia's blooming soil,
E'er quench his noble thirst of arms,
Of generous deeds and honest toil:
Fired with the warmth a country's love imparts,
He fled their weakness, but admir'd their arts.

With him I plough'd the stormy main;
My breath inspir'd the auspicious gale;
Reserv'd for Gladsmuir's glorious plain,
Through dangers wing'd his daring sail;
Where, form'd with inborn worth, he durst oppose,
His single valour to an host of foes.

He came! he spoke! and all around,
As swift as heav'n's quick-darted flame,
Shepherds turn'd warriors at the sound,
And every bosom beat for fame:

They caught heroic ardour from his eyes
And at his side the willing heroes rise.

Rouse, England! rouse, Fame's noblest son,
In all thy ancient splendour shine;
If I the glorious work begun,
O let the crowning palm be thine:
I bring a prince, for such is heav'n's decree,
Who overcomes but to forgive and free.

So shall fierce wars and tumults cease,
While Plenty crown's the smiling plain;
And Industry, fair child of Peace,
Shall in each crowded city reign:
So shall these happy realms forever prove
The sweets of union, liberty, and love.”

EPITAPH.

Could this fair marble to the world impart
Half of the woes that rend a husband's heart,
Could it be taught to look with nature's eye,
Like friendship could it breathe the tender sigh,
With each dear rapture bid the bosom glow,
Love e'er could taste, or tenderness bestow,
Then might it tow'r unblam'd amid the skies,
And not to vanity, but virtue rise;
In noblest pomp the humble eye endure,
And pride, when most it swell'd, here find a cure.
Cease then—nor at the sovereign will repine,
It gives, we bless; it snatches, we resign:
To earth what came from earth returns again,
Heav'n fram'd the immortal part above to reign.

A SOLILOQUY IN IMITATION OF HAMLET.

My anxious soul is tore with doubtful strife,
And hangs suspended betwixt death and life;
Life! death! dread objects of mankind's debate;
Whether superior to the shocks of fate,
To bear its fiercest ills with stedfast mind,
To Nature's order piously resign'd,
Or, with magnanimous and brave disdain,
Return her back th' injurious gift again.
O! if to die, this mortal bustle o'er,
Were but to close one's eyes, and be no more;
From pain, from sickness, sorrows, safe withdrawn,
In night eternal that shall know no dawn;
This dread, imperial, wondrous frame of man,
Lost in still nothing, whence it first began:
Yes, if the grave such quiet could supply,
Devotion's self might even dare to die.
But fearful here, though curious to explore,
Thought pauses, trembling on the hither shore,
Lest, hapless victors in the mortal strife,
Through death we struggle but to second life.
What scenes may rise, awake the human fear;
Being again resum'd, and God more near;
If awful thunders the new guest appal,
Or the soft voice of gentle mercy call.
This teaches life with all its ills to please,
Afflicting poverty, severe disease;
To lowest infamy gives power to charm,
And strikes the dagger from the boldest arm.
Then, Hamlet, cease; thy rash resolves forego;
God, Nature, Reason, all will have it so;
Learn by this sacred horror, well supprest,
Each fatal purpose in the traitor's breast.
This damps revenge with salutary fear,
And stops ambition in its wild career.
Till virtue for itself begin to move,
And servile fear exalt to filial love.
Then in thy breast let calmer passions rise,
Pleas'd with thy lot on earth, absolve the skies.
The ills of life see Friendship can divide;
See angels warring on the good man's side.
Alone to virtue happiness is given,
On earth self-satisfied, and crown'd in heaven.

BEGINNING OF THE FIRST GEORGICK OF VIRGIL.

What crowns rejoicing fields with golden grain,
Under what star to turn the furrow'd plain;
The time, Mecornas, suitable to join
To the supporting elm the clustering vine;
The care and culture of the woolly breed;
The lowing heifer and the bounding steed;
How nature to the frugal bee imparts
Experienc'd wisdom and ambrosial arts,
I sing; ye radiant Pow'rs that rule the sphere,
And lead around the slow revolving year,
Bacchus and Ceres boon, your gifts I sing,
The rip'ned autumn and the red'ning spring.
You first taught fields with golden gifts to glow,
And gave the ruddy vintage first to flow;
Then oaks no more did human wants supply,
And the cool stream receiv'd a purple die.

A SOLILOQUY WROTE IN JUNE M.DCC.XLVI.

Mysterious inmate of this breast,
Enkinled by thy flame;
By thee my being's best exprest,
For what thou art I am.

With thee I claim celestial birth,
A spark of heaven's own ray;
Without thee sink to vilest earth,
Inanimated clay.

Now in this sad and dismal hour
Of multiplied distress,
Has any former thought the power
To make thy sorrows less:

When all around thee cruel snares
Threaten thy destin'd breath,
And every sharp reflection bears
Want, exile, chains or death?

Can ought that past in youth's fond reign
Thy pleasing vein restore;
Lives beauty's gay and festive train
In memory's soft store?

Or does the Muse? 'Tis said her art
Can fiercest pangs appease,
Can she to thy poor trembling heart
Now speak the words of peace?

Yet she was wont at early dawn
To whisper thy repose,
Nor was her friendly aid withdrawn
At grateful evening's close.

Friendship, 'tis true, its sacred might
May mitigate thy doom;
As lightning shot across the night,
A moment gilds the gloom.

O God! thy providence alone
Can work a wonder here,
Can change to gladness every moan,
And banish all my fear.

Thy arm all powerful to save,
May every doubt destroy;
And from the horrors of the grave,
New raise to life and joy.

From this, as from a copious spring,
Pure consolation flows;
Makes the faint heart midst sufferings sing,
And midst despair repose.

Yet from its creature, gracious heaven,
Most merciful and just,
Asks but, for life and safety given,
Our faith and humble trust.

TO LADY MARY MONTGOMERY.

Say, thou with endless beauty crown'd,
Of all the youth that sigh around,
Thy worshippers, and anxious wait
From thy bright eyes their future fate;
Say, whom do most these eyes approve?
Whom does Montgomery choose to love?

Not him, who strives to build a name,
From ruins of another's fame:
Who proud in self-conceit throws down
His neighbour's wit, to raise his own.
Should the vain man expect success,
The fool of compliment and dress?

Thy eyes undazzled can behold,
The gaudy nothing deckt in gold.
Thy wise discernment soon descries,
Where folly lurks in wit's disguise;
Trac'd through each shape in which 'tis seen,
Through the grave look, the solemn mien:
The proud man's front, the vain man's walk,
The foplin's dress, the coxcomb's talk.
A large estate, and little sense,
To charms like thine have no pretence.
Shalt thou, O insolent! prevail?
Heaven never meant its goods for sale:
Beauty, the pearl of price, is given,
Not bought, 'tis the free grace of heav'n.

The happy youth with arts refined,
Simple of heart, of stedfast mind:
Whom thirst of gain, could never draw
To trespass friendship's sacred law:
Whose soul the charms of sense inspire;
Who loves, where reason bids admire:
Cautious to shun, with wise disdain,
The proud, the airy, and the vain.
Him whom these virtues shall adorn,
Thou, fair Montgomery, wilt not scorn:
Of all the gifts of heaven possest,
To him thou yield'st thy willing breast;
For him the blush, with modest grace,
Glows rosy, o'er thy blooming face:
For him thy panting bosom swells,
And on thy lips such sweetness dwells.
Crown'd with success, the happy boy
Shall revel in excess of joy.
While in thy presence, heav'n appears
In sweets laid up for many years.
The beau and witling then shall fly,
The fop in secret corner sigh;
Condemn'd to cry in love's despair,
Ah! why so wise who was so fair?

Did thy example, beauteous maid,
The rest of womankind persuade;
Nor injur'd merit would complain,
That it may love, and love in vain:
Nor flatt'ry false, and impudence,
Usurp the room of bashful sense;
No more at midnight ball appear,
To gain on beauty's list'ning ear.
Beauty would hear the vows of truth;
Nor love would speak with folly's mouth.

Yet some there are, the better few,
Wise thy example to pursue;

Who rich in store of native charms,
Employ no artificial arms,
Such heavenly Charlotte, form divine!
Love's universal kingdom's thine.
Anointed Queen; all unconfin'd,
Thine is the homage of mankind:
Thy subjects, willing to obey,
Bless thy mild rule, and gentle sway;
With royal mind each zealous pays
His tribute duteous to thy praise.
Yet nought to greatness dost thou owe;
Thy merit from thyself does flow;
Alike our wonder and our theme,
In beauty or in place supreme.
Such thy fair sister, fram'd to please,
Of aspect gay, and graceful ease.
Pure flows her wit, and unrestrain'd;
By envy, and by hate unstrain'd:
Not as the rushing torrent pours,
Increas'd by snows and wint'ry show'rs,
Involving in its furious sway,
The labouring hinds a helpless prey;
Now wide o'erspreads the watery scene,
And now decreased, no more is seen:
But as a constant river leads
Its winding stream through purple meads,
That through the blushing landscape rolled,
Reflects the bordering flowers in gold,
And born along with gentle force,
Distributes wealth through all its course;
Nor does the faithful spring deny
The alimental just supply.

Thou Douglas, too, in whom combine
A spirit and a noble line,
Engaging looks, that mild inspire
Fond delight and young desire;
All-winning sweetness, void of pride,
Thou hast no faults for art to hide.
Maria such, whose opening bloom
Foreshows the pregnant fruits to come.
O blest, for whom the season's flight
Ripens that harvest of delight;
To whom the autumn shall resign
To press the rich luxuriant vine!

Unwounded, who can thee espy,
Maid of the black and piercing eye?
Too rashly bold, we take the field
Against thy shafts with wisdom's shield;
Pierced helpless in our guarded side,
We fall the victims of our pride.

Nor Erskine less the song demands,
Not least in beauty's blooming bands.
Erskine! peculiar care of heaven,
To whom the power of sound is given;
Artist divine! to her belong
The heavenly lay and magic song.
How do we gaze with vast delight
Her fingers' swift harmonious flight,
When o'er the obedient keys they fly,
To waken sleeping harmony!
Whene'er she speaks, the joy of all,
Soft the silver accents fall;
Whene'er she looks, in still amaze,
The eyes of all enamoured gaze;
Each word steals gently on the ear;
'Tis heaven to see! 'tis heaven to hear!

In everlasting blushes seen,
Such Pringle shines, of sprightly mien;
To her, the power of love imparts,
Rich gift, the soft successful arts,
That best the lover's fires provoke,
The lively step, the mirthful joke,
The speaking glance, the amorous wile,
The sportful laugh, the winning smile;
Her soul, awakening every grace,
Is all abroad upon her face;
In bloom of youth still to survive,
All charms are there, and all alive!

Fair is the lily, sweet the rose,
That in thy cheek, O Drummond, glows!
Pure is the snow's unsullied white
That clothes thy bosom's swelling height!
Majestic looks her soul express,
That awe us from desired access;
Till sweetness soon rebuke the fear,
And bid the trembling youth draw near.
See how sublime she does advance,
And seems already in the dance;
Exalted how she moves along,
Ten thousand thousand graces strong.
Such Marchmont's daughter, unreproved
The maid by men of sense beloved;
Who knows with modesty to scorn
The titles that may fools adorn:

She claims no merit from her blood,
Her greatest honour to be good.
Heedless of pomp, with open heart,
Well has she chose the better part.
Such Hamilla's looks divine,
Earth's wonder, Tinnegham, and thine!
Her soul all tenderness and love;
Gentle as the harmless dove:
Who, artless, charms without design,
She of the modest look benign.

Eliza, young, in beauty bright,
Though new to every soft delight,
Yet soon her conquests shall extend,
Soon shall the sprightly maid ascend,
The rival of each kindred name,
And triumph to her mother's fame.
Full in the pleasing list appears
Robertoun, in prime of years;
With skill she does her smiles bestow,
For Pallas bends her Cupid's bow:
Wisely she shuns to entertain
The designing and the vain;
To these 'tis all forbidden ground,
Prudence, a cherub, guards her round
With flaming sword, fools to expel—
In Paradise fools must not dwell.

Strike again the golden lyre,
Let Hume the notes of joy inspire.
O, lovely Hume! repeat again,
My lyre, the ever-pleasing strain!
Dear to the muse, the muse approves
Each charm, the muse the virgin loves:
The muse preserves in lasting lays
The records of soft beauty's praise;
In vain would triumph beauty's eye,
Unsung these triumphs soon would die;
Fate o'ercomes the fair and strong,
But has no power o'er sacred song;
Verse the dying name can save,
And make it live beyond the grave.
Thus Hume shall unborn hearts engage,
Her smile shall warm another age;
Her race of mortal glory past,
The immortal fame shall ever last;
Last shall the look that won my heart—
The pleasing look sincere of art.

O, powerful of persuasive face,
Adorned and perfected in grace,
What joys await joys in excess,
The youth whom thou decrees to bless!
Ordained thy yielding breast to move,
Thy breast yet innocent of love!

But who is she, the general gaze
Of sighing crowds, the world's amaze,
Who looks forth as the blushing morn
On mountains of the east new born?
Is it not Cochrane fair? 'Tis she,
The youngest grace of graces three.
The eldest fell to death a prey,
Ah! snatched in early flower away;
The second, manifold of charms,
Blesses a happy husband's arms;
The third a blameless form remains,
O'er all the blooming victor reigns;
Where'er she gracious deigns to move,
The public praise—the public love!

Superior these shall still remain,
The lover's wish, the poet's strain;
Their beauties shall all hearts engage,
Victorious over spite and age.
As thee, Montgomery, shall they shine,
And charm the world with arts like thine!

Lady Charlotte Hamilton, daughter of James, fourth Duke of Hamilton, married to Charles Edwin of Dunraven, in Glamorganshire.

Lady Jane Douglas, the unfortunate sister of Archibald, Duke of Douglas, married to Sir John Stewart of Grandtully, Bart.

Lady Betty Montgomerie, daughter of Alexander, ninth Earl of Eglintoun, and sister, by his last wife, to Lady Mary.

Lady Catherine, daughter of John, fourth Earl of Dundonald, married the Earl of Galloway. Her eldest sister, the Duchess of Hamilton, died very young, in child-bed. It would have been well for her second sister if she had shared the same fate. She was Countess of Strathmore.

ON SEEING THE LADY MARY MONTGOMERY SIT TO HER PICTURE.

[_]

IN IMITATION OF SPENCER'S STYLE.

When Lindsay drew Montgomery, heavenly maid,
And gaz'd with wonder on that angel face,
Pleas'd I sat by and joyfully survey'd
The daring pencil image every grace.

When as the youth, each feature o'er and o'er
Careful retouch'd with strict observant view,
Eftsoons I saw how charms unseen before
Swell'd to the sight, and with the picture grew.

With milder glances now he arms her eyes,
The red now triumphs to a brighter rose;
Now heaves her bosom to a softer rise,
And fairer on her cheek the lily blows.

Last glow'd the blush, that, pure of female wile,
I whilom knew, when so my stars decreed;
My pipe she deign'd to laud in pleasing smile,
All undeserving I such worthy meed.

The whiles I gaz'd, ah! felice art thought I;
Ah! felice youth that doen it possess;
Couth to depaint the fair so verily,
True to each charm, and faithful to each grace.

Sythence she cannot emulate your skill,
Ne envy will the Muse her sister's praise;
Then for the deed O let her place the will,
And to the glowing colours join her lays.

Yet algates would the Nine, that high on hill
Parnasse, sweet imps of Jove, with Jove reside,
Give me to rein the fiery steed at will,
And with kind hand thy lucky pencil guide.

Then, certes, mought we fate misprise, of praise
Secure, if the dear maid in beauty's bloom
Surviv'd, or in thy colours or my lays,
Joy of this age and joy of each to come.

THE FLOWER OF YARROW.

TO LADY MARY MONTGOMERY.

Go, Yarrow Flower, thou shalt be blest,
To lie on beauteous Mary's breast;
Go Yarrow Flower, so sweetly smelling,
Is there on earth so soft a dwelling?

Go, lovely flower, thou prettiest flower,
That ever smil'd in Yarrow bower;
Go, daughter of the dewy morning,
With Alves' blush the fields adorning

Go, lovely rose, what dost thou here?
Ling'ring away thy short-liv'd year;
Vainly shining, idly blooming,
Thy unenjoyed sweets consuming.

Vain is thy radiant Garlies hue,
No hand to pull, no eye to view;
What are thy charms, no heart desiring?
What profits beauty, none admiring?

Go, Yarrow Flower, to Yarrow maid,
And on her panting bosom laid,
There all thy native form confessing,
The charm of beauty is possessing.

Come, Yarrow maid, from Yarrow field;
What pleasure can the desert yield?
Come to my breast, O all excelling!
Is there on earth so kind a dwelling!

Come, my dear maid, thou prettiest maid
That ever smil'd in Yarrow shade;
Come, sister of the dewy morning,
With Alves' blush the dance adorning.

Come, lovely maid, love calls thee here,
Linger no more thy fleeting year;
Vainly shining, idly blooming,
Thy unenjoy'd sweets consuming.

Vain is thy radiant Garlies hue,
No hand to press, no eye to view;
What are thy charms, no heart desiring?
What profits beauty, none admiring?

Come, Yarrow maid, with Yarrow rose,
Thy maiden graces all disclose;
Come blest by all, to all a blessing,
The charm of beauty is possessing.

Lady Catharine Cochrane, Lady Garlies, afterwards Countess of Galloway.

THE FLOWERS.

—A FRAGMENT.

The care of gardens, and the garden's pride
To rear the blooming flowers, invites the Muse:
A greatful task! To thee, O Hume, she sings
Well pleas'd amid the verdant walks to stray
With thee, her chief delight, when summer smiles.
Come now my love, nor fear the winter's rage;
For see the winter's past, the rains are gone:
Behold the singing of the birds is now,
Season benign, the joyous race prepare
Their native melody, and warbling airs
Are heard in ev'ry grove: the flowers appear

Earth's smiling offspring, and the beauteous meads
Are clothed in pleasant green: now fruitful trees
Put forth their tender buds that soon shall swell
With rich nectareous juice, and woo thy hand
To pluck their ripen'd sweets. Forsake a while
The noise of cities, and with me retire
To rural solitude: Lo! for thy head
I weave a garland, deck'd with vernal flowers,
Violet, and hyacinth, and blushing rose
Of ev'ry rich perfume; here in this calm
And undisturb'd retreat content to dwell
Secluded from mankind, with thee and love,
Sweetner of human cares: But thou perhaps
Delight'st to hear the voice that bids thee come
To festival and dance, thou long'st to meet
The raptur'd youth, that at assembly hour
Awaits thy coming: haste adorn'd in all
Thy native softness, fresh as breathing flowers
Sweet smelling in the morning dew, and fire
His soul, ill able to resist such charms,
Won with attractive smiles: while I far off
Bemoan thy absence, and thy image form
In every thicket and each secret grove,
To soothe my longing mind by fancy's aid,
Pleasing resemblance! until thou thyself,
O fairest among women, deign to grace
The bower that love prepares, from me to learn
The care and culture of the flowery kind. [OMITTED]

THE EPISODE OF LAUSUS AND MEZENTIUS.

[_]

FROM THE TENTH BOOK OF VIRGIL'S ÆNEAS, BEGINNING LINE 689.

Now Jove inflames Mezentius, great in arms,
His ardour rouses, and his courage warms;
Fired by the god, to Turnus he succeeds;
Beneath his arm the Trojan battle bleeds:

The Tuscan troops invade their common foe,
Alike in hate, their kindling bosoms glow
Fierce to destroy, on him alone they pour
Darts following darts, a thick continued shower:
But he undaunted, all the storm sustains,
And scorns the united fury of the plains:
As some huge rock high towering midst the waves,
Of seas and skies the mingling tumult braves,
On its eternal basis fixed is found,
Though tempests rage, and oceans foam around.
First by his arm unhappy Hebrus bled,
The issue of famed Dolicaon's bed;
Then Latagus submits to fate, his way
Adverse he took, the chief, with furious sway,
Upreared a ponderous rock, the shattered brain,
Confused with blood and gore, o'erspreads the plain.
At flying Palmus next his dart he threw,
The speedy dart o'ertook him, as he flew,
Full in the ham, he feels the smarting wound,
Left by the victor grovelling on the ground:
His arms surround his Lausus' manly breast,
The waving plume adorns his shining crest;
Evas and Mimas, both of Trojan seed,
By the same arm were mingled with the dead;
Mimas, companion of the youthful cares
Of Paris, and the equal of his years:
For, big with fancied flames, when Phrygia's queen
Brought forth the cause of woes but ill foreseen,
To extend his blooming race, that self-same night,
The spouse of Amycus, Theano bright—
That night so fatal to the peace of Troy—
Blest her loved husband with a parent's joy:
But fate to different lands their deaths decreed,
This in his father's town was doomed to bleed;
Unthinking Mimas, by Mezentius slain,
Now rolls his carcass o'er the Latian plain.
And as a tusky boar, whom dogs invade,
Of Vesulus bred in the piny shade,
Or near Laurentia's lake, with forest mast,
His feasts obscene, supplied in wild repast;
Roused from his savage haunt—a deep retreat—
A length of years his unmolested seat;
When once in toils enclosed, no flight appears,
Turns sudden, foaming fierce, his bristles rears;
All safe at distance stand, and none is found
Whose valour dares inflict a nearer wound:
Dreadless, meanwhile, to every side he turns,
His teeth he gnashes, and with rage he burns;
The united vengeance of the field derides,
A forest rattles as he shakes his sides;

So fare the Tuscan troops; with noisy rage
And shouts in the mixed tumult they engage;
All from afar their missive weapons throw,
Fearful in equal arms to meet the foe.
Next Grecian Acron rushed into the plain,
Who came from Coritus's ancient reign:
Him thirst of fame to warlike dangers led,
The joys untasted of the bridal bed;
From far Mezentius eyed him with delight,
In arms refulgent, as he mixed in fight;
Full o'er his breast, in gold and purple known,
The tokens of his love conspicuous shone.
Then, as a lion thirsting after blood,
(For him persuades the keen desire of food),
If, or a frisking goat he chance to view,
Or branching stag, that leads the stately crew;
Rejoices, gaping wide, he makes his way
Furious, and clings incumbent on the prey,
That helpless pants beneath his horrid paws,
The blood o'erflowing laves his greedy jaws:
So keen Mezentius rushes on each foe,
Unhappy Acron sinks beneath his blow.
Mad in the pangs of death, he spurns the ground,
The blood distains the broken spear around.
Then fled Orodes shameful from the fight,
The victor scorned the advantage of his flight;
But fired with rage, through cleaving ranks he ran,
And face to face opposed, and man to man;
Not guileful from behind his spear to throw
A wound unseen, but strikes an adverse blow.
Then with his foot his dying foe he pressed,
Leaned on his lance, and thus his friends addressed:
Lo! where Orodes gasps upon the sand,
His death was due to this victorious hand,
Large portion of the war! Exulting cries
Ascend amain, and ring along the skies.
To whom the vanquished, with imperfect sound,
All weak and faint, and dying of the wound:
Nor long my ghost shall unrevenged repine,
Nor long the triumph of my fall be thine;
Thee equal fates, insulting man, remain,
Thee death yet waits, and this the fatal plain.
Him, as he rolled in death, Mezentius spied,
He smiled severe, and thus contemptuous cried:
Die thou the first; as he thinks fit, for me,
The sire of heaven and earth, let Jove decree.
He said, and pulled the weapon from the wound,
The purple life ebbed out upon the ground;
Death's clay-cold hand shut up the sinking light,
And o'er his closing eyes drew the dark mist of night.

By Cædicus' great arm Alcathous fell;
Sacrator sent Hydaspes down to hell;
Parthenius dies by Rapo slain in fight;
And Orses vast, of more than mortal might.
Next sunk two warriors, Clonius the divine,
And Ericetes of Lycaon's line;
The issue of the god, their deaths renowned,
Whose forked trident rules the deep profound.
His courser, inobedient to the rein,
Great Ericetes tumbled to the plain.
Prone as he lay, swift fled the thirsty dart,
And found the mortal passage to his heart.
Then lights the victor from his lofty steed,
And foot to foot engaged, made Clonius bleed.
Then Lycian Agis, boastful of his might,
Provoked the bravest foe to single fight;
Him boldly Tuscan Valerus assailed,
And in the virtues of his sire prevailed.
By Salius' arm, the swift Antronius bled;
Nealces' javelin struck the victor dead;
Nealces, skilled the sounding dart to throw,
And wing the treacherous arrow to the foe.
Mars, raging god, and stern, the war confounds,
Equals the victor's shouts and dying sounds.
Encountering various on the embattled field,
Now fierce they rush, now fierce retreating yield.
With equal rage each adverse battle glows,
Nor flight is known to these, nor known to those.
Tysiphone enjoys the direful sight,
Pale, furious, fell, and storms amidst the fight.
The gods, from Jove's immortal dome, survey
Each army toiling through the dreadful day;
With tender pity touched, lament the pain
That human life is destined to sustain:
On either side two deities are seen,
Jove's awful consort, and soft Beauty's queen;
The wife of Jove the conqueror's palm implores,
Soft Beauty's queen her Trojan's loss deplores.

Again his javelin huge Mezentius wields,
Again tumultuous he invades the fields;
Large as Orion, when the giant stalks,
A bulk immense! through Nereus midmost walks;
Secure he cleaves his way, the billows braves,
His sinewy shoulders tower above the waves:
Bearing an ash, increased in strength with years,
That huge upon the mountain's height appears;
He strides along, each step the earth divides,
In clouds obscure his lofty head resides;
In stature huge, amidst the war's alarms,
Such shone the tyrant in gigantic arms.

Him, as exulting in the ranks he stood,
At distance seen, and rioting in blood,
Æneas hastes to meet, in all his might
He stands collected, and awaits the fight;
First measuring, as he stood in act to throw,
With nice survey, the distance of his foe:
This arm, this spear, he cried, assert my might;
These are my gods, and these assist in fight;
His armour from the boastful robber won,
Shall tower a trophy to my conquering son.
He said, and flings the dart with dreadful force,
The dart drove on unerring from the course;
It reached the shield, the shield the blow repelled,
Nor fell the javelin guiltless on the field;
But piercing 'twixt the side and bowels, tore
The famed Anthores, and deep drank the gore:
He, in his lusty years, from Argos sent
With famed Alcides, on his labours went;
Tired with his toils, a length of woes o'erpast,
In the Evandrian realm he fixed at last;
Called back again to war, where glory calls,
Unhappy, by a death unmeant, he falls:
To heaven his mournful eyes the dying throws;
In his last thoughts his native Argos rose;
Straight then his beaming lance the Trojan threw,
Swift, hissing on the wind, the weapon flew;
The plates of threefold brass were forced to yield,
And three bull's hides that bound the solid shield:
Deep in his lower groin, an arm so strong
Drove the sharp point, but brought not death along.
Then joyful, as the Trojan hero spied
The spouting blood pour down his wounded side,
Like lightning, from his thigh his sword he drew,
And furious on the astonished warrior flew.

As Lausus saw, full sore he heaved the sigh;
The ready tear stood trembling in his eye;
His father's danger touched the youthful chief,
With pious haste he ran to his relief:
Nor shall thou sink unnoted to the tomb,
Unsung thy noble deed and early doom;
If future times to such a deed will give
Their faith, to future times thy name shall live.
Disabled, trembling for a death so near,
The father, slow receding, drags the spear;
Just in that moment, as, suspended high,
The flaming sword shone adverse to the sky,
The daring youth rushed in and fronts the foe,
And from his father turns the impending blow:
His friends, with joyful shouts, reply around,
Through all their echoes all the hills resound;

As, wondering, they beheld the wounded sire,
Protected by the son, from fight retire.
A dark'ning flight of singing shafts annoy,
From every quarter poured, the Prince of Troy;
He stands against the fury of the field,
And rages, covered with his mighty shield.
And as when stormy winds encountering loud,
Burst with rude violence the bellowing cloud;
Precipitate to earth, the tempest pours
The vexing hailstones, thick in sounding showers:
The deluged plains then every ploughman flies,
And every hind and traveller sheltered lies;
Or, where the rock high overarched impends,
Or, where the river's shelving bank defends,
That, powerful o'er the storm, when bright the ray
Shines forth, they each may exercise the day.
Loud sounds the gathered storm, o'er all the field
The cloud of war pours thundering on his shield;
Yet still he tried, with friendly care, to save
The unhappy youth, unfortunately brave!
Ah! whither dost thou urge thy fatal course,
In daring deeds, unequal to thy force?
Too pious in thy love, thy love betrays,
Nor such the vigour crowns thy youthful days.
Not thus advised, the youth still fronts the foe,
Exulting, and provokes the lingering blow:
For now, his martial bosom all on fire,
The Trojan leader's tide of rage swelled higher;
For now, the sisters viewed the fatal strife,
And wound up the last threads of Lausus' life;
Deep plunged the shining falchion in his breast,
Pierced his thin armour and embroidered vest,
That, rich in ductile gold, his mother wove
With her own hands, the witness of her love.
His breast was filled with blood, then sad and slow,
Through air resolved, the spirit fled below:
As, ghastly pale, the chief the dying spied,
His hands he stretched to heaven, and pitying sighed;
His sire Anchises rose, an image dear,
Sad in his soul, and forced the tender tear.
What praise, O youth! unhappy in thy fate,
What can Æneas yield to worth so great?
Worth that distinguished in thy deed appears,
Ripe in thy youth and early in thy years?
Thy arms, once pleasing objects of thy care,
Inviolate from hostile spoil I spare;
Thy breathless body on thy friends bestow,
To mitigate thy pensive spirit's woe;
If aught below the separate soul can move,
Solicitous of what is done above.

(Yet in the grave, perhaps, from every care
Released, nor knowledge nor device is there),
That, gathered to thy sires, thy friends may mourn
Thy hapless fall, and dust to dust return:
This to thy solace in the world below,
'Twas I, the great Æneas, struck the blow.
He said, and beckoning, chides his friends' delay,
And pious to assist, directs the way,
To rear him from the ground, with friendly care,
Dishonoured foul with blood his comely hair.

The wretched father now, by Tiber shore,
Washed from his streaming thigh the crimson gore:
Pained with his wound, and weary from the fight,
A tree's broad trunk supports his drooping weight;
A bough, his helmet beaming far, sustains;
His heavier armour rests along the plains:
Panting and sick, his body downward bends,
And to his breast his length of beard descends:
He leans his careful head upon his hand;
Around him wait a melancholy band:
Much of his Lausus asks, and many sent
To warn him back—a father's kind intent:
How vainly sent! for, breathless from the field
They bear the youth, extended on his shield!
Loud wailing, mourned him slain in early bloom,
Mighty, and by a mighty wound o'ercome.

Far off the sounds of woe the father hears;
He trembles in the foresight of his fears:
With dust, the hoary honours of his head
Sad he deforms, and cleaves unto the dead.
Then both his hands to heaven aloft he spread,
And thus, in fulness of his sorrows, said:
Could then this lust of life so warp my mind,
That I could think of leaving thee behind
Whom I begot, unhappy in my stead
To meet the warrior, and for me to bleed?
Now fate severe has struck too deep a blow;
Now first I feel a wretched exile's woe.
And is it thus I draw this wretched breath,
Saved by thy wound, and living by thy death?
I too, my son, with horrid guilt profaned
Thy sacred virtues, and their lustre stained;
Outcast! abandoned by the care of heaven!
From empire and paternal sceptres driven!
My people's hatred and insulting scorn,
The merit of my crimes I've justly born:
To thousand deaths this wicked soul could give,
Since now 'tis crime enough that I can live—
Can yet sustain the light, and human race!
Wretched as I am!—But short shall be the space.

He said, and as he said, he reared from ground
His fainting limbs, yet staggering from the wound;
But whole and undiminished still remains
His strength of soul, unbroke with toil and pains.
He calls his steed, successful from each fight,
With whom he marched, his glory and delight;
With words like these his conscious steed addressed,
That mourned as with his master's ills oppressed:
Rhæbus, we long have lived, in arms combined,
If long the frail possessions of mankind;
This day thou shalt bring back, to crown our toils,
The Trojan hero's head and glittering spoils;
Torn from the bloody man, with me shall take
A dear revenge, for murdered Lausus' sake:
If strength shall fail to ope the destined way,
Together fall, and press the Latian clay;
For after me, I trust, thou wilt disdain
A Trojan leader, and an alien rein.
He said; the steed receives his wonted weight,
The tyrant armed, and furious for the fight:
His blazing helmet formidably graced
With nodding horse-hair bright'ning o'er the crest:
With deathful javelins next he fills his hands,
And spurs his steed, and seeks the fighting bands:
Grief mixed with madness, shame of former flight,
And love by rage enflamed to desperate height,
And conscious knowledge of his valour, wrought
Fierce in his breast, and boiled in every thought.
He calls Æneas thrice; Æneas heard
The welcome sound, and thus his prayer preferred:
May Jove, supreme of gods, who rules on high,
And he to whom 'tis given to gild the sky,
Far-shooting king! inspire thee to draw near
Swift to thy fate, and grant thee to my spear.
But he—my Lausus ravished from my sight—
Me with vain words, O cruel! would'st affright;
With age, with watchings, and with labours worn,
Death is below my fear, and gods I scorn!
I come resolved to die; but ere I go,
Receive this dart, the present of a foe!
He said; the javelin hissed along the skies,
Another after, and another flies,
Thick and incessant, as he rides the field,
Still all the storm sustains the golden shield.
Firm as Æneas stood, thrice rode he round,
Urging his darts, the compass of the ground;
Thrice wheeled Æneas, thrice his buckler bears
About, a brazen wood of rising spears:
Pressed in unrighteous fight, with just disdain
To wrench so many darts, and wrench in vain,

Much pondering in his mind, the chief revolved
Each rising thought; at last he springs resolved.
Full at the warrior steed the hostile wood
He threw, that pierced his brain and drank the blood:
Stung with the pain, the steed upreared on high
His sounding hoofs, and lashed the yielding sky;
Prone fell the warrior from his lofty height,
His shoulders broad received the courser's weight.
From host to host the mingling shouts rebound,
Deep echoing, all in fire, the heavens resound;
Unsheathed his flaming blade, Æneas flies,
And thus addressed the warrior as he lies:
Say, where is now Mezentius, great and bold,
That haughty spirit, fierce and uncontrolled?
To whom the Tuscan, with recovered breath,
As faint he viewed the skies, recalled from death:
Dost thou the stroke, insulting man! delay?
Haste, let thy vengeance take its destined way;
Death never can disgrace the warrior's fame,
Who dies in fight; nor conquest was my aim;
Slain, savage, by thy hand in glorious strife,
Not so my Lausus bargained for my life;
Deprived of him, sole object of my love,
I seek to die—for joy is none above!
Yet, piteous of my fate, this grace allow—
If pity to the vanquished foe be due—
Suffer my friends my gathered bones to burn,
And decent lay me in the funeral urn:
Full well I know, my people's hate, decreed
Against the living, will pursue the dead;
My breathless body from their fury save!
And grant my son the partner of my grave.
He said; and stedfast eyed the victor foe,
Then gave his breast undaunted to the blow.
The rushing blood distained his arms around;
The soul indignant sought the shades profound!

THE EPISODE OF THE THISTLE.

Flowers, Book I.

Nor to the garden sole, where fair resides
As in her court the scarlet Queen, amid
Her train of flow'ry nymphs, does Nature boon
Indulge her gifts: but to each nameless field,
When the warm sun rejoicing in the year
Stirs up the latent juice, she scatters wide
Her rosy children: then innumerous births,
As from the womb spring up, and wide perfume
Their cradles with ambrosial sweets around.
Far as the eye can reach all nature smiles,
Hill, dale, or valley, where a lucid stream
Leads thro' the level down, his silver maze,
Gliding, with even pace, direct, as one
On journey bent, and now meand'ring fair,
Unnumber'd currents to and fro convolv'd,
His pastime, underneath the azure green
The wanton fishes sport; and round his banks,
Sole or in consort, the ærial kind
Resound in air with song: the wild thyme here
Breathes fragrance, and a thousand glittering flowers
Art never sow'd. Even here the rising weed
The landscape paints—the lion's yellow tooth,
Th' enamell'd daisy, with its rose adorn'd—
The prickly briar, and the thistle rude,
An armed warrior, with his host of spears.
Thrice happy plant! fair Scotia's greatest pride,
Emblem of modest valour, unprovok'd
That harmeth not, provok'd that will not bear
Wrong unreveng'd; what tho' the humble root
Dishonour'd erst, the growth of every field
Arose unheeded thro' the stubborn soil

Jejune: tho' softer flowers, disdainful, fly
Thy fellowship, nor in the nosegay join,
Ill-match'd compeers; not less the dews of heav'n
Bathe thy rough cheeks, and wash thy warlike mail,
Gift of indulgent skies! the lily pure
And rose of fragrant leaf, best represent
Maria's snowy breast and ruddy cheek
Blushing with bloom: tho' Ormond's laurel rear
Sublimer branch, indulging loftier shade
To heaven-instructed bard, that strings beneath,
Melodious, his sounding wire, to tales
Of beauty's praise, or from victorious camps
Heroes returning fierce. Unvenvied may
The snowy lily flourish round the brow
Of Gallia's king: the thistle, happier far,
Exalted into nobler fame, shall rise
Triumphant o'er each flower, to Scotia's bards
Subject of lasting song, their monarch's choice;
Who, bounteous to the lowly weed, refused
Each other plant, and bade the thistle wave,
Embroider'd, in his ensigns, wide display'd
Along the mural breach: how oft, beneath
Its martial influence, has Scotia's sons
Thro' every age with dauntless valour fought
On every hostile ground? while o'er their breast,
Companion to the silver star, blest type
Of fame unsullied and superior deed,
Distinguish'd ornament! their native plant
Surrounds the sainted cross, with costly row
Of gems, emblaz'd, and flame of radiant gold,
A sacred mark, their glory and their pride.

But wouldst thou know how first th' illustrious plant
Rose to renown: here the recording muse,
While back thro' ages that have roll'd she leads
Th' inquiring eye, and wakens into life
Heroes and mighty kings, whose god-like deeds
Are now no more, yet still the fame survives,
Victor o'er time, the triumph of the muse.

As yet for love of arts and arms renown'd,
For hoary sires with gifts of wisdom grac'd,
Unrivall'd maids in beauty's bloom, desire
Of every eye, and youthful gallant chiefs
For courage fam'd and blest with sacred song,
Flourished, sublime, the Pictish throne; and shar'd,
Rival of Scotia's power, fair Caledon.
Equals in sway, while both alike aspired
To single rule, disdaining to obey:
Oft led by hate and thirst of dire revenge
For ravish'd beauty, or for kindred slain,
Wide-wasting others' realms with inroads fierce,

Until the second Kenneth, great in arms,
Brandish'd th' avenging sword, that low in dust,
Humbled the haughty race: yet oft, of war
Weary, and havock dire, in mutual blood
Imbru'd, the nations join'd in leagues of peace
Short space enjoy'd; when nice suspicious fears
By jealous love of empire bred, again,
With fatal breath, blew the dire flame of war,
Rekindling fierce: thus when Achaius reign'd,
By the disposing will of gracious heav'n
Ordain'd the Prince of Peace, fair Ethelind,
Grace of the Pictish throne, in rosy youth,
Of beauteous bloom, in his young heart, inspir'd
Spousal-desires, soft love, and dove-ey'd peace,
Her dowry. Then, his hymeneal torch,
Concord, high brandish'd; and in bonds of love,
Link'd the contending race. But ah! how vain
Hopes mortal man, his joys on earth to last
Perpetual and sincere; for Athelstane,
Fierce from the conquest of great Alured,
Northumbrian ruler, came. On Tweda's shore
Full twenty thousand brazen spears, he fixt,
Shining a deathful view; dismay'd the brave
Erst undismay'd: even he, their warlike chief,
Hungus, in arms, a great and mighty name,
Felt his fierce heart, suspended, if to meet
Th' outrageous Saxon, dreadful in the ranks
Of battle disarray'd. Suppliant of help,
He sues the Scottish race, by friendly ties
Adjur'd and nuptial rites and equal fears.
Led by their gallant prince, the chosen train
Forsake their native walls. The glad acclaim
Of shouting crowds, and the soft virgin's wish
Pursue the parting chiefs to battle sent,
With omens not averse. Darkness arose
O'er heav'n and earth, as now but narrow space
Sundred each hostile force: sole in his tent
The youthful chief, the hope of Albion, lay
Slumb'ring secure, when in the hour of sleep
A venerable form, St. Andrew, seen
Majestic, solemn, grand, before his sight
In vision, stood: his deep and piercing eye
Look'd wisdom, and mature sedateness weigh'd
To doubtful counsels, from his temples flow'd
His hair, white as the snowy fleece that clothes
The Alpine ridge, across his shoulders hung
A baldric, where some heavenly pencil wrought
Th' events of years to come prophetic drawn,
Seasons and times: in his right hand he held
A cross, far beaming thro' the night; his left

A pointed thistle rear'd. Fear not he cried,
Thy country's early pride; for lo! to thee
Commission'd I, from heav'n's eternal King,
Ætherial messenger of tidings glad,
Propitious now am sent. Then be thou bold,
To-morrow shall deliver to thy hand
The troops of Athelstane. But oh! attend,
Instructed from the skies, the terms of fate,
Conditional, assign'd; for if misled
By cursed lust of arbitrary sway,
Thou, or of thee to come, thy race shall wage
Injurious war, unrighteous to invade
His neighbour's realms, who dares the guilty deed,
Him heaven shall desert in needful hour
Of sad distress, deliver'd o'er a prey
To all the nations round. This plant I bear,
Expressive emblem of thy equal deed.
This, inoffensive in its native field,
Peaceful inhabitant, and lowly grows;
Yet who with hostile hands its bristly spears
Unpunish'd may provoke? and such be thou,
Unprompt t'invade, and active to defend;
Wise fortitude! but when the morning flames,
Secure, in heaven, against yon fated host
Go up and overcome. When home return'd
With triumph crown'd, grateful to me shall rear
A rising temple on the destin'd space,
With lofty towers and battlements adorn'd,
A house where God shall dwell. The vision spoke,
And mix'd with night, when starting from his couch
The youth from slumber wak'd. The mingled cries
Of horse, and horsemen furious for the day,
Assail his ears. And now both armies closed,
Tempestuous fight. Aloud the welkin roars,
Resounding wide, and groans of death are heard
Superior o'er the din. The rival chiefs
Each adverse battle gor'd. Here Athelstane,
Horrent in mail, rear'd high his moony shield
With Saxon trophies charg'd and deeds of blood,
Horrid achievement! nor less furious there
Hungus, inflam'd with desp'rate rage, and keen
Desire of victory; and near him join'd,
With social valour, by the vision fir'd,
The hopes of Caledon, the Scottish oak
Plies furious, that from the mighty's blood,
Return'd not back unstain'd. Thus when the seeds
Of fire and nitrous spume and grain adust,
Sulphureous, distend earth's hollow womb,
Sicilian Ætna labours to disgorge
Dreadful irruption, from the smoking top

Flows down the molten rock in liquid ore,
A threefold current to the wasted plain,
Each ravaging a sep'rate way: so fought
Desp'rate the chiefs; nine hours in equal scale
The battle hung, the tenth the angel rear'd
The tutelary cross, then disarray
Fell on the Saxon host. Thus when of old
Th' Amalekite in vale of Rephidim,
Against the chosen race of Judah, set
The battle in array, and various chance
Alternate rul'd, when as the sun went down,
Aaron and Hur upstaid the failing hands
Of Moses, to sustain the potent rod,
Till Israel overthrew: thus sore that day
The battle went against the numerous hosts
Of Athelstane, impure; the daring chief,
Far from the slaughter borne, a swelling stream
By sudden rains high surging o'er its banks,
Impervious to his flight, forever sunk,
Number'd amongst the dead. Then rout on rout,
Confusion on confusion, wild dismay,
And slaughter raging wide, o'erturn'd the bands
E'rewhile so proud array'd. Amaz'd they fled
Before the Scottish sword; for from the sword,
From the drawn sword, they fled, the bended bow,
The victor's shout, and honour of the war.

The royal youth, thus victor of his vows,
Leads to his native land with conquest crown'd,
His warring powers; nor of the heavenly dream
Unmindful, bade the promis'd towers aspire
With solemn rites made sacred to the name
Of him in vision seen. Then to inspire
Love of heroic worth, and kindle seeds
Of virtuous emulation in the soul
Rip'ning to deed, he crown'd his manly breast
With a refulgent star, and in the star
Amidst the rubies' blaze, distinguish'd shines
The sainted cross, around whose golden verge
The embroider'd thistle, blest enclosure! winds
A warlike foliage of ported spears
Defenceful: last, partakers of his fame,
He adds a chosen train of gallant youths,
Illustrious fellowship! above their peers
Exalted eminent: the shining band,
Devote to fame, along the crowded streets
Are led, exulting, to the lofty fane
With holy festival and ritual pomp
Install'd, of solemn prayer, and offer'd vows
Inviolate, and sacred, to preserve
The ordinance of heav'n, and great decree

Voice of the silent night: O ill foreseen,
O judgments ill forewarn'd and sure denounc'd
Of future woes and cov'nants broke in blood,
That children's children wept: how didst thou grieve,
O virgin daughter, and what tears bedew'd
The cheek of hoary age, when, as the fates,
Transgress'd the high command, severely will'd,
The hapless youth, as the fierce lion's whelp,
Fell in the fatal snare? that sacred head
Where late the graces dwelt, and wisdom mild
Subdued attention, gastly, pale, deform'd,
Of royalty despoil'd, by ruthless hands
Fixt on a spear, the scoff of gazing crowds,
Mean triumph, borne: then first the radiant cross
Submitted in the dust, dishonour foul,
Her holy splendours; first, the thistle's spears
Broke by a hostile hand, the silver star
Felt dim eclipse, and mourn'd in dark sojourn,
A tedious length of years, till he, the fifth
Triumphant James, of Stuart's ancient line,
Restor'd the former grace, and bade it shine,
With added gifts adorn'd. To chosen twelve,
Invested with the ornaments of fame,
Their sovereign's love, he bounteous, gave to wear,
Across their shoulders flung, the radiant brede
Of evening blue, of simple faith unstain'd,
Mysterious sign and loyalty sincere.
Approven chiefs! how many sons enroll'd
In the fair deathless list, has Scotia seen,
Or terrible in war for bold exploit?
Best champions! or in the mild arts of peace
Lawgivers wise, and of endanger'd rights
Firm guardians in evil times, to death
Asserting virtue's cause, and virtue's train?
Blest patronage! nor these, with envy, view
Th' embroider'd garter to surround the knee
Of military chiefs of Brutus' blood;
With equal honours grac'd, while monarchs bear
The consecrated cross, and happy plant
Bright on the regal robe; nor valued more
Th' anointing oil of heav'n. In Britain's shield
The northern star mingles with George's beams,
Consorted light, and near Hibernia's harp,
Breathing the sp'rit of peace and social love,
Harmonious power, the Scottish thistle fills
Distinguish'd place, and guards the English Rose.

This refers to the story of King Alpin slain by the Picts, and his head fixed to a pole. See Buchanan, Book V.

SONG.

[Would'st thou know her sacred charms]

Would'st thou know her sacred charms
Who this destin'd heart alarms,
What kind of nymph the heavens decree
The maid that's made for love and me.

Who pants to hear the sigh sincere,
Who melts to see the tender tear,
From each ungentle passion free;
Such the maid that's made for me.

Who joys whene'er she sees me glad,
Who sorrows when she sees me sad;
For peace and me can pomp resign,
Such the heart that's made for mine.

Whose soul with gen'rous friendship glows;
Who feels the blessing she bestows;
Gentle to all, but kind to me,
Such be mine, if such there be.

Whose genuine thoughts devoid of art,
Are all the natives of her heart;
A simple train, from falsehood free,
Such the maid that's made for me.

Avaunt, ye light coquets, retire
Whom glittering fops around admire;
Unmov'd your tinsel charms I see,
More genuine beauties are for me.

Should Love, fantastic as he is,
Raise up some rival to my bliss;
And should she change, but can that be?
No other maid is made for me.

A SONG, BY A YOUNG LADY ON READING THE FOREGOING.

If you would know, my dearest friend,
The man whose merit may pretend
To gain my heart, that yet is free,
Him that's made for love and me:

His mind should be his chiefest care,
All his improvements centre there,
From each unmanly passion free;
That is the man who's made for me.

Whose generous bosom goodness warms,
Whom sacred virtue ever charms,
Who to no vice a slave will be;
This is the man who's made for me.

Whose tongue can easily impart
The dictates of his honest heart,
In plain good sense; from flatt'ry free;
Such he must be who's made for me.

He alone can love inspire,
Who feels the warmth of friendship's fire;
Humane and gen'rous, kind and free;
That is the man who's made for me.

If such an one, my friend e'er tries
To make me his by strictest ties,
The study of my life shall be,
To please the man so dear to me.

Ye powder'd beaux, from me retire,
Who only your dear selves admire;
Tho' deck'd in richest lace you be,
No tinsel'd fop has charms for me.

Glasgow.

REPLY BY MR. HAMILTON.

------ Sed quæ legat ipsa Lycoris.
Virg.

O gentle maid! whoe'er thou art,
That seek'st to bless a friendly heart;
Whose muse and mind seem fram'd to prove

The tenderness of mutual love:
The heart that flutters in his breast,
That longs and pants to be at rest,
Roam'd all around thy sex, to find
A gentle mate, and hop'd her kind.

I saw a face—and found it fair;
I search'd a mind—saw goodness there:
Goodness and beauty both combin'd;
But heav'n forbade her to be kind.

To thee for refuge dare I fly,
The victim of another eye?
Poor gift! a lost, rejected heart,
Deep wounded by a foreign dart.

From this inevitable chain,
Alas! I hope to 'scape in vain.
Is there a pow'r can set me free,
A pow'r on earth—or is it thee?

Yet were thy cheek as Venus fair;
Bloom'd all the Paphian goddess there,
Such as she bless'd Adonis' arms;
Thou couldst but equal Laura's charms.

Or were thy gentlest mind replete
With all that's mild, that's soft, that's sweet;
Was all that's sweet, soft, mild, combin'd,
Thou couldst but equal Laura's mind.

Since beauty, goodness, is not found
Of equal force to soothe his wound,
Ah! what can ease my anguish'd mind?
Perhaps the charm of being kind.

Canst thou transported view the lays
That warble forth another's praise,
Indulgent to the vow unknown,
Well pleas'd with homage not thy own?

Canst thou the sighs with pity hear
That swell to touch another's ear?
Canst thou with soft compassion see
The tears that fall, and not for thee?

Canst thou thy blooming hopes resign,
The vow sincere, so dearly thine;
All these resign, and prove to me
What Laura would not deign to be?

When at thy feet I trembling fall,
My life, my soul, my Laura call;
Wilt thou my anxious cares beguile,
And o'er thy face spread Laura's smile.

Perhaps Time's gently stealing pace
May Laura's fatal form efface,
Thou to my heart alone be dear,
Alone thy image triumph here.

Come then, best angel! to my aid;
Come, sure thou'rt such, the gentlest maid:
If thou canst work this cure divine,
My heart henceforth is wholly thine.

Edinburgh.

THE YOUNG LADY'S ANSWER.

Your Laura's charms I cannot boast;
For beauty I ne'er was a toast;
I'm not remarkable for sense?
To wit I've not the least pretence.

If gold and silver have the power
To charm, no thousands swell my dower;
No shining treasures I possess,
To make the world my worth confess.

An honest, plain, good-natur'd lass,
(The character by which I pass),
I doubt will scarcely have the art
To drive your Laura from your heart.

But, Sir, your having been in love,
Will not your title to me prove:
Far nobler qualities must be
In him who's made for love and me.

'Tis true, you can with ease impart
The dictates of your honest heart,
In plain good sense, from flatt'ry free:
But this alone won't answer me.

Once more peruse my lines with care;
Try if you find your picture there:
For by that test you'll quickly see,
If you're the man who's made for me.

Glasgow.

TO A GENTLEMAN GOING TO TRAVEL.

Trahit sua quemque voluptas.

Well sung of old, in everlasting strains,
Horace, sweet lyrist! while the Roman harp
He strung by Tiber's yellow bank, to charm

Tuscan Mecenas, thy well-judging ear;
How, in life's journey, various wishes lead
Through different roads, to different ends, the race
Diverse of human kind. The hero runs,
Careless of rest, of sultry Lybian heat
Patient, and Russian cold, to win renown,
Mighty in arms and warlike enterprise;
Vain efforts! the coquettish nymph still flies
Her swift pursuit, and jilts ambitious hope.
At home, this man, with ease and plenty blessed,
The towering dome delights, and gardens fair,
And fruitful fields with sylvan honours crowned,
Stretched out in wide extent; the gay machine,
Dear to the female race, the gilded coach,
With liveried servants in retinue long,
Adorned with splendid robes, the pompous train
Of pageantry and pride. His neighbour sits
Immured at home, a miser dire, nor dares
To touch his store, through dread of fancied want;
Industrious of gain, he treasures up
Large heaps of wealth, to bless a spendthrift heir,
That wastes in riot, luxury, and misrule,
The purchase of his want; nought shall he reck
His father's pine, when lavish he ordains
The feast in pillared hall or sunny bower,
With lust-inflaming wine, and wicked mirth
Prolonged to morning hour, and guilty deed.

Others again, the woods of Astery
Love to inhabit, or where down the Mount,
Sky-climbing Parnass, her sweet-sounding wave
Castalia pours, with potent virtues blessed;
Powerful to charm the ear of furious wrath,
To close the eye of anguish, or to strike
The lifted dagger from despairing breast.
Such Addison, and such with laurel crowned
Immortal Congreve, such the muses grace
Mæonian Pope; nor do the nine refuse
To rank with these Fergusian nightingale,
Untaught with wood-notes wild, sweet Allan hight;
Whether on the flower-blushing bank of Tweed,
Or Clyde or Tay's smooth winding stream his muse
Chooseth to reside, or o'er the snowy hills,
Benlomond or proud Mormount, all the day
Clad in Tartana varied garb she roves,
To hear of kings' and heroes' godlike deeds;
Or, if delighted on the knee she lies
Of lovely nymph, as happy lap-dog graced,
Intent to soothe the Scottish damsel's ear,
Cochrane or Hamilton, with pleasing song
Of him who sad beneath the withered branch

Sat of Traquhair, complaining of his lass;
Or the fond maid, that o'er the watery brink
Wept sleepless night and day, still wafting o'er
Her flying love from Aberdour's fair coast.

Others, again, by party rage inflamed,
Blindfolded zeal, and superstition dire,
Offspring of ignorance, and cloister-born,
With undistinguished violence, assault
Both good and bad. Chief of these art thou,
Ill-fated Wodrow, who, with leaden pen,
By furies dipped in gall of Stygian lake,
Writ'st numerous follies; numerous as thy saints
Who or at Pentland or at Bothwell fought
For blind opinion, and laid down their lives
Near where the Cross its unicorn head
Erects aloft, and proudly shines adorned
On Brunswick's day, or where her weekly sale
Grassmarket sees of horses, have harangued
From theatres of wood, the listening saints
Below assembled, sad and discontent.
There is, who, studious of his shape and mien,
On dress alone employs his care to please,
Aspiring with his outward show; who, vain
Of flaxen hair perfumed and Indian cane,
Embroidered vest, and stocking silver-clocked,
Walks through the admiring train of ladies bright,
Sole on himself intent; best likened to
The painted insect, that in summer's heat
Flutters the gardens round with glossy wing,
Distinct with eyes; him oft the tender Miss,
Escaped from sampler and the boarding-school,
Pursues with weary foot from flower to flower,
Tulip or lily bright, or rubied rose,
And often in the hollow of her hand
Retains him captive, sweet imprisonment!
But, ah! how vain the joys the beau can boast;
A while he shines in tavern, visit, dance,
Unrivalled, clad in rich refulgent garb,
Laced or brocaded, till the merchant bold,
With messenger conspiring mortal dire,
Of merciless heart, throw him in dungeon deep,
Recluse from ladies; what avails him then
The love of women, or the many balls
He made to please the fair? there must he lie
Irremediless, if not by pity won,
Fair Cytherea, sea-begotten dame,
By spousal gifts from sooty Vulcan earn
Fallacious key, as erst by love o'ercome,

He forged celestial arms to grace her son,
Anchises-born, and in the borrowed form
Of longing widow, or of maiden aunt,
(While sly Cyllenius, with opiate charm
Of Ceres, the still watching Argus eyes
Of keeper drench in sleep profound), release
The captive knight from the enchanted dome.

Thus others choose, their choice affects not me;
For each his own delight, with secret force
Magnetic, as with links of love, constrains.
Behoves me then to say what bias rules
My inclinations, since desire of fame
Provokes me not to win renown in arms,
Nor at Pieria's silver spring to slake
The insatiate thirst; to write on the coy nymph
Love-laboured sonnet, nor in well-dressed beau
To please the lovely sex. For me at Keith's
Awaits a bowl, capacious for my cares;
There will I drown them all, no daring thought
Shall interrupt my mirth, while there I sit
Surrounded with my friends, and envy not
The pomp of needless grandeur, insolent.
Nor shall alone the bowl of punch delight,
Compounded fluid! rich with juicy spoil
Of fair Iberia's sunny coast, combined
With the auxiliar aid of rack or rum,
Barbade or Sumatra, or Goan-born,
The luscious spirit of the cane, that in
Fermenting cups, with native element
Of water mixed, pure limpid stream! unite
Their social sweets. For us her ruddy soul
The Latian grape shall bleed, nor will thy hills,
Far-flowing Rhine, withhold their clustering vines;
Haste then, to friendship sacred let us pour
The exhilirating flood, while, as our hands
In union knit, we plight our mutual hearts
Close as the loving pair, whom holy writ
Renowns to future times, great Jonathan
And Jesse's son. Now this delights my soul!

There was a time we would not have refused
Macdougal's lowly roof, the land of ale;
Flowing with ale, as erst Canaan is said
To flow with honey. There we often met,
And quaffed away our spleen, while fits of mirth
Frequent were heard; nor wanted amorous song
Nor jocund dance; loud as in Edin town,
Where the tired writer pens the livelong day
Summons and horning, or the spousal band

Of Strephon, and of Cloe, lovely lass,
Spent with his toil, when thirsty twilight falls,
He hies him gladsome to the well-known place,
Bull-cellar, or, O Johnstoun's, thine! where fond
Of drink and knowledge, erst philosophers
Have met; or Coutts's dark cymerian cell,
Full many a fathom deep: from far he hears
The social clamour through the dome resound,
He speeds amain to join the jovial throng.
So we delighted once. The bowl, meanwhile,
Walked ceaseless still the round, to some fair name
Devoted. Thine, Maria, toasted chief,
With duty obsequious, and thy looks benign
Missed not their due regard. Dundasia fair
Claimed next the kindred lay; nor didst thou pass
Constance uncelebrated or unsung.
Hail, sacred three! hail, sister-minds! may heaven
Pour down uncommon blessings on your heads!

Thus did our younger years in pleasing stream
Flow inoffensive; friendship graced our days,
And dream of loving mistress blessed our night.
Now from these joys conveyed (so fate ordains),
Thou wanderest into foreign realms, from this
Far, far sejoined; no more with us to drain
The ample bowl; or when in heaven sublime
The monthly virgin, from full-gathered globe,
Pours down her amber streams of light, till wide
The ether flame, with choral symphony
Of voice, attempered to sweet hautboy's breath,
Mixed with the violin's silver sound, below
The window of some maid beloved, shall ply
The nightly serenade. To other joys
Thou now must turn, when on the pleasing shore
Of mild Hesperia thou behold'st, amazed,
The venerable urns of ancient chiefs,
Who stern in arms, and resolute to dare,
In freedom's cause have died, or glorious lived:
Camillus, Brutus, great from tyrant's blood;
Coriolanus, famous in exile;
Laurelled Zamean Scipio, the scourge
Of Punic race, or liberty's last hope,
Self-murdered Cato; consecrate to fame,
They live forever in the hearts of men,
Far better monument than costly tomb
Of Egypt's kings. Time, with destructive hand,
Shall moulder into dust the piled up stone
With all its praises! Ah! how vain is fame!
With virtue then immortalize thy life.

But these, so potent nature's will decrees,
Delight not me, on other thoughts intent;

Not studious at midnight lamp to pore
The medal, learned coin where laurel wreathes
The sacred head of kings, or beauty bright
Of kings' sweet paramour, the lettered sage
Or prudent senator, by eating time
Defaced injurious, the faithless trust
Of human greatness. Nor do I incline
To pass the Firth that parts from Gallia's reign
My native coast, solicitous to know
What other lands impart; all my delights
Are with my friends in merry hour at Steel's
Assembled, while unrespited the glass
Swift circles round the board, charged with fair name,
Erskine, or Pringle thine, until the sun
That, setting, warned us to the friendly cups,
Awake, and view our revels incomplete.
But if the heaven's disposer of our fate
Force me, unwilling, shift my native land,
O, in whatever soil my weary feet
Are doomed to stray, O might I meet my friend!
Or, if the rising sun shall gild my steps
On fruitful fields of Ind. Bengalia's shore,
Spice-bearing Tidor's Isle, or where at eve,
Near western Califurn, beneath the main
He sinks in gold; or on vine-fostering hills
Of nearer Latium, nurse of kings and gods.
O, might I view thee on the flowery verge
Of Tiber stream renowned in poet's song,
Or in the Roman streets, with curious eye
Studying the polished stone, or trophied arch
Trajan or Antonin, not long content
With toil unprofitable; thee I'd lead,
Well-pleased, to Horace' tomb, dear laughing bard,
Where the Falernian vintage should inspire
Sweet thoughts of past delight, the goblet rough
With sculptured gold, rosy from Chio's Isle,
Should warm our hearts, sacred to Pringle's cheek
Still glowing, and to sweet Humeia's lip,
To Drummond's eye, Maria's snowy breast
Soft heaving, or to lovely Erskine's smile;
While on the wounded glass the diamond's path
Faithful shall show each favourite virgin's name,
Not without verse and various emblem graced:
The Latian youth, at merry revels met,
In fancy shall admire the Scottish maid,
Bright as the ruddy virgin Roman born;
Nor with their native dames refuse to join,
Impartial, their health beloved: and would
The nine inspire me equal to my choice,
In lays such as the Roman swan might sing,

100

Fair as Horatian Lydia should my Hume
Forever flourish, or Næra bright
Of soft Tibullus' muse the lovely theme.
Nor should alone, in melancholy strains
Of cruel nymph and constant vows refused,
Gallus complain, when on the flinty rock,
Or wailing near earth-diving Arethuse,
Sicilian stream, he made to woods his moan,
Despairing of his loves. Maria's scorn,
Clothed in the style of Mantua, should shine
As thine, Lycoris, theme of future song
Surviving as itself. Maria's scorn
Forever I endure; ah! hard return
To warmth like mine! Nathless, the mourning muse
Must praise the maid still beauteous in her eye,
Crowned with each lovely grace and warm in bloom;
Though sullen to my suit, her ear be shut
Against my vows, ungracious to my love.

But this as time directs; thy health demands
The present care, and joys within our power:
Nor shall we not be mindful of thy love,
Met in our festivals of mirth; but when
Thou to thy native Albion shalt return,
From whate'er coast, or Russia's northern bear,
Inclement sky! or Italy the blest
Indulgent land, the muse's best beloved,
Over a wonderous bowl of flowing punch
We'll plight our hands anew at Don's or Steel's,
Who bears the double keys, of plenty sign;
Or at facetious Thom's, or Adamson,
Who rears alone—what needs she more?—the vine,
Emblem of potent joys! herself with looks
Suasive to drink, fills up the brimming glass,
Well-pleased to see the sprightly healths go round!

Hail, and farewell! may heaven defend thee safe,
And to thy natal shore and longing friends
Restore thee, when thy destined toils are o'er,
Polished with manners and enriched with arts.

“The Bonny Bush aboon Traquair.” —Ballad.

Keith's—a celearated coffee-house.

Both “Don's and Steill's” are mentioned by Ramsay as celebrated taverns in his time; the others are unrecorded, so far as we are aware, save in this poem.

101

TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER SINGING.

Such, skill'd the tender verse to frame,
And softly strike the golden lyre;
A stranger to the softening flame,
And new to ev'ry mild desire.

Sweets that crown the budding year,
Pour'd from the zephyr's tepid wing,
Saw Sappho in the grove appear,
The rival of the vocal spring.

To try the heart-subduing strains,
Anon the vernal scenes impel
O'er lofty rocks and rilly plains
Soft warbled from th' Eolian shell.

Or such as in the bright abodes,
The youngest muse with glories crown'd,
To whom the sire of men and gods
Gave all the enchanting pow'r of sound.

As at the banquet of the sky,
Freed from the giant's impious arms,
She drew each heavenly ear and eye,
With beauty mingling music's charms.

Had such a voice sure to prevail,
Soft, warbled from the syren strand,
What wonder, if each amorous sail
Spontaneous sought the tuneful land.

Even thou who cautious wing'st thy way,
Had given thy tedious wand'rings o'er;
By Julia's all-persuading lay
Fix'd ever to the pleasing shore.

A face so sweet had sure prevail'd
With wisdom's self to hear the voice,
Whilst both the yielding heart assail'd,
Here wisdom might have fix'd his choice.

102

SONG.

[Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale]

Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale
Where Yarrow streams along,
Forsake your rural toils and join
In my triumphant song.
She grants, she yields; one heavenly smile
Atones her long delays,
One happy minute crowns the pains
Of many suff'ring days.
Raise, raise the victor notes of joy,
These suffering days are o'er,
Love satiates now his boundless wish
From beauty's boundless store;
No doubtful hopes, no anxious fears
This rising calm destroy,
Now every prospect smiles around
All opening into joy.
The sun with double lustre shone
That dear consenting hour,
Brighten'd each hill, and o'er each vale
New colour'd every flower;
The gales their gentle sighs withheld,
No leaf was seen to move,
The hov'ring songsters round were mute,
And wonder hush'd the grove.
The hills and dales no more resound
The lambkin's tender cry,
Without one murmur Yarrow stole
In dimpling silence by;
All nature seem'd in still repose
Her voice alone to hear,
That gently roll'd the tuneful wave,
She spoke and blest my ear.
Take, take, whate'er of bless or joy
You fondly fancy mine,
Whate'er of joy or bless I boast
Love renders wholly thine;
The woods struck up, to the soft gale,
The leaves were seen to move,
The feather'd choir resum'd their voice,
And wonder filled the grove.
The hills and dales again resound
The lambkin's tender cry,
With all his murmurs Yarrow trill'd
The song of triumph by;
Above, beneath, around, all on
Was verdure, beauty, song,
I snatch'd her to my trembling breast,
All nature joy'd along.

103

SONG.

[Go, plaintive sounds! and to the fair]

Go, plaintive sounds! and to the fair
My secret wounds impart,
Tell all I hope, tell all I fear,
Each motion in my heart.

But she, methinks, is list'ning now,
To some enchanting strain,
The smile that triumphs o'er her brow,
Seems not to heed my pain.

Yes, plaintive sounds, yet, yet delay,
Howe'er my love repine,
Let that gay minute pass away,
The next, perhaps, is thine.

Yes, plaintive sounds, no longer crost,
Your griefs shall soon be o'er,
Her cheek undimpled now, has lost
The smile it lately wore.

Yes, plaintive sounds, she now is yours,
'Tis now your time to move;
Essay to soften all her pow'rs,
And be that softness, love.

Cease, plaintive sounds, your task is done,
That anxious tender air
Proves o'er her heart the conquest won,
I see you melting there.

Return, ye smiles, return again,
Return each sprightly grace,
I yield up to your charming reign,
All that enchanting face.

I take no outward shew amiss,
Rove where they will, her eyes,
Still let her smiles each shepherd bless,
So she but hear my sighs.

104

SONG.

[You ask me, charming fair]

You ask me, charming fair,
Why thus I pensive go,
From whence proceeds my care,
What nourishes my woe?

Why seek'st the cause to find
Of ills that I endure?
Ah! why so vainly kind
Unless resolv'd to cure?

It needs no magic art,
To know whence my alarms,
Examine your own heart,
Go read them in your charms.

Whene'er the youthful quire,
Along the vale advance,
To raise, at your desire,
The lay, or form the dance.

Beneficent to each,
You some kind grace afford,
Gentle in deed or speech,
A smile or friendly word.

Whilst on my love you put
No value;—Or the same,
As if my fire was but
Some paltry village flame.

At this my colour flies,
My breast with sorrow heaves,
The pain I would disguise,
Nor man nor maid deceives.

My love stands all-display'd,
Too strong for art to hide,
How soon the heart's betray'd
With such a clue to guide!

How cruel is my fate,
Affronts I could have borne,
Found comfort in your hate,
Or triumph'd in your scorn.

But whilst I thus adore,
I'm driven to wild despair;
Indifference is more
Than raging love can bear.

105

SPEECH OF RANDOLPH.

Bruce, Book II.

Demand'st thou, mighty Bruce! to know from whence
My lineage I derive; then hear a tale
Well known through fair Stirlina's fruitful bounds,
My native land; of ancient Scottish kings,
Thy royal ancestry, O Bruce, am I
Undoubted offspring; and, forgive the boast,
From the same fount my blood united flows,
Allied to thine. As yet Cameldoun's walls
By Forth, delightful stream! encircled stood
The seat of Edenuther, Pictish king;
To whose destruction, eager to revenge
The breach of faith and hospitable laws
Insulted—His embattled host
Fierce Corbred led: for, from Dunstaffnage towers,
Pretending love, and hymeneal rite,
The treacherous Pict, with meditated force,
Bore Ethelind, her country's justest pride,
Peerless and fair; a thousand heroes fought
For her to death, fierce raging round the walls
Of lofty Cameldoun: the guilty prince
Had dearly paid the price of faith foresworn;
But, studious of new frauds, within his walls
H' invites the Scottish train, friendly to meet
In amicable talk, fair Ethelind
To be the pledge of future peace, and join
The warring nations in eternal league
Of love connubial: the unwitting king
Enter'd the hostile gates; with feast and song
The towers resound, till the dark midnight hour
Awake the murderers: in sleep he fell
With all his peers, in early life, and left
His vowed revenge, and sister unredeemed.

Now was the royal virgin left expos'd
To the fell victor's lust, no friend to aid;
Her brother slain, and fierce and mighty chiefs
That warr'd in her defence: how could, alas!
Unshelter'd, helpless innocence resist
Th' infernal ravisher? with stedfast mind
She scorn'd his proffer'd love; by virtue's aid
Triumphing o'er his lust. In vain, with tears
And rough complaint, that spoke a savage heart,
Strove he to gain and woo her to his will:
In vain, enrag'd and ruthless in his love,
He threaten'd. Death disdain'd, force was the last,

106

But that her arm oppos'd, resolv'd to strike
The poignard in her breast, her virtues guard.
All arts thus tried in vain, at last incens'd,
Deep in a dungeon, from the cheerful light
Far, far remov'd, the wretched maid he threw
Deplorable; doom'd in that dwelling drear
To waste her anxious days and sleepless nights.
Anguish extreme! ah, how unlike these hours
That in her father's palace wont to pass
In festival and dance. Her piteous shrieks
Mov'd her stern keeper's heart; secret he frees
The imprison'd maid; and to the king relates
Her death, dissembling. Then with fell despite
And rage, inflam'd for unenjoy'd love,
The monarch storm'd, he loath'd his food and fled
All human converse, frustrate of his will.

Meanwhile the nymph forsakes the hostile walls,
Flying by night; through pathless wilds unknown
Guileless she wanders; in her frighted ears
Still hears the tyrant's voice; in fancy views
His form terrific, and his dreaded front
Severe in frowns; her tender heart is vex'd
With every fear, and oft desires to die.
Now day return'd and cheerful light began
T' adorn the heav'ns, lost in the hills she knew
No certain path; around the dreary waste
Sending her weeping eye, in vain requir'd
Her native fields, Dunstaffnage well-known tow'rs,
And high Edesta's walls, her father's reign.

Three days the royal wanderer bore the heat
Intensely fervent, and three lonesome nights,
Wet with the chilling dews, the forest oak
Supplied her food, and at the running stream,
Patient, she slaked her thirst; but when the fourth
Arose, descending from the Ochil height,
The flow'ry fields beneath she wander'd long
Erroneous, disconsolate, forlorn.
Jerne's stream she pass'd, a rising hill
Stood on the bank opposed, adorn'd with trees,
A sylvan scene! Thither she bent her flight
O'ercome with toil, and gently laid her down
In the embow'ring shade: the dew of sleep
Fell on her weary eyes; then pleasing dreams
Began to lay the tempest in her mind,
Calming from troubled thoughts: to regal pomp
She seems restored, her brother's fate revenged,
The tyrant slain: she dream'd till morn arose,
The fifth that rose, since from Cameldoun's walls
She bent her flight; the cheerful day invites
From fair Dundalgan's ever sunny towers,

107

Mildred t' arise, who oft in fields of death
Victorious led the Picts' embattled race.
Illustrious chief! He to the hilly height,
His morning walk, pleased with the season fair,
Betakes him musing. There it was he saw
Fair Ethelind, surprised as Hengist's son
Elfred asleep beheld, when as she fled
From Saxony, to shun a step-dame's rage
That sought her life, he with prevailing words
Woo'd the consenting maid: nor less amaz'd
The Pictish leader saw the beauteous form,
Fixt in surprise and ardent gaze, he stood
Wond'ring! his beating heart with joy o'erflow'd.
He led her blushing from the sacred grove
In bashful modesty, and doubting joy
Chastis'd with fear, alternate in her breast,
Poor lovely mourner! To his parents show'd
The beauteous stranger; they, in age rever'd,
Lift up their trembling hands and blest the maid,
Best workmanship of heaven! The youthful chief,
Transported, every day his guest beheld,
And every day beheld with new delight,
Her winning graces mild, and form divine,
That drew with soft attraction, kindling love,
Inflam'd his soul: still new delays he frames
To gain a longer stay, ere he restore
The beauteous exile to her native land,
His promis'd faith. The story of her woes
He o'er and o'er demands; she pleas'd relates
Her past adventures sad, but, prudent, kept
Unknown her royal race; the ardent youth
Hangs on the speaker's lips, still more and more
Enamour'd of her charms, by courtly deed
He sought the virgin's love; by prayers and vows
Won to consent; the nuptial day arose,
Awak'd by music's sound; the gods invok'd
To bless the hallow'd rite, and happy night
That to his arms bestow'd the much-lov'd maid,
The gift of heaven: then gladness fill'd his heart
Unspeakable, as when the sapient king
The son of David, on the happy day
Of his espousals, when his mother bound
His brow in regal gold, delighted saw
His fair Egyptian bride adorn'd with all
Perfection, blooming in celestial sweets.

While thus the royal exile liv'd remote
In hymen's softest joys, the Scottish chiefs
Prepare for battle, studious to redeem
Their captive Queen, unknowing of her fate;
With just success unbless'd, discomfited

108

They fell in ruthless fight, their mighty men,
Unworthy bondage! helpless exiles sold
To foreign lands. The Pictish king, enrag'd,
Collects a host, embattl'd as the sands
Along the Solway coast, from all the bounds
Of his wide empire, Bricca's rising towers
And Jeda's ancient walls, once seat of kings,
With Edin, rais'd on rocks, and Cameldoun,
Send forth their chiefs and citizens to war,
Pour'd through their lofty gates. What anguish then,
O royal virgin! vex'd thy tender heart,
To see thy husband, of thy country's foes
Enroll'd their leader? Much didst thou adjure
By nuptial ties, much by endearing love,
To spare thy country in the waste of war;
He, too, the youthful chief, long doubting stood
'Twixt love and duty, unresolved of choice;
Hard conflict! To Dunstaffnage walls he flies,
And left the weeping fair, intent to drown
The voice of love, soft pleading in his heart,
In sounds of battle; but in vain! His wife,
A beauteous form, still rises to his thoughts
In supplicating tears; he grieves to see
The mingling hosts engage, and dreads to find
Amidst the slain, his kindred new allied.

But now the Pictish king, with mighty chiefs
Selected from his peers, pursues his way
To rase the Scottish walls; Dundalgan's towers
Receive their monarch, proud to entertain
The mighty guest: exults the haughty king
With savage joy, when first his eyes beheld
The maid so lately lost, again restor'd,
Sad victim to his lust: what could she do,
Hopeless of aid? or how, alas! avert
The dire event that from the monarch's lust
Her fears presaged? 'Twas heaven her thoughts inspir'd
In hour of sad extreme; she flies the dome
With two, alone of all her menial train,
Companions of her flight. The king, meanwhile,
Fierce with desire, and violent to enjoy,
Him nor the bowl delights, nor sprightly mirth,
Nor tale of martial knight in ancient time
Recited: the unfinish'd feast he leaves
With wine inflam'd, and ill-persuading lust,
Worst counsellor! a secret way he found
That to the Queen's apartment led unseen;
Thither he flies through many a lofty hall,
Where heroes oft have met in grave consult,
Elate in thought; but, heavens! what fell despite,
What raging pain, tore his distracted mind,

109

When first he knew the royal fair was fled?
Desperate in rage, he hopes his absent prey,
Intent to ravish. Hurrying to the camp,
He sought the general's tent, begirt around
With noble Picts, there weeping Ethelind,
In soft'ned anguish, on the hero's breast
He found reclining sad: he would have seiz'd
The trembling fair one, from her lover's arms,
Her surest refuge, miserably torn,
Victim to lust obscene, had not the youth
Withstood the dire attempt of sovereign sway
Haughty; the monarch rag'd, and call'd his chiefs
To aid; his chiefs refuse th' unjust command;
Then impotent of mind he storm'd, he rav'd
Outrageous in his ire: then wild uproar,
Tumult and martial din sound o'er the camp,
While these assist the king, and these the youth,
By fearless friendship led: the clash of swords
Through the still night, heard on the Scottish walls,
Alarms the chiefs, in midnight counsel met;
The boldest of their warrior train they choose
For secret ambush; sheath'd in jointed mail,
Th' intrepid band, beneath a bending hill,
Await the rising dawn; Mildred they seiz'd,
The royal exile and their social train,
Flying the monarch's rage: the beauteous queen
Rejoices to behold her native walls,
So long exil'd: her peers with lifted hands
Extoll'd the bounteous gods, their Queen return'd,
The wondrous work of fate; now she relates
Her direful tale, the audience melt in tears.

Meanwhile the monarch, raging in the camp,
Forsook of all his peers, for fierce assault
Prepar'd, attended with a desperate crew
Of men, that shar'd in partnership of crimes,
March'd, forward to his fate; the ambush'd foe
Rise sudden, round them spread the slaughter'd dead;
Himself, as furious in the front he warr'd,
Bled by a well-aim'd spear; to punish'd ghosts
Of kings perfidious, fled his guilty soul.

The monarch slain, the Pictish chiefs that late
Forsook the noisy camp, convene within
The Scottish walls; the princes joyful plight
In leagues of mutual peace. In every fane
Each grateful altar blazed; to heaven they paid
Their vows, their queen restored, and with her peace,
The purchase of her love; through all the town
Public rejoicings reigned; the voice of mirth
Was heard in every street, that blazing shone,
Illuminated bright. The diadem,

110

Instarr'd with diamond, gems, and flaming gold,
Magnificent! by Scotia's monarchs worn
From olden times, upon her beauteous brow
Placed by a mitred priest, in rich array
Encircling, shines; her native peers around,
Mixed with the Pictish chiefs, admiring stand,
Pleased with her heavenly smiles, her gentle look,
The type of softer rule. Then next they gave
The sceptre to her hands; the precious stones
Blazed on the beaming point: Hail! Queen of Scots,
Joyful they cry; hail! to thy own returned,
Safe from a thousand toils, beyond our hopes
Crown'd where thy fathers reigned. Thus passed the night
In celebrated rites; when morn arose
The assembled senate, partner of her throne,
Elect the noble youth, in times of peace
To aid by counsel, and in war to lead
Her marshalled chiefs: thus ended all her woes.

Blessed in her husband's and her subjects' love,
Peace flourished in her reign: three sons she bore,
All men of valour known, well could they bend
The bow in time of need. Her eldest, graced
With all the train of virtues that adorn
A prince, succeeded to the Scottish rule,
His mother's kingdom. In his happy days,
The Scottish prowess twice o'erthrew the Dane
In bloody conflict, from our fatal shore
Repulsed with ignominious rout, disgraced.
Her second hope, born to unluckier fate,
Matchless in fight and every gallant deed,
The terror of his foes, his country's hope,
In ruthless battle, by ignoble hands,
Fell in the prime of youth, forever wept,
Forever honoured. Athingart the last,
For prudence far renowned, Elgidra's charms
The hero fired, as in her father's court
A peaceful legate by his brother sent
To Pictland's monarch; there the royal youth,
Graceful, in warlike tournament above
His equals shone, and won the princely maid,
Courted by rival kings. From that embrace
Descend a thousand chiefs, that lineal heired
The virtues of their sire; witness the fields
Of Loncart, and the streams that purple ran
With stain of Danish blood. The brazen spears
And crested helms, and antique shields, the spoils
Of chiefs in battle slain, hung on the roof,
Eternal trophies of their martial deeds,
From son to son preserved with jealous care.
My father in his country's quarrel met

111

A glorious fate, when godlike Wallace fought;
He, firm adherer to the nobler cause,
Shared all his toils, and bled in all his fights,
Till Falkirk saw him fall; with Graham he fell,
Wallace his bold compeer, whom, great in arms,
Wallace alone surpassed. With martial thoughts
He fired my youthful mind, and taught betimes
To build my glory on my country's love,
His great example! To thy native reign,
If thee, thy fate propitious to the good
Restored, h' enjoined me to unite my force,
From foreign victors to retrieve again
Thy ravished kingdom. Then this sword he gave,
In dangers ever faithful to his arm,
Pledge of paternal love; nor shall the foe
Exult, I ween, to find the dastard son
Degenerate from his sire, to wield in vain
A father's gift. In me, O Bruce, behold
A willing warrior: from Bodotria's stream
I lead my native bands, hardy and bold,
In fight distinguished by superior deed.

He said, and ceased; the armed assembly stood
Silent in thought, till from his lofty seat
Great Bruce arose. O, noble youth! he cried,
Descended from a line of noble sires,
Accept thy monarch's thanks! Welcome thyself;
Welcome thy sequent chiefs; thy country, sore
Oppressed by dire usurpers, now demands
Warriors like thee, where death and bloodshed reign
In conflict stern; do thou approve thy might
Above thy fellows, by transcendant acts
To fame endeared. She, on thy praise well pleased
Constant to dwell, shall rear thee up on high
The loftiest branch, t' adorn thy ancient stem.

He spake, and gave the youth his plighted hand,
Pledge of benevolence and kind intent;
The chiefs around embrace, and glad receive
The youthful champion, worthy of his race.

112

DOVES.

—A FRAGMENT.

Of Doves, sweet gentle birds, the heaven-born muse
Prepares to sing, their manners and what law,
The blameless race obey, their cares and loves.
O sacred virgin, that, to me unseen
Yet present, whispers nightly in my ear
Love-dited song or tale of martial knight,
As best becomes the time, and aidful grants
Celestial grace implor'd, O, bounteous, say
What fav'rite maid in her first bloom of youth
Wilt choose to honour? Seem I not to see
The laurel shake, and hear the voice divine
Sound in mine ear: ‘With Erskine best agrees
‘The song of doves: herself a dove, well pleas'd
‘Will listen to the tale benign, and hear
‘How the chaste bird with word's of fondling love,
‘Soft billing, woo's his mate, their spousal joys,
‘Pure and unstained with jealous fear of change;
‘How studious they to build their little nests,
‘Nature's artificers! and tender, breed
‘Their unfledg'd children, till they wing their flight,
‘Each parent's care.’ Come, as the muse ordains,
O thou of every grace, whose looks of love,
Erskine, attractive, draw all wond'ring eyes
Constant to gaze; and whose subduing speech
Drops as the honeycomb, and grace is pour'd
Into thy lips: forever thee attends
Sweetness thy handmaid, and, with beauty, clothes
As with the morning's robe invested round:
O come, again invok'd, and smiling lend
Thy pleas'd attention, whilst in figured silk
Thy knowing needle plants th' embroider'd flower
As in its native bed: so may'st thou find
Delight perpetual and th' inclining ear
Of heaven propitious to thy maiden vow,
When thou shalt seek from love a youth adorn'd
With all perfection, worthy of thy choice,
To bless thy night of joy and social care.
O happy he, for whom the vow is made. [OMITTED]

113

THE WISH.

If join'd to make up virtue's glorious tale,
A weak, but pious aid can aught avail,
Each sacred study, each diviner page
That once inspired my youth, shall soothe my age.
Deaf to ambition, and to interest's call;
Honour my titles, and enough my all;
No pimp of pleasure, and no slave of state,
Serene from fools, and guiltless of the great,
Some calm and undisurb'd retreat I'll choose
Dear to myself and friends. Perhaps the muse
May grant, while all my thoughts her charms employ,
If not a future fame, a present joy,
Pure from each feverish hope, each weak desire;
Thoughts that improve, and slumbers that inspire,
A steadfast peace of mind, rais'd far above
The guilt of hate and weaknesses of love,
Studious of life, yet free from anxious care,
To others candid, to myself severe,
Filial, submissive to the sovereign will,
Glad of the good, and patient of the ill.
I'll work in narrow sphere, what heaven approves,
Abating hatreds, and increasing loves;
My friendship, studies, pleasures, all my own,
Alike to envy and to fame unknown:
Such in some blest asylum let me lie,
Take off my fill of life, and wait, not wish to die.

A SERIOUS THOUGHT.

Thro' life's strange mystic paths, how mankind strays!
A contradiction still in all their ways;
In youth's gay bloom, in wealth's insulting hour;
As heav'n all mercy was, they live secure,
Yet full of fears, and anxious doubts expire,
And in the awful judge forget the sire.
Fair virtue then with faithful steps pursue,
Thy good deeds many, thy offences few;
That at the general doom thou may'st appear
With filial hope to soothe thy conscious fear;
Then to perpetual bliss expect to live,
Thy Saviour is thy judge, and may forgive.

114

PALINODE.

O happy youth, who now possest
Of my Maria's smiles are blest;
Think not thy joys will constant prove,
How many changes are in love!
I once was happy too like thee,
That sun of beauty shone on me:
In darkness ever to deplore,
The sun is set to shine no more;
Doom'd ne'er to view the rising light,
But weep out love's eternal night.

When first I spread the lover's sail,
Love blew from shore a friendly gale;
Sweet appear'd th' enchanting scene,
All calm below, above serene:
Joyous I made before the wind,
Heedless of what I left behind;
Nor rocks, nor quicksands did I dread,
No adverse winds to check my speed:
No savage pirate did I fear,
To ravish all my soul held dear;
Far off my treasure to convey,
And sell in foreign lands away:
Maria's hand unfurl'd the sails,
Her prayers invok'd the springing gales:
'Twas calm whate'er her eyes survey'd;
Her voice the raging storm obey'd;
And o'er the bosom of the tides,
Her will the ruling rudder guides.
But ah! the change, she flies away,
And will vouchsafe no longer stay.
See now the swelling seas arise,
Loud storming winds enrage the skies.
All weak the tempest to withstand,
Trembling and pale I put to land.
Wet from the tossing surge, aghast
I thank the gods, the danger's past;
And swear to venture out no more,
Secure upon the safer shore:
Yet should the swelling seas subside,
And rose serene a silver tide;
Yet should the angry tempest cease,
And gently breathe a gale of peace;
Much, much I fear, I'd dare again
A second shipwreck on the main.

115

EPITAPH ON MRS COLQUHOUN OF LUSS.

Unblam'd, O sacred shrine, let me draw near,
A sister's ashes claim a brother's tear,
No semblant arts this copious spring supply,
'Tis nature's drops, that swell in friendship's eye;
O'er this sad tomb, see kneeling brothers bend,
Who wail a sister, that excell'd a friend;
A child like this each parent's wish engage,
Grace of his youth and solace of his age:
Hence the chaste virgin learn each pious art
Who sighs sincere to bless a virtuous heart,
The faithful youth, when heaven the choice inspires,
Such hope the partner of his kind desires.
Oh early lost! yet early all fulfill'd
Each tender office of wife, sister, child:
All these in early youth, thou hadst obtain'd;
The fair maternal pattern yet remain'd,
Heaven sought not that—else heaven had bid to spare,
To thine succeeds now Providence's care—
Amidst the pomp that to the dead we give
To soothe the vanity of those that live,
Receive thy destin'd place, a hallow'd grave,
'Tis all we can bestow, or thou canst crave.
Be these the honours that embalm thy name,
The matron's praise, woman's best silent fame,
Such to remembrance dear, thy worth be found,
When queens and flatterers sleep forgot around,
'Till awful sounds shall break the solemn rest,
Then wake amongst the blest, forever blest.
Meanwhile upon this stone, thy name shall live,
Sure heaven will let this pious verse survive.

ON A SUMMER-HOUSE IN MY OWN GARDEN.

Whilst round my head the zephyrs gently play,
To calm reflection I resign the day;
From all the servitudes of life releast
I bid mild friendship to the sober feast,
Nor beauty banish from the hallow'd ground,
She enters here to solace not to wound,
All else excluded from the sacred spot,
One-half detested, and one-half forgot:
All the mad human tumult, what to me?
Here chaste Calliope, I live with thee.

116

EPITAPH ON MISS SETON.

[_]

INTERRED IN THE CHAPEL OF SETON-HOUSE.

In these once hallowed walls' neglected shade,
Sacred to piety and to the dead,
Where the long line of Seton's race repose,
Whose tombs to wisdom, or to valour rose;
Tho' now a thankless age, to slav'ry prone,
Past fame despising, careless of its own,
Records no more; each public virtue fled,
Who wisely counsell'd, or who bravely bled.
Tho' here the warrior shield is hung no more,
But every violated trophy tore.
Heaven's praise, man's honour, share one shameful lot,
God and his image both alike forgot.
To this sweet maid a kindred place is due,
Her earth shall consecrate these walls anew,
The muse that listens to desert alone,
Snatches from fate, and seals thee for her own.

This alludes to the plundering and defacing of Seton House and Chapel by the Hanoverians, in 1715.—See trial of the Earl of Wintoun for high treason, in “State Trials.”

EPITAPH ON MR CUNINGHAME OF CRAIGENDS.

A son, a wife, bade the plain marble rise;
Beneath the sacred shade a good man lies.
In Britain's senate long unblam'd he sat
And anxious trembled for her doubtful fate.
Above all giddy hopes, all selfish ends,
His country was his family and friends.
Children! weep not, thus cruelly bereft;
The fair example of his life is left;
Another far more lasting, safe estate
Than e'er descended from the rich and great;
Theirs fall to time or fortune soon a prey;
Or the poor gift of kings, kings snatch away:
Your blest succession never can be less,
Still as you imitate you still possess.

117

HORACE, ODE V., BOOK I., IMITATED.

What happy youth, Maria, now
Breathes in thy willing ear his vow?
With whom thou spend'st thy evening hours
Amidst the sweets of breathing flowers,
For whom, retired to secret shade,
Soft on thy panting bosom laid,
Thou sett'st thy looks with nicest care,
And bind'st in gold thy flowing hair?
O, neatly plain! How oft shall he
Bewail thy false inconstancy?
Condemned perpetual frowns to prove,
How often weep thy altered love?
Who thee, too credulous, hopes to find,
As now, still golden and still kind,
Unheedless now of fortune's power,
Sets far away the evil hour?
How oft shall thou, ill-starr'd, bewail
Thou trusted to the faithless gale!
When unaccustom'd to survey
The rising winds and swelling sea;
When clouds shall rise on that dear face,
That shone adorn'd in ev'ry grace;
That yet untaught in wicked wiles
Was wont t' appear to thee in smiles.
Wretch'd they to whom thou shin'st, untried
Thy shifting, calm and treacherous tide:
For me, safe shipwreck'd on the shore,
I venture out my bark no more.

HORACE, BOOK I., ODE VII., IMITATED.

TO THE EARL OF STAIR.

Let others, in exalted lays,
The lofty dome of Hopetoun praise;
Or where of old, in lonely cell,
The musing Druid wont to dwell:
Or with the sacred sisters roam
Near holy Melrose' ruin'd dome.

118

There are who paint with all their might
The fields where Fortha's streams delight;
That winding through Stirlina's plain,
Beauteous seeks the distant main:
Or faithful to the farmer's toil,
Extol fair Lothian's fertile soil;
Where Ceres her best gift bestows,
And Edin town her structures shows.
Nor me delight those sylvan scenes,
Those chequer'd bow'rs and winding greens;
Where art and nature join to yield
Unnumber'd sweets to Marlefield:
Nor yet that soft and secret shade
Where fair Aboyn asleep is laid;
Where gay in sprightly dance no more
She dreams her former triumphs o'er.
These scenes can best entice my soul,
Where smooth Blancatria's waters roll;
Where beauteous Hume, in smiling hour,
Plucks the green herb or rising flow'r;
Pleas'd on the borders to behold
The apple redden into gold.

But whate'er place thy presence boast,
Let not, O Stair! one hour be lost:
When the rough north and angry storm
Nature's lovely looks deform;
The south restores the wonted grace,
And wipes the clouds from heaven's face.
So thou, to finish all thy care,
The flask of brisk champagne prepare;
Invite thy friends, with wise design,
And wash the ills of life with wine:
Whether beneath the open sky,
Stretch'd in the tented couch to lie,
Thy fate ordains; to shine again
Great on some future Blenheim's plain;
Higher to raise thy deathless name
Triumphant to sublimer fame:
Or, if secure from feverish heat,
Newliston cover thy retreat;
Where wit conspires with love's delights,
To grace thy days and bless thy nights.

119

When Fergus led, in days of yore,
His exil'd bands to Scotia's shore;
The godlike founder of our state,
Sustain'd the shocks of adverse fate:
Yet brave, disdaining to repine,
Around his brows he bound the vine:
Let's follow still, without delay,
Wherever fortune shows the way;
Courage, my lads, let none despair,
When Fergus leads, 'tis base to fear:
With better auspice shall arise
Our empire in the northern skies;
Beauty and valour shall adorn
Our happy offspring yet unborn;
Now fill the glass, come fill again,
To-morrow we shall cross the main.

The well-known Earl of Stair; but it is passing strange, from his family politics, that Hamilton should have sung his praises.

Grace, daughter of George Lockhart of Carnwath (author of the “Memoirs,”) by Lady Euphemia Montgomerie, daughter of Alexander, sixth Earl of Eglintoun. She married, 1st, John, third Earl of Aboyne; 2dly, James Lord Down, afterwards Earl of Moray; and died from fright, owing to the predictions of a fortune-teller.

HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XXII.

TO R. S.

The man sincere, and pure of ill,
Needs not with shafts his quiver fill,
Nor point the venom'd dart;
O'er him no weapon can prevail,
Clad in the firmest coat of mail,
A brave and honest heart.

Secure in innocence he goes,
Through boiling firths and highland snows;
Or if his course he guide
To where the far-fam'd Lomond's waves
Around his islands winding, laves
Buchanan's hilly side.

For in Glendouglas as I stood,
And sung my Erskine to the wood,
Unheeding of my way,
Light of my cares, forsook behind,
And all on Erskine ran my mind,
It chanc'd my steps to stray,

120

When lo! forth rushing from behind
A savage wolf, of monstrous kind,
Fierce shook his horrid head;
Unarm'd I stood, and void of fear,
Beheld the monstrous savage near,
And me unarm'd he fled.

A beast of such portentous size,
Such hideous tusks and glaring eyes,
Fierce Daunia never bred;
Nor Juba's land, without control,
Where angry lions darkling howl,
His equal ever fed.

Place me where the summer breeze
Does ne'er refresh the weary trees,
All on the gloomy plain;
Which side of earth offended heaven
To the dominion foul has given,
Of clouds and beating rain.

Place me beneath the blaze of day,
Near neighbour to the burning ray,
Yet there the maid shall move;
There present to my fancy's eyes,
Sweet smiling Erskine will I prize,
Sweet speaking Erskine love.

HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XXIII.

TO MISS DALRYMPLE.

Tell me, Maria, tell me why
Thou dost from him that loves thee run;
Why from his fond embraces fly,
And every soft endearment shun?

So, through the rocks or dewy lawn,
With plaintive cries, its dam to find,

121

Flies, wing'd with fears, the youngling fawn,
And trembles at each breath of wind.

Ah! stop thy flight, why should'st thou fly?
What can'st thou in a lover fear?
No angry boar nor lion I,
Pursue thy tender limbs, to tear.

Cease then, dear wild one, cease to toy;
But haste all rivals to outshine,
And grown mature and ripe for joy,
Leave mamma's arms and come to mine.

HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XXIV., IMITATED.

TO A YOUNG LADY ON THE DEATH OF HER FATHER.

I.

What measure shall affliction know?
What bounds be set to such a woe,
That weeps the loss of one so dear!
Come, muse of mourning! haste, ordain
The sacred melancholy strain:
When virtue bids, 'tis impious to forbear.

II.

Thy voice, with powerful blessings fraught,
Inspires the solemn, serious thought;
A heav'nly sorrow's healing art,
That, whilst it wounds, amends the heart.
A far more pleasing rapture thine,
When bending over friendship's shrine,
Than mirth's fantastic varied lay,
Deceitful, idle, flutt'ring, vain,
Still shifting betwixt joy and pain,
Where sport the wanton, or where feast the gay.

III.

In dust the good and friendly lies.
Must endless slumber seal those eyes?—
Oh! when shall modest Worth again,
Integrity, that knows no stain,
Thy sister, Justice, free from blame,
Kind Truth, no false affected name,
To meet in social union, find
So plain, so upright and so chaste a mind?

122

IV.

By many good bewail'd, he's lost;
By thee, O beauteous virgin! most.
Thou claim'st, ah pious! ah, in vain!
Thy father from the grave again.
Not on those terms, by dooming heav'n,
His loan of mortal life was giv'n.
The equal lot is cast on all,
Obedient to the universal call.
Ev'n thou, each decent part fulfill'd,
Wife, sister, mother, friend and child,
Must yield to the supreme decree,
And every social virtue weep for thee.

V.

What tho' thou boasts each soul-subduing art,
That rules the movements of the human heart;
Tho' thine be every potent charm,
The rage of envy to disarm:
Thus far heav'n grants, the great reward
Of beauty, under virtue's guard:
Yet all in vain ascends thy pious pray'r,
To bid the impartial Pow'r one moment spare;
That Pow'r who chastens whom he dearest loves,
Deaf to the filial sorrows he approves:
Seal'd sacred by th' inviolable fates,
Unlocks no more the adamantine gates,
When once th' etherial breath has wing'd its way,
And left behind its load of mortal clay.

VI.

Severe indeed! yet cease the duteous tear;
'Tis nature's voice that calls aloud, “Forbear.”
See, see descending to thy aid,
Patience, fair celestial maid:
She strikes thro' life's dark gloom a bright'ning ray,
And smiles adversity away.
White-handed Hope advances in her train,
Leads to new life, and wakens joy again;
She renders light the weight of human woes,
And teaches to submit when 'tis a crime t' oppose.

HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XXXII., IMITATED.

TO HIS LYRE.

If e'er with thee we fool'd away,
Vacant beneath the shade, a day,
Still kind to our desire,

123

A Scottish song we now implore,
To live this year and some few more;
Come, then, my Scottish lyre.

First strung by Stuart's cunning hand,
Who rul'd fair Scotia's happy land,
A long and wide domain;
Who bold in war, yet whither he
Reliev'd his wave-beat ship from sea,
Or camp'd upon the plain.

The joys of wine, and muses young,
Soft Beauty and her page he sung,
That still to her adheres;
Margaret, author of his sighs,
Adorn'd with comely coal-black eyes,
And comely coal-black hairs.

O thou, the grace of song and love,
Exalted to the feasts above,
The feast's supreme delight;
Sweet balm, to heal our cares below,
Gracious on me thy aid bestow,
If thee I seek aright.

HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XXIII., IMITATED.

TO A GENTLEMAN IN LOVE.

Why dost thou still in tears complain,
Too mindful of thy love's disdain?
Why still in melancholy verse
Unmeek Maria's hate rehearse?
That Thirsis finds, by fate's decree,
More favour in her sight than thee?
The love of Cyrus does enthral
Lycoris fair, with forehead small;
Cyrus declines to Pholoe's eyes,
Who unrelenting hears his sighs:
But wolves and lambs shall sooner join,
Than they in mutual faith combine.
So seemeth good to Love, who binds
Unequal forms, unequal minds;
Cruel in his brazen yoke,
Pleas'd with too severe a joke.

124

Myself, in youth's more joyous reign,
My laundress held in pleasing chain;
When, pliable to love's delights,
My age excus'd the poet's flights;
More wrathful she than storms that roar
Along the Solway's crooked shore.

HORACE, BOOK II., ODE IV., IMITATED.

TO THE EARL MARSHAL OF SCOTLAND.

“Ne sit ancillæ tibi amor pudori.”

I.

A vow, my noble friend, thy kind desires,
If Phillis' gentle form thy breast inspires,
Nor glory, nor can reason disapprove;
What tho' unknown her humble name,
Unchronicled in records old,
Or tale by flatt'ring poets told:
She to her beauties owes her noblest fame,
Her noblest honours to thy love.

II.

Know Cupid scorns the trophied shield,
Vain triumph of some guilty field,
Where dragons hiss and lions roar,
Blazon'd with argent and with or,
His heraldry is hearts for hearts,
He stamps himself o'er all, and dignifies his darts.

III.

Smote by a simple village maid,
See noble Petrarch night and day
Pour his soft sorrows thro' the shade;
Nor could the muse his pains allay:
What tho' with hands pontific crown'd,
With all the scarlet senate round;
He saw his brows adorn the living ray,
Tho' sighing virgins tried each winning art,
To cure the gentle poet's love-sick heart:
Cupid more pow'rful than them all,
Resolv'd his tuneful captive to enthral,

125

Subdued him with a shepherdess's look;
He wreathes his verdant honours round her crook,
And taught Vall Clusa's smiling groves,
To wear the sable liveries of his loves.

IV.

But this example scarce can move thy mind,
The gentle power with verse was ever join'd:
Then hear, my Lord, a dreadful tale,
Not known in fair Arcadia's peaceful vale,
Nor in the Academic grove,
Where mild philosophy might dwell with love;
But poring o'er the mystic page,
Of old Stagira's wond'rous sage,
In the dark cave of syllogistic doubt,
Where neither muse, nor beauty's queen,
Nor wand'ring grace was ever seen.
Love found his destined victim out,
And put the rude militia all to rout:
For whilst poor Abelard, ah! soon decreed
Love's richest sacrifice to bleed,
Unwitting drew the argumental thread,
A finer net the son of Venus spread:
Involving in his ample category,
With all his musty schoolmen round,
Th' unhappy youth, alike renown'd
In philosophic and in amorous story.

V.

Inflexible and stern the Czar,
Amidst the iron sons of war,
With dangers and distress encompass'd round,
In his large bosom deep receiv'd the wound.
No Venus she, surrounded by the Loves,
Nor drawn by cooing harness'd doves;
'Twas the caprice love to yoke,
Two daring souls, unharness'd and unbroke.
When now the many-laurell'd Swede,
The field of death his noblest triumph fled,
And forc'd by fate, but unsubdued of soul,
To the fell victor left the—conquest of the pole.

VI.

Henry, a monarch to thy heart,
In action brave, in council wise,
Felt in his breast the fatal dart,
Shot from two snowy breasts, and two fair lovely eyes;
Tho' Gallia wept, tho' Sully frown'd,
Tho' raged the impious league around,
The little urchin entrance found,

126

And to his haughty purpose forc'd to yield
The virtuous conqueror of Coutra's field.

VII.

Who knows but some four-tail'd Bashaw
May hail thee, Peer, his son-in-law,
Some bright Sultana, Asia's pride,
Was grandame to the beauteous bride:
For sure a girl so sweet, so kind,
Such a sincere and lovely mind,
Where each exalted virtue shines,
Could never spring from vulgar loins.
No, no some chief of great Arsaces' line,
Has form'd her lineaments divine;
Who Rome's imperial fasces broke,
And spurn'd the nation's galling yoke,
Tho' now, oh! sad reverse of fate,
The former lustre of her royal state,
She sees injurious Time deface,
And weeps the ravish'd sceptres of her race.

VIII.

Her melting eye and slender waste,
Fair tap'ring from the swelling breast,
All nature's charms, all nature's pride,
Whate'er they show, whate'er they hide,
I owe.—But swear by bright Apollo,
Whose priest I am, nought, nought can follow;
Suspect not thou a poet's praise,
Unhurt I hear, uninjur'd gaze:
Alas! such badinage but ill would suit
A married man, and forty years to boot.

The Jacobite, forfeited Earl.

HORACE, BOOK II., ODE XVI., IMITATED.

TO THE EARL OF MARCHMONT.

Ease from the gods the sailor prays,
O'ertaken in the Ægean seas,
When storms begin to roar;
When clouds wrap up the moon from sight,
Nor shine the stars with certain light,
To guide him safe to shore.

Ease, fierce the Russian in war's trade:
Ease, graceful in his tartan plaid,
The Highlander demands,

127

Rich prize, not to be bought or sold,
For purple, precious gems, or gold,
Or wide and large command.

For nor can wealth, nor golden mace,
Borne high before the great in place,
Make cares stand out o' the way;
The anxious tumults of the mind,
That round the palace unconfin'd,
Still roam by night and day.

Rich he lives on small, whose board
Shines with frugal affluence stor'd,
The wealth his sire possest;
Nor fear to lose creates him pain,
Nor sordid love of greater gain,
Can break his easy rest.

Why do we draw too strong the bow,
Beyond our end our hopes to throw,
For warm with other suns
Why change our clime? To ease his toil,
What exile from his native soil
From self an exile runs.

For vicious care the ship ascends,
On the way-faring troup attends
First of the company:
Swifter than harts that seek the floods,
Swifter than roll-wind driven clouds
Along the middle sky.

Glad in the present hour, the mind
Disdains the care beyond, assign'd
To all, content at heart;
Tempers of life the bitter cup,
With sweet'ning mirth, and drinks it up,
None blest in every part.

Dwindled thy sire in slow old age,
Young Kimerjem from off this stage
Was ravish'd in his prime:
The hour perhaps benign to me,
Will grant what it denies to thee,
And lengthen out my time.

A numerous herd thy valleys fills,
The cattle on a thousand hills,
That low around are thine.
The well-pair'd mares, thy gilded car,
Draw, in proud state, thy self from far,
In richest silks to shine,

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Conspicuous seen: To me my fate,
Not much to blame, a small estate,
Of rural acres few:
A slender portion of the muse
Bounteous besides, the Grace allows,
To scorn th' ill-thinking crew.

HORACE, BOOK III., ODE XXI., IMITATED.

TO A CASK OF TWENTY-YEAR-OLD BEER.

O born with me, when Anna reign'd,
And prudent Warrender sustain'd,
The rights of Edin town;
Come now, good-fellow, and descend,
Decreed to entertain a friend,
'Tis Ramsay calls thee down.

Whate'er thy pregnant belly bears,
Or wit to set us by the ears;
Or if more kind it keeps
The whining lover's fond complaint,
Or street amours, or kind intent,
And honest drunken sleeps.

129

Whate'er it be, no dull delay,
Thou can'st descend a better day;
Here at this table set,
We honest twain shall by and by
Let furth thy soul to liberty,
And drain thee ‘tete-a-tete.”

Nor so phlegmatic will be found
My friend, tho' deep the youth be drown'd
In Lord of Shaftesbury's schemes:
An hour or two he will, by stealth,
Forsake for thee and Pringle's health,
His Plato and his dreams.

Oft pious prelates have been known
To have their sense by drink o'erthrown,
As story could make clear;
Oft Fletcher the severe is said
To 'ave warm'd his virtue and his head
With stout October beer.

Beer quickens up the dead and dull,
And pulleys high the heavy soul,
To the third firmament;
It makes the bashful lover prattle,
And Græme of Gorthy turn a rattle,
As Forbes eloquent.

Thou from the look profoundly wise
Pull'st off the grave and quaint disguise,
And naked dost expose;
Thou open'st up the secret seal,
And dost kirk politics reveal
When Robin Steuart's jocose.

Thou to the sad, desponding heart,
Bring'st back Hope, on wing to part,
And Mirth and Jollity:
Thy powerful call affliction hears,
Strong to repel the poor man's fears,
And rear his horn on high.

Who, after thee, but brave contemns
The gold, the pearl, the shining gems
In rich Britannia's crown?
Or heeds the unhallowed rap of duns,
Kirk treasurer's rage, or Bushel's guns,
George Drummond's smile or frown.

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Thee, if the jolly god of wine,
And laughter-loving Venus join,
And sister graces three,
Dancing blythe, aye hand in hand,
Loth to untie the filial band,
Add their sweet company.

Then, when the monarch of the day,
No more shall gild the ærial way,
But put his lustre out,
While regent tapers shall supply
His throne, a flaming ministry,
Send Mary's health about.

Till, blazing from the eastern main,
The sun exert his light again,
Then, by drink o'ercome,
Hanging the emptied cask on high,
The monument of victory,
Reel drunk and staggering home.

Provost George Warrender, a merchant in Edinburgh. His motto was “Industria.” He was created a Baronet, June 2, 1715.

Fletcher of Saltoun. His head needed no warming: he shot a man when in a passion.

The famous Duncan Forbes of Culloden, Lord President of the Court of Session.

HORACE, BOOK IV., ODE I., IMITATED.

Venus! call'st thou once more to arms?
Sound'st thou once more thy dire alarms:
Annoy'st my peaceful state again—
Oh! faith of treaties sworn in vain!
Seal'd with the signet of thy doves,
And ratified by all the loves.
Spare, goddess! I implore, implore!
Alas! thy suppliant is no more
What once he was in happier time,
(Illustrated by many a rhyme)
When skill'd in every ruling art,
Good A****s sway'd his yielding heart:

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Love's champion then, and known to fame,
He boasted no inglorious name.
Now, cruel mother of desires!
That doubts and anxious joys inspires,
Ah why, so long disus'd, again
Leviest thou thy dreadful train;
That, when in daring fights he toil'd,
So oft his youthful ardour foil'd?
Oh! let thy hostile fury cease,
Thy faithful veteran rest in peace,
In the laborious service worn,
His arms decay'd and ensigns torn.

Go, go, swan-wing'd! thro' liquid air,
Where the bland breath of youthful pray'r
Recalls thee from the long delay,
And, weeping, chides thee for thy stay.
My lowly roof, that knows no state,
Can't entertain a guest so great:
In P*****th's dome, majestic queen,
With better grace thou shalt be seen,
If worthy of the Cyprian dart,
Thou seek'st to pierce a lovely heart:
For he to noble birth has join'd
A graceful form and gentle mind;
And to subdue a virgin breast
The youth with thousand arts is blest;
Nor silent in his country's cause,
The anxious guardian of her laws.
He, in thy noblest warfare tried,
Shall spread thy empire far and wide;
Confirm the glories of thy reign;
And not a glance shall fall in vain.
Then, when each rival shall submit
The prize of beauty and of wit,
And riches yield to fair desert
The triumph of a female heart;
Grateful thy marble form shall stand,
Fair breathing from thy sculptor's hand,
Below the temple's pillar'd pride,
Fast by a sacred fountain's side.
Where Tweed sports round each winding maze,
There song shall warble, incense blaze;
Nor dumb shall rest the silver lyre,
To animate the festive choir.
There twice a-day fond boys shall come,
And tender virgins in their bloom,
(With fearful awe and infant shame)
To call upon thy hallow'd name,

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As thrice about the wanton round
With snowy feet they lightly bound.
—For me no beauty now invites,
Long recreant to the soft delights.
Lost to the charming arts that move,
Ah, dare I hope a mutual love!
The fond belief, of pleasing pain,
That hopes, fears, doubts, and hopes again.
No wreaths upon my forehead bloom,
Where flow'rs their vernal souls consume.
No more the reigning toast I claim:
I yield the fierce contended name,
Tho' daring once to drink all up,
While Bacchus could supply the cup.
“Farewell, delusive, idle power!
Welcome, contemplation's hour.
Now, now I search, neglected long,
The charms that lie in moral song,
How to assuage the boiling blood,
The lessons of the wise and good;
Now with fraternal sorrows mourn;
Now pour the tear o'er friendship's urn:
Or higher raise the wish refin'd,
The generous pray'r for human kind;
Or, anxious for my Britain's fate,
To freedom beg a longer date,
To calm her more than civil rage,
And spare her yet one other age,
These, these the labours I pursue:
Fantastic Love! a long adieu.”
—Yet why, O beauteous ******, why,
Heaves the long-forgotten sigh?
Why down my cheeks, when you appear,
Steals drop by drop the unbidden tear?
Once skill'd to breathe the anxious vow,
Why fails my tongue its master now,
And fault'ring, dubious strives in vain
The tender meaning to explain?
Why, in the visions of the night,
Rises thy image to my sight?
Now seiz'd, thy much-lov'd form I hold,
Now lose again the transient fold;
Unequal, panting far behind,
Pursue thee fleeter than the wind,
Whether the dear delusion strays
Thro' fair Hope-park's enchanting maze,
Or where thy cruel phantom glides
Along the swiftly running tides.

Probably Polwarth, Lord Marchmont's son.

133

HORACE, BOOK II., ODE XVII., IMITATED.

INSCRIBED TO MR JAMES CRAIG.

I.

Ah! why dost thou my bosom tear,
Why vex me with thy friendly fear,
Thy fond complaint give o'er;
Nor heav'n, alas! nor I consent
That thou, my guide and ornament,
Good James, should die before.

II.

If thee, before my destin'd day,
A riper fate should snatch away,
My soul's far better portion gone,
Ah, why do I still linger on?
Ah, why the worser part survive,
Not half so dear, nor—all alive?
That day shall ruin bring to both.
I've sworn no false, perfidious oath:
Whenever thou the way shall lead,
We go, we go, prepared to tread
The path that leads to death's secure abode,
And jog companions of the darksome road.

III.

Me from that lov'd companion's side
No face of danger shall divide;
Should all these hideous forms appear
That fancy e'er begot on fear—
Should weeping children round me fall,
Or faithful spouse, I'd spurn them all:
On, on, behold me fix'd to go,
The pow'rful fates would have it so.

IV.

Whether, propitious at my birth,
The balance shone serene on earth,
Or if the scorpion's angry power
Sway'd potent at my natal hour,
Let others judge who read the skies;
Our stars consent in wond'rous wise;
At one appointed hour of fate,
We each escap'd a danger great.

V.

When time that runs with prone career,
Whirl'd round thy three-and-sixtieth year,

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Thee with malignant eye survey'd;
Thy genius for his charge afraid,
Studious the moments to prolong,
Shone forth with opposition strong;
Renew'd life's lease (the danger o'er)
For twenty merry winters more.

VI.

That day to me had fatal prov'd;
I came, I saw, alas! and lov'd.
Then had I sigh'd in fruitless pain,
A slave for seven long years again,
Had not the Pow'r, a pow'r indeed,
Well known in our poetic creed,
Guardian of us mercurial men,
Who drain the bowl, or dip the pen,
Propitious whisper'd in my ear,
(I hear him yet) rash man forbear;
Leave Jeanie to her knight or peer;
Extinguish thou the ambitious fire,
Nor hope to gain, nor wish to admire;
Be thine life's each familiar end,
A verse, a bottle—or a friend;
The sober Muse's rapturous love,
Kind t' allay, or wise to improve.
Since fate must work its destin'd way,
I heard submissive and obey.

VII.

Then let us pay our vows; for thee
The teeming hogshead sets thee free;
Whose racy womb the harvest yields,
Of sunny Gallia's viny fields.
My humble fortune's shall afford
The bowl with gen'rous spirits stor'd,
That swells, such potent joys it brings,
Beyond the excising pow'r of kings.
Then send the foaming glass about,
We'll see it most devoutly out.

PART OF THE ELEVENTH EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE IMITATED.

When through the world fate led the destin'd way,
Tell me, my Mitchell, in the broad survey,
What country pleas'd thy roving fancy most?
Say, wast thou smit with Baia's sunny coast?

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Or wisht thou rather weary to repose
In some cool vale where peaceful Arno flows?
Or in Ombrosa dream the lonely hour,
Where high arch'd hills the Etrurian shades embow'r;
Where plenty pours her golden gifts in vain,
That dubious swell for Carlos or Lorrain?
Or charm'd thee more the happy viny plains,
And lofty tow'rs, where mighty Louis reigns?
Say, is it true what travellers report
Of glories shining in the Gallic court?
Or, do they all, tho' e'er so pompous, yield
To the thatch'd cottage in my native field?

But hark, methinks I hear thee anxious say
That thou at Palestine would'st choose to stay.
Yes, Palestine; I know the place full well,
Where holy dotards riot in each cell,
The hapless peasant pines with want and sorrow,
And all unpeopled as a royal burrow:
Yet there forever would thy friend remain,
Rather than change once more the frantic scene,
And distant hear the rollings of the main;
Unenvied, calm, enjoy a peaceful lot,
My friends rememb'ring, nor by them forgot.

HORACE, BOOK I., EPISTLE XVIII., IMITATED.

Dear Ramsay, if I know thy soul aright,
Plain-dealing honesty's thy dear delight:
Not great, but candid born; not rich, but free;
Thinks kings most wretched, and most happy me:
Thy tongue untaught to lie, thy knee to bend,
I fear no flatt'rer where I wish a friend.
As the chaste matron's tender look and kind,
Where sits the soul to speak the yearning mind,
From the false colouring of the wanton shows
Th' unhallow'd roses and polluted snows,
A glare of beauty, nauseous to the sight,
Gross but to feed desire, not raise delight:
So differs far, in value, use and end,
The praising foe from the reproving friend.
Such distance lies between, nay greater far,
Who bears an honest heart, or bears a star.
A fault there is, but of another sort,
That aims by nastiness to make its court;
By downright rudeness would attempt to please,
And sticks his friendship on your lips in grease:

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With him (for such were Sparta's rigid rules)
All the polite are knaves; the cleanly, fools;
Good humour for impertinence prevails;
So strangely honest,—he'll not pair his nails.
Know, virtuous Sir, if not indeed a slave,
Yet, sordid as the thing, thou art a knave;
Virtue, its own, and every plain man's guide,
Serenely walks, with vice on every side,
Keeps its own course, to its own point does bend,
To follies deaf that call from either end.
This simple maxim should a statesman doubt,
Two characters shall make it plainly out.
The first is his, (the opposite of proud)
By far more humble than a Christian should,
Pursues, distasteful of plain sober cheer,
Th' inhospitable dinner of a peer;
Usurps, without the task of saying grace,
The poor starv'd chaplain's perquisites and place;
To vice gives virtue, to old age gives youth;
So well bred he—he never spoke one truth:
With watchful eyes sits full against my lord,
And catches, as it falls, each heavy word;
That, echo'd back, and sent from lungs more able,
Assumes new force, and bandies round the table.
All stare: “Was ever thing so pretty spoke?”
You'd almost swear it was his grace's joke.
Yet such as these divide the great man's store,
And flatter out the friendless and the poor.

Nor less the fool our censure must engage,
Whom every trifle rouses into rage.
He arms for all, so fierce the wordy war,
Labeo far less tenacious at the bar;
Words heap'd on words so fast together drive,
Like clust'ring bees that darken from the hive,
He fights; alas! what mortal dares confute him?
With tongue, hand, eyes, and every inch about him?
Deny me this; ah! rather than comply
A thing so plain—I'd sooner starve or die.
But, pray, what all this mighty fury draws?
Say, raves the patriot o'er expiring laws?
Say, on th' oppressor does his anger fall?
Pleads he for the distress'd, like good Newhall?
Against corruption does his vengeance rise?
The army? or the general excise?
On trifling themes like these our man is mute,
As S---, if fee-less you present your suit.
More sacred truths his zealous rage supply;
What all acknowledge, or what all deny:
If rogues in red are worse than rogues in lawn;
Or *** be as a great a dunce as ---;

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Or if our Hannibal's fam'd Alpine road,
Be thirty foot, or five-and-thirty broad.

The vicious man, tho' in the worst degree,
His neighbour thinks more vicious still than he.
Is there whom lawless love should bring to gallows?
He cries, what vengeance waits on perjur'd fellows?
Ruchead, who pin'd amidst his boundless store,
Could wonder why rich Selkirk wish'd for more:
The youthful knight, who squanders all away,
On whores, on equipage, on dress and play;
The man who thirsts and hungers after gold;
The tricking tradesman, and the merchant bold,
Whom fear of poverty compels to fly
Thro' seas, excisemen, rocks, oaths, perjury;
Start at each other's crimes with pious fright,
Yet think themselves forever in the right.

But above all, the rogue of wealth exclaims,
And calls the poorer sinner filthy names;
Tho' his foul soul, discolour'd all within,
Has deeper drank the tincture of each sin:
Or else advises, as the mother sage
Rebukes the hopes and torment of her age,
(And, saith, tho' insolent of wealth, in this
Methinks, good friend, he talks not much amiss)
“Yield, yield, O fool, to my superior merit,
Without a sixpence thou, and sin with spirit?
For me those high adventures kept by fate;
For crimes look graceful with a large estate:
Then cease, vain madman, and contend no more:
Heav'n meant thee virtuous when it made thee poor.”

But crimes like these to gold we can forgive;
What boots it how they die or how they live?
Then weep, my friend, when wicked wealth you find,
To change the species of the virtuous mind.
You've doubtless heard how 'twas a statesman's way,
Whene'er he would oblige, that is, betray,
Invited first the destin'd prey to dine,
Then whisper'd in his ear, “You must be fine:
Fine clothes, gay equipage, a splendid board
Give youth a lustre, and become a lord.
Why loiter meanly in paternal grounds,
To neighbours owe thy ease, thy health to hounds?
Go roam about, in gilded chariot hurl'd;
Make friends of strangers, child, and learn the world:
These kind instructors teach you best of any,
The wise Sir William and the good Lord Fanny.”
Guiltless he hears of pension and of place,
Then sinks in honour as he swells in lace;
Each hardy virtue yields, and, day by day,
Melts in the sunshine of a court away.

138

At first (not every manly thought resign'd)
He wonders why he dares not tell his mind;
Feels the last footsteps of retiring grace,
And virtuous blushes lingering on his face:
The artful tempter plies the slavish hour,
And works the gudgeon now within his pow'r;
Then tips his fellow statesman, “He'll assume
New modes of thinking in the drawing-room;
See idle dreams of greatness strike his eyes,
See pensions, ribbons, coronets arise.”
“The man, whom labour only could delight,
Shall loiter all the day, and feast all night:
Who, mild, did once the kindest nature boast,
Unmov'd shall riot at the orphan's cost;
To pleasures vile, that health and fame destroy,
Yield the domestic charm, the social joy.
See, charm'd no more with Maro's rural page,
He slumbers over Lucan's free-born rage.
Each action in inverted lights is seen;
Meanness, frugality; and freedom, spleen;
How foolish Cato! Cæsar how divine!
In spite of Tully, friend to Catilline.”
Thus to each fair idea long unknown,
The slave of each man's vices and his own,
Enroll'd a member of the hireling tribe,
He tow'rs to villany's last act, a bribe,
And turns to make his ruin'd fortunes clear,
Or gamester, bully, jobber, pimp, or peer;
Till, late refracted through a purer air,
The beams of royal favour fall elsewhere:
Lo, vile, obscure, he ends his bustling day,
All stain'd the lustre of his orient ray;
And envies, poor, unpitied, scorn'd by all,
Marchmont the glories of a gen'rous fall.
Such sad examples can this land afford!
Why 'tis the history of many a lord.

But you, perhaps, think odd whate'er I say;
Yet drink with such originals each day.
Then censure me no more, too daring friend,
Whom ‘scandalum magnatum’ may offend.
How poor a figure should a poet make,
Ta'en into custody for scribbling's sake?
Ah how! (you know the muses never pay)
With all his verses earn five pounds a-day?
Leave we to Pope each knave of high degree,
Sing we such rules as suit or you or me.
Then, first, into no other's secrets pry;
To such be deaf your ear, be blind your eye:
Of these, unask'd, why should you claim a share?
But keep these safe entrusted to your care:

139

For this, beware the cunning low design,
That takes advantage of your rage or wine;
For rage no pause of cooler thought affords,
Is rash, intemp'rate, headlong in its words.
Lock fast your lips, then guard whate'er you say,
Lest in the fit of passion you betray;
And dread the wretch, who boasts the fatal pow'r
To cheat in friendship's unsuspecting hour.

There is a certain pleasing force that binds,
Faster than chains do slaves, two willing minds.
Tempers oppos'd each may itself control,
And melt two varying natures in one soul.
This made two brothers different humours hit,
Tho' one had probity, and one had wit.
Of sober manners this, and plain good sense,
Avoided cards, wine, company, expense:
Safe from the tempting fatal sex withdrew,
Nor made advances farther than a bow.
A diff'rent train of life his twin pursues;
Lov'd pictures, books, (nay authors write) the stews,
A mistress, op'ra, play, each darling theme;
To scribble, above all, his joy supreme.
Must these two brothers always meet to scold,
Or quarrel, like to Jove's fam'd twins of old?
Each yielding, mutual, could each other please,
And drew life's yoke with tolerable ease:
This, thinking mirth not always in the wrong,
Would sometimes condescend to hear a song;
And that, fatigu'd with his exalted fits,
His beauties, gewgaws, whirlegigs and wits,
Would leave them all, far happier to regale
With prose and friendship o'er a pot of ale.
Then to thy friend's opinion sometimes yield,
And seem to lose, although thou gain'st the field;
Nor, proud that thy superior sense be shown,
Rail at his studies, and extol your own.

For when Aurora weeps the balmy dew,
(And dreams, as rev'rend dreamers tell, are true)
Sir George my shoulder slaps, just in the time
When some rebellious word consents to rhyme:
Sudden my verses take the rude alarm,
New-coin'd, and from the mint of fancy warm:
I start, I stare, I question with my eyes;
At once the whole poetic vision flies.
Up, up, exclaims the Knight; the season fair;
See how serene the sky, how calm the air;
Hark! from the hills the cheerful horns rebound,
And echo propagates the jovial sound;
The certain hound in thought his prey pursues,
The scent lies warm, and loads the tainted dews,

140

I quit my couch, and cheerfully obey,
Content to let the younker have his way;
I mount my courser, fleeter than the wind,
And leave the rage of poetry behind.
But when, the day in healthful labour lost,
We eat our supper earn'd at common cost;
When each frank tongue speaks out without control,
And the free heart expatiates o'er the bowl;
Though all love prose, my poetry finds grace,
And, pleased, I chant the glories of the chace.

Of old, when Scotia's sons for empire fought,
Ere avarice had debased each generous thought,
Ere yet, each manlier exercise forgot,
One-half had learned to dose, one-half to vote,
Each hardy toil confirmed their dawning age,
And mimic fights inspired to martial rage:
'Twas theirs with certain speed the dart to send,
With youthful force the stubborn yew to bend;
O'ercame with early arm the fiercest floods,
Or ranged midst chilling snows the pathless woods;
Toiled for the savage boar on which they fed:
'Twas thus the chief of Bannockburn was bred;
That gave (not polished then below mankind)
Strength to the limbs, and vigour to the mind.
The smiling dame, in those victorious days,
Was woo'd by valour, not seduced by praise;
Who ne'er did fears, but for her country, feel;
And never saw her lover, but in steel;
Could make a Douglas' stubborn bosom yield,
And send her hero raging to the field;
Heard kind the honest warrior's one-tongued vow,
Pleased with a genuine heart, as H**** is now.
How would the generous lass detest to see
An essenced fopling puling o'er his tea;
Ah! how distasteful of the mimic show,
Disdain the false appearance as a foe?
To greet, unfolding every social charm,
Her soldier from the field of glory warm.

But now, alas! these generous aims are o'er;
Each foe insults, and Britain fights no more.
Yet humbler tasks may claim the patriot's toil:
Who aids her laws no more, may mend her soil.
Since, to be happy, man must ne'er be still,
The internal void let peaceful labours fill;
When kind amusements hours of fame employ,
The working mind subsides to sober joy.
Behold, in fair autumnal honours spread,
The wheaten garland wreath the laurell'd head;
Where stagnant waves did in dull lakes appear,
Rich harvests wave, the bounty of the year;

141

In barren heaths, where summer never smiled,
The rural city rises o'er the wild;
Along the cool canal, or shooting grove,
Disport the sons of mirth and gamesome love.

It now remains I counsel, if indeed
My counsel, friend, can stand thee ought in stead.
Judge well of whom you speak; nor will you find
It always safe to tell each man your mind.
Even honesty regard to safety owes;
Nor need it publish all it thinks and knows.
The eternal questioner shun: a certain rule,
There is no blab like to the questioning fool;
Even scarce before you turn yourself about,
Whate'er he hears his leaky tongue runs out;
The word elanced no longer we control,
Once sallied forth, it bursts from pole to pole.

Guard well your heart; ah! still be beauty-proof,
Beneath fair friendship's venerable roof;
What though she shines the brightest of the fair,
A form even such as Wallace self might wear?
What though no rocks nor marble arm her breast,
A yielding Helen to her Trojan guest!
The dangerous combat fly; why wouldst thou gain
A shameful conquest won by years of pain?
For know, the short-lived guilty rapture past,
Reflection comes, a dreadful judge at last:
'Tis that avenges (such its pointed stings)
The poor man's cause on statesmen and on kings.

To praise aright, is sure no easy art;
Yet prudence here directs the wise man's part.
Let long experience then confirm the friend,
Dive to his depth of soul, ere you commend.
Should you extol the fool but slightly known,
Guiltless you blush for follies not your own.
Alas! we err; for villains can betray,
And gold corrupt the saint of yesterday.
Then yield, convicted by the public voice,
And frankly own the weakness of your choice;
So greater credit shall your judgment gain,
When you defend the worth that knaves arraign;

142

Whose soul secure, confiding in your aid,
Hopes the kind shelter of your friendly shade;
When envy on his spotless name shall fall,
Whose venomed tooth corrupts and blackens all;
This mutual help the kindred virtues claim,
For calumny eats on from fame to fame.
When o'er thy neighbour's roof the flames aspire,
Say, claims it not thy care to quench the fire?
When envy rages, small the space betwixt,
In worth allied, thy character is next.

Fired at the first with what the great impart,
Frank we give way, and yield up all the heart.
How sweet the converse of the potent friend!
How charming when the mighty condescend!
The smile so affable, the courtly word!—
And, as we would a mistress, trust a lord.
The experienced dread the cheat; with prudent care
Distrust alike the powerful and the fair.
Thou, when thy vessel flies before the wind,
Think on the peaceful port thou left behind;
Though all serene, yet bear a humble sail,
Lest veering greatness shift the treacherous gale.
How various man! yet such are nature's laws,
With powerful force each different humour draws:
The grave the cheerful hate; these hate the sad;
Your sober wise man thinks the wit quite mad;
He, happy too in wit's inverted rule,
Thinks every sober wise man more than fool;
Whose active mind from toil to toil can run,
And join the rising to the setting sun,
Like Philip's son, for fame pursuing gains,
While yet one penny unsubdued remains;
Admires how lovers waste the inactive day,
Sigh, midst the fair, their gentle souls away.
The tuneful bard, who boasts his varied strains,
Shares with the lark the glory of the plains,
Whose life the impression of no sorrow knows,
So smoothly calm, he scarcely feels it flows.
In vocal woods each fond conceit pursues,
Pleased with the jingling bauble of a muse;
Pities the toiling madman's airy scheme,
When greatness sickens o'er the ambitious dream;
Each boon companion, who the night prolongs,
In noise and rapture, festivals and songs,
Condemns the graver mortal for an ass,
Who dares refuse his bumper and his lass;
Still urging on, what boots it that you swear
You dread the vapours and nocturnal air;
Yet grant a little to the social vine,
Full on the friend with cloudless visage shine,

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Oft sullen silence speaks a want of sense,
Or folly lurks beneath the wise pretence.
Is there severe, who baulks the genial hour?
He's not so sober, were he not so sour.

But, above all, I charge thee o'er and o'er,
Fair peace through all her secret haunts explore;
Consult the learned in life (these best advise),
The good in this more knowing than the wise;
Their sacred science learn, and what the art
To guard the sallies of the impetuous heart;
With temper due the internal poise to keep,
Not soaring impudent, nor servile creep;
How sure thyself, thy friends, thy God to please,
Firm health without, within unshaken peace;
Lest keen desire, still making new demands,
Should raise new foes unnumbered on thy hands;
Or hope, or fear, inspire the unmanly groan,
For things of little use, perhaps of none:
Who best can purchase virtue's righteous dower,
The sage with wisdom, or the king with power:
Or if the mighty blessing stands confined
To the chaste nature and the heaven-taught mind.
And chief the important lesson wise attend,
What makes thee to thyself thyself's best friend:
If gold a pure tranquillity bestows,
Or greatness can insure a night's repose;
Or must we seek it in the secret road
That leads through virtue to the peaceful God;
A shaded walk, where, separate from the throng,
We steal through life all unperceived along.

For me, afraid of life's tempestuous gale,
I make to port, and crowd on all my sail.
Soon may the peaceful grove and sheltered seat
Receive me weary in the kind retreat;
Blest if my **** be the destined shade,
Where childhood sported, of no ills afraid,
Ere youth full-grown its daring wing displayed.
That often crossed by life's intestine war,
Foresaw that day of triumph from afar,
When warring passions mingling in the fray,
Had drawn the youthful wanderer from his way:
But recollecting the short error, mourned,
And duteous to the warning voice returned.
No more the passions hurrying into strife,
My soul enjoys the gentler calms of life.
Like Tityrus, blessed among the rural shades,
Whose hallowed round no guilty wish invades;
No joy tumultuous, no depressing care;
All that I want is Amaryllis there;

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Where silver Forth each fair meander leads
Through breathing harvests and empurpled meads;
Whose russet swains enjoy the golden dream,
And thankful bless the plenty-giving stream.
There youth, convinced, foregoes each daring claim,
And settling manhood takes a surer aim;
Till age accomplish late the fair design,
And calm possess the good, if age be mine.
What thinkst thou, then, my friend, shall be my cares,
My daily studies, and my nightly prayers?
Of the propitious Power this boon I crave,
Still to preserve the little that I have;
Nor yet repugnance at the lot express,
Should fate decree that little to be less;
That what remains of life to heaven I live,
If life, indeed, has any time to give:
Or, if the fugitive will no longer stay,
To part as friends should do, and slip away:
Thankful to heaven, or for the good supplied,
To heaven submissive for the good denied,
Renounce the household charm, a bliss divine!
Heaven never meant for me, and I resign;
In other joys the allotted hours improve,
And gain in friendship what was lost in love:
Some comfort snatched, as each vain year returned,
When nature suffered, or when friendship mourned,
Of all that stock so fatally bereft,
Once youth's proud boast, alas! the little left;
These friends, in youth beloved, in manhood tried,
Age must not change through avarice or pride.
For me let wisdom's sacred fountain flow,
The cordial draught that sweetens every woe;
Let fortune kind the “just enough” provide,
Nor dubious float on hope's uncertain tide;
Add thoughts composed, affections ever even.—
Thus far suffices to have asked of heaven,
Who, in the dispensations of a day,
Grants life, grants death; now gives, now takes away;
To scaffolds oft the ribboned spoiler brings;
Takes power from statesmen, and their thrones from kings;
From the unthankful heart the bliss decreed—
But leaves the man of worth still blessed indeed.
Be life heaven's gift, be mine the care to find
Still equal to itself the balanced mind;
Fame, beauty, wealth forgot, each human toy,
With thoughtful quiet pleased, and virtuous joy;
In these, and these alone, supremely blest,
When fools and madmen scramble for the rest.

Probably Ellinor, daughter of Colonel Agnew of Lochryan. She married Sir Thomas Wallace of Craigie, Bart., but lived separate from him on account of temper. There are two prints of her. One is inscribed “Lady Wallace. W. De Nune ad vivam, pinxt. 1744. Forbes, fecit. Sold by Charles Esplen at the Crown and Anchor in High Street, Edinburgh;” the other, “The Lady Wallace. J. Davidson, pinxt. Ric. Cooper, fecit.” The original picture of the last is at Barnbarroch.

147

PINDAR'S OLYMPIA.

ODE I. TRANSLATED.

[Water, great principle whence nature springs]

Water, great principle whence nature springs,
The prime of elements, and first of things,
Amidst proud riches' soul-inflaming store,
As through the night the fiery blaze
Pours all around the streaming rays,
Conspicuous glows the golden oar.
But if thee, O my soul, a fond desire
To sing the contests of the great,
Calls forth t' awake th' etherial fire,
What subject worthier of the lyre,
Olympia's glories to relate!
Full in the forehead of the sky,
The sun, the world's bright radiant eye,
Shines o'er each lesser flame;
On earth what theme suffices more
To make the Muses' offspring soar,
Than the Olympian victor's fame?
But from the swelling column, where on high
It peaceful hangs, take down the Doric lyre,
If with sweet love of sacred melody,
The steeds of Hiero thy breast inspire.
When borne along the flow'ry side,
Where smooth Alpheus' waters glide,
Their voluntary virtue flies,
Nor needs the driver's rouzing cries,
But rapid seize the dusty space,
To reap the honours of the race,
The merit of their speed;
And bind with laurel wreath the manly brows
Of him the mighty King of Syracuse,
Delighting in the victor steed.
Far sounds his glory thro' the winding coast
Of Lydia, where his wand'ring host
From Elis, Pelops led to new abodes;
There prosper'd in his late found reign
Lov'd by the ruler of the main;
When at the banquet of the gods,

148

In the pure laver of the Fates again,
Clotho, the youth to life renew'd,
With potent charm and mystic strain,
When by his cruel father slain,
With ivory shoulder bright endow'd.
Of fables with a fond surprise,
When shaded o'er with fair disguise,
The wand'ring mind detain;
Deluded by the kind deceit,
We joy more in the skilful cheat,
Than in truth's faithful strain.
But chief to verse these wond'rous pow'rs belong,
Such grace has heaven bestow'd on song;
Blest parent! from whose loins immortal joys,
To mitigate our pain below,
Soft'ning the anguish of our woe,
Are sprung, the children of its voice:
Song can o'er unbelief itself prevail,
The virtue of its magic art,
Can make the most amazing tale,
With shafts of eloquence assail,
Victorious, the yielding heart:
But time on never-ceasing wings
Experienc'd wisdom slowly brings
And teaches mortal race
Not to blaspheme the Holy One,
That deathless fills the heavenly throne,
Inhabiting eternal space.
Therefore, O son of Tantalus, will I
In other guise thy wond'rous tale unfold,
And juster to the Rulers of the sky,
With lips more hallow'd than the bards of old.
For when thy sire the gods above,
To share the kind return of love,
Invited from their native bow'rs,
To his own lov'd Sipylian tow'rs,
The trident pow'r, by fierce desire
Subdued, on golden steeds of fire,
Thee bore aloft to Jove on high;
Where since young Ganymede, sweet Phrygian boy,
Succeeded to the ministry of joy,
And nectar banquet of the sky.
But when no more on earth thy form was seen,
Conspicuous in the walks of men,
Nor yet to soothe thy mother's longing sight,
The searching train sent to explore
Thy lurking-place, could thee restore,
The weeping fair's supreme delight:
Then Envy's forked tongue began t' infest
And wound thy sire's untainted fame,

149

That he to each ætherial guest
Had served thee up a horrid feast,
Subdu'd by force of all-devouring flame;
But, the blest Pow'rs of heav'n t' accuse,
Far be it from the holy Muse,
Of such a feast impure;
Vengeance protracted for a time,
Still overtakes the sland'rer's crime;
At heaven's slow appointed hour.
Yet certain, if the Pow'r who wide surveys,
From his watch-tow'r, the earth and seas,
E'er dignified the perishable race;
Him, Tantalus they rais'd on high,
Him, the chief fav'rite of the sky,
Exalted to sublimest grace.
But his proud heart was lifted up and vain,
Swell'd with his envied happiness,
Weak and frail his mortal brain,
The lot superior to sustain;
He fell degraded from his bliss.
For on his head th' Almighty Sire,
Potent in his kindled ire,
Hung a rock's monstrous weight:
Too feeble to remove the load,
Fix'd by the sanction of the god,
He wand'red erring from delight.
The watchful synod of the skies decreed
His wasted heart a prey to endless woes,
Condem'd a weary pilgrimage to lead,
On earth secure, a stranger to repose.
Because, by mad ambition driven,
He robb'd the sacred stores of heaven:
Th' ambrosial vintage of the skies
Became the daring spoiler's prize,
And brought to sons of mortal earth
The banquet of celestial birth,
With endless blessings fraught,
And to his impious rev'lers pour'd the wine,
Whose precious sweets make blest the pow'rs divine,
Gift of the rich immortal draught.
Foolish the man who hopes his crimes may lie
Unseen by the supreme all-piercing eye;
He, high enthron'd above all heaven's height,
The works of men with broad survey,
And as in the blazing flame of day,
Beholds the secret deeds of night.
Therefore his son the immortals back again
Sent to these death-obnoxious abodes,
To taste his share of human pain,
Exil'd from the celestial reign,
And sweet communion of the gods.

150

But when the fleecy down began
To clothe his chin, and promise man;
The shafts of young desire,
And love of the fair female kind,
Inflam'd the youthful hero's mind,
And set his amorous soul on fire.
Won by fair Hippodamia's lovely eyes,
The Pisan tyrant's blooming prize,
High in his hopes he purpos'd to obtain;
O'ercome her savage sire in arms,
The price of her celestial charms:
For this the Ruler of the main
Invoking in the dreary solitude,
And secret season of the night;
Oft, on the margin of the flood
Alone, the raging lover stood,
Till to his long-desiring sight,
From below the sounding deeps,
His scaly herds where Proteus keeps,
The fav'rite youth to please,
Dividing swift the hoary stream,
Refulgent on his golden team,
Appear'd the trident-scepter'd King of Seas.
To whom the youth: if e'er with fond delight,
The gifts of Venus could thy soul inspire,
Restrain fell Oenemaus' spear in fight;
And me, who dare advent'rous to aspire,
Me grant, propitious, to succeed,
Enduing with unrivall'd speed
The flying car, decreed to gain
The laurel wreath, on Elis' plain,
Victorious o'er the father's pow'r;
Who, dire, so many hapless lovers slain,
Does still a maid the wond'rous fair detain,
Protractive of the sweet connubial hour.
Danger demands a soul secure of dread,
Equal to the daring deed!
Since then, th' immutable decrees of Fate,
Have fix'd, by their vicegerent, Death,
The limits of each mortal breath,
Doom'd to the urn, or soon or late:
What mind resolv'd and brave would sleep away
His life, when glory warms the blood,
Only t' enjoy some dull delay,
Inactive to his dying day,
Not aiming at the smallest good?
But the blooming maid inspires
My breast to far sublimer fires,
To raise my glory to the skies;
Gracious, O saving Pow'r, give ear,

151

Indulgent to my vow sincere,
Prosp'ring the mighty enterprize.
So pray'd the boy: nor fell his words in vain,
Unheeded by the ruler of the main;
A golden car, earth's shaking Pow'r bestow'd,
And to the glitt'ring axle join'd
Unrivall'd steeds, fleet as the wind;
Glad of the present of the god,
The ardent youth demands the promis'd fight;
In dust the haughty parent laid,
Neptune fulfils the youth's delight,
And wings his chariot's rapid flight,
To win the sweet celestial maid.
She with six sons, a fair increase,
Crown'd the hero's warm embrace,
Whom virtuous love inspir'd;
Upright to walk in virtue's ways,
The surest path to noblest praise,
The noblest praise the youth acquir'd.
Now by Alpheus' stream, meand'ring fair,
Whose humid train wide spreads the Pisan plains;
A sepulchre, sublimely rear'd in air,
All, of the mighty man that was, contains.
There frequent in the holy shade,
The vows of stranger chiefs are paid,
And on the sacred altar lies
The victim, smoking to the skies,
When heroes, at the solemn shrine,
Invoke the Pow'rs with rites divine,
From every distant soil,
And drive about the consecrated mound
The sounding car, or on the listed ground
Urge the fleet racers, or the wrestlers toil.
Happy the man whom fav'ring Fate allows
The wreaths of Pisa to surround his brows;
All wedded to delight, his after-days
In calm and even tenor run,
The noble dow'r of conquest won,
Such conscious pleasure flows from praise.
Thee, Muse, great Hiero's virtue to prolong,
It fits, and to resound his name:
Exalting o'er the vulgar throng,
In thy sweet Eolian song,
His garland of Olympian fame.
Nor shalt thou, O my Muse! e'er find
A more sublime or worthier mind,
To better fortunes born:
On whom the gracious love of God,
The regal pow'r has kind bestow'd,
And arts of sway, that pow'r t' adorn.

152

Still may thy God, O potent King! employ
His sacred ministry of joy,
Solicitous with tutelary care,
To guard from the attacks of fate
Thy blessings lasting as they're great,
The pious poet's constant pray'r.
Then to the mighty bounty of the sky,
The Muse shall add a sweeter lay,
With wing sublime when she shall fly,
Where Cronius rears his cliffs on high,
Smote with the burning shafts of day;
If the Muses' quiver'd god
Pave for song the even road,
With sacred rapture warm,
A further flight aloft in air
Elanc'd shall wing my tuneful spear
More vigorous from the Muse's arm.
To many heights the daring climber springs,
Ere he the highest top of pow'r shall gain;
Chief seated there the majesty of kings;
The rest at different steps below remain:
Exalted to that wond'rous height,
T' extend the prospect of delight,
May'st thou, O Hiero! live content,
On the top of all ascent.
To thee, by bounteous fates, be giv'n
T' inhabit still thy lofty heav'n:
To me, in arts of peace,
Still to converse with the fair victor host,
For graceful song, an honourable boast,
Conspicuous thro' the realms of Greece.

Lyricorum longe Pindarus princeps, spiritus magnificentia, sententiis, figuris, beatissima rerum verborumque copia, et velut quodam eloquentiæ flumine; propter quæ Horatius eum merito credit nemini imitabilem. —Quinctil. Instit. Orat. lib. x. cap. i.

ODE II.

[O sov'reign hymns! that powr'ful reign]

O sov'reign hymns! that powr'ful reign
In the harp, your sweet domain,
Whom will ye choose to raise;
What god shall now the verse resound;
What chief, for godlike deed renown'd,
Exalt to loftiest praise?
Pisa is Jove's: Jove's conqu'ring son
First the Olympic race ordain'd:
The first fair fruits of glory won
The haughty tyrant's rage restrain'd.

153

He first the wond'rous game bestow'd
When breathing from Augean toils,
He consecrates the dreadful spoils,
An off'ring to his father-god.
Theron, his virtues to approve,
And imitate the seed of Jove,
Th' Olympic laurel claims,
Whose swift-wheel'd car has borne away
The rapid honours of the day,
Foremost among the victor names.
Therefore for Theron praise awaits,
For him the lyre awakes the strain,
The stranger welcom'd at his gates
With hospitable love humane.
Fix'd on the councils of his breast,
As on the column's lofty height
Remains secure the building's weight,
The structure of his realm may rest.
Of a fair stem, himself a fairer flow'r,
Who soon transplanted from their native soil,
Wander'd many climates o'er,
Till after long and various toil,
On the fair river's destin'd bank they found
Their sacred seat, and heav'n-chose ground:
Where stood delightful to the eye
The fruitful beauteous Sicily,
And could a numerous issue boast,
That spread their lustre round, and flourish'd o'er the coast.
The following years all took their silver flight,
With pleasure wing'd and soft delight,
And every year that flew in peace,
Brought to their native virtues, store
Of wealth and pow'r, a new increase,
Fate still confirm'd the sum, and bounteous added more.
But son of Rhe' and Saturn old,
Who dost thy sacred throne uphold
On high Olympus' hill;
Whose rule th' Olympic race obeys,
Who guid'st Alpheus' winding maze,
In hymns delighting still;
Grant, gracious to the godlike race,
Their children's children to sustain,
Peaceful through time's ne'er-ending space,
The sceptre and paternal reign.
For Time, the aged sire of all,
The deed impatient of delay,
Which the swift hour has wing'd away,
Just or unjust, can ne'er recall.
But when calmer days succeed,
Of fair event, and lovely deed,

154

Our lot serene at last;
The memory of darker hours,
When heav'n severe and angry low'rs,
Forgotten lies and past.
Thus mild, and lenient of his frown,
When Jove regards his adverse fate,
And sends his chosen blessings down
To cheer below our mortal state:
Then former evils, odious brood,
Before the heav'n-born blessings fly,
Or trodden down subjected lie,
Soon vanquish'd by the victor-good.
With thy fair daughters, Cadmus! best agrees
The Muse's song; who, after many woes
At last on golden thrones of ease,
Enjoy an undisturb'd repose.
No more they think of Cadmus, mournful swain!
Succeeding joys dispel his former pain.
And Semele, of rosy hue,
Whom the embracing Thund'rer slew,
Exalted now to heav'n's abodes,
Herself a goddess blythe, dwells with immortal gods:
Bath'd in th' ambrosial odours of the sky,
Her long dishevell'd tresses fly:
Her, Minerva still approves;
She is her prime and darling joy:
Her, heav'n's Lord supremely loves;
As does his rosy son, the ivy-crowned boy.
Thou, Ino too! in pearly cells,
Where Nereus' sea-green daughter dwells,
Enjoy'st a lot divine:
No more of suff'ring mortal strain,
An azure goddess of the main,
Eternal rest is thine.
Lost in a maze, blind feeble man,
Knows not the hour he sure foresees,
Nor with the eyes of nature can
Pierce through the hidden, deep decrees;
Nor sees he if his radiant day,
That in meridian splendour glows,
Shall gild his ev'ning's quiet close,
Soft smiling with a farewell ray.
As when the ocean's refluent tides,
Within his hollow womb subsides,
Is heard to sound no more;
Till rousing all its rage again,
Flood roll'd on flood it pours amain,
And sweeps the sandy shore:
So Fortune, mighty queen of life,
Works up proud man, her destin'd slave,

155

Of good and ill the stormy strife,
The sport of her alternate wave;
Now mounted to the height of bliss,
He seems to mingle with the sky;
Now looking down with giddy eye,
Sees the retreating waters fly,
And trembles at the deep abyss.
As, by experience led, the searching mind
Revolves the records of still-changing fate,
Such dire reverses shall he find,
Oft mark the fortunes of the great!
Now bounteous gods, with blessings all divine,
Exalt on high the sceptred line,
Now the bright scene of laurell'd years,
At once, quick-shifting, disappears:
And in their radiant room succeeds
A dismal train of ills, and tyrannous misdeeds.
Since the curst hour the fateful son
Plung'd in the guilt he sought to shun,
And saw beneath his hasty rage
The hoary king, heav'n's victim, bleed;
Deaf to a father's pleading age,
His erring hands fulfill'd, what guilty fate decreed.
Erynnis, dreadful fury! saw
The breach of nature's holiest law,
She mounts her hooked car;
Through Phocis' death-devoted ground
She flew, and gave the nations round
To the wide waste of war:—
By mutual hands the brothers died,
Furious on mutual wounds they run;
Sons, fathers, swell the sanguine tide;
Fate drove the purple deluge on.
Thus perish'd all the fated brood,
Thus Eris wrought her dreadful will;
When sated vengeance had its fill,
Thersander clos'd the scene of blood.
He, sprung from beauteous Argea, shone,
The glory of Adrastrus' throne,
When fierce in youthful fire,
He raged around the Theban wall,
And saw the sevenfold city fall
A victim to his sire.
From him, as from a second root,
Wide spreading to the lofty skies,
The sons of martial glory shoot,
And clust'ring chiefs on chiefs arise.
There in the topmost boughs display'd,
Great Theron sits with lustre crown'd,
And verdant honours bloom around,
While nations rest beneath his shade.

156

Awake the lyre! Theron demands the lays,
Yet all too low! Call forth a nobler strain!
Decent is ev'n th' excess of praise:
For Theron strike the sounding lyre again,
Olympia's flowing wreath he singly wears;
The Isthmian palm his brother shares.
Delphi resounds the kindred name,
The youths contend alike for fame,
Fair rivals in the glorious chace,
When twelve times darting round, they flew the giddy space.
Thrice blest! for whom the Graces twine
Fame's brightest plume, the wreath divine:
Lost to remembrance, former woes
No more reflection's sting employ;
With triumph all the bosom glows,
Pour'd through the expanding heart, th' impetuous tide of joy.
Riches, that singly are possest,
Vain pomp of life! a specious waste,
But feed luxurious pride:
Yet when with sacred virtues crown'd,
Wealth deals its liberal treasures round,
'Tis nobly dignified.
To modest worth, to honour's bands,
With conscious warmth he large imparts;
And in his presence smiling stands
Fair Science, and her handmaid, Arts.
As in the pure serene of night,
Thron'd in its sphere, a beauteous star
Sheds its blest influence from afar
At once beneficent and bright.
But hear ye wealthy, hear ye great,
I sing the fix'd decrees of fate,
What after death remains,
Prepar'd for the unfeeling kind
Of cruel unrelenting mind,
A doom of endless pains!
The crimes that stain'd this living light,
Beneath the holy eye of Jove,
Meets in the regions drear of night,
The vengeance but delay'd above.
There the pale sinner drear aghast,
Impartial, righteous, and severe,
Unaw'd by pow'r, unmov'd by pray'r,
Eternal justice dooms at last.
Far otherwise, the souls whom virtue guides
Enjoy a calm repose of sacred rest,
Nor light nor shade their time divides,
With one eternal sunshine blest.
Emancipated from the cares of life,
No more they urge the mortal strife:

157

No more, with still-revolving toil,
They vex a hard, ungrateful soil;
Nor plow the surges of the main,
Exchanging holy quiet for false, deceitful gain.
But to these sacred seats preferr'd,
With gods they live, as gods rever'd,
And tears are wip'd from ev'ry eye;
While banish'd from the happy reign,
The guilty souls in darkness lie,
And weary out the frightful ministers of pain.
So heaven decrees: The good and just,
Who, true to life's important trust,
Have well sustained the field;
Whose souls, undaunted, undismayed,
Nor flattering pleasure could persuade,
Nor passions taught to yield;
These through the mortal changes past,
Still listening to the heavenly lore,
Find this sublime reward at last,
The trial of obedience o'er.
Then bursting from the bonds of clay,
Triumphant tread the heaven-paved road
That leads to Saturn's high abode,
And Jove himself directs the way.
There, where the blest reside at ease,
Bland zephyrs breathe the sea-born breeze
O'er all the happy isle:
Unnumbered sweets the air perfume,
'Tis all around one golden bloom,
All one celestial smile.
By living streams fair trees ascend,
Whose roots the humid waters lave;
The boughs with radiant fruitage bend,
Rich produce of the fruitful wave.
Thus sporting in celestial bowers,
The sons of the immortal morn,
Their heads and rosy hands adorn,
With garlands of unfading flowers.
There Rhadamanth, who great assessor reigns
To Rhæa's son, by still unchanging right,
Awarding all: To vice, eternal chains;
To virtue opes the gates of light.
Rhæa! who high in heaven's sublime abodes
Sits throned, the mother of the gods.
Cadmus to this immortal choir
Was led; and Peleus' noble sire!
And glorious son! since Thetis' love
Subdued, with prayer, the yielding mind of Jove.
Who Troy laid prostrate on the plain,
His country's pillar, Hector, slain;

158

By whom unhappy Cycnus bled;
By whom the Ethiopian boy,
That sprung from Neptune's godlike bed,
The aged Tithon's, and Aurora's highest joy.
What grand ideas crowd my brain!
What images! a lofty train
In beauteous order spring:
As the keen store of feathered fates
Within the braided quiver waits,
Impatient for the wing:
See, see, they mount! The sacred few
Endued with piercing flight,
Alone through darling fields pursue
The ærial regions bright.
This nature gives, her chiefest boast;
But when the bright ideas fly,
Far soaring from the vulgar eye,
To vulgar eyes are lost.
Where nature sows her genial seeds,
A liberal harvest straight succeeds,
Fair in the human soil;
While art, with hard laborious pains,
Creeps on unseen, nor much attains,
By slow progressive toil.
Resembling this, the feeble crow,
Amid the vulgar winged crowd,
Hides in the darkening copse below,
Vain, strutting, garrulous, and loud:
While genius mounts the ethereal height,
As the imperial bird of Jove
On sounding pinions soars above,
And dares the majesty of light.
Then fit an arrow to the tuneful string,
O thou, my genius! warm with sacred flame;
Fly swift, ethereal shaft! and wing
The godlike Theron unto fame.
I solemn swear, and holy truth attest,
That sole inspires the tuneful breast,
That, never since the immortal sun
His radiant journey first begun,
To none the gods did e'er impart
A more exalted mind, or wide-diffusive heart.
Fly, Envy, hence, that durst invade
Such glories, with injurious shade;
Still, with superior lustre bright,
His virtues shine, in number more
Than are the radiant fires of night,
Or sands that spread along the sea-surrounding shore.

160

TO H. H. IN THE ASSEMBLY.

While crown'd with radiant charms divine,
Unnumber'd beauties round thee shine,
When Erskine leads her happy man,
And Johnstoun shakes the fluttering fan;
When beauteous Pringle smiles confest,
And gently heaves her swelling breast,
Her raptur'd partner still at gaze,
Pursuing through each winding maze;
Say, youth, and can'st thou keep secure
Thy heart from conquering beauty's power?
Or hast thou not, how soon! betray'd
The too believing country maid?
Whose young and inexperienc'd years
From thee no evil purpose fears;
But yielding to love's gentle sway,
Knows not that lovers can betray,
How shall she curse deceiving men?
How shall she e'er believe again?

For me, my happier lot decrees
The joys of love that constant please;
A warm, benign and gentle flame,
That clearly burns, and still the same;
Unlike those fires that fools betray,
That fiercely burn, but swift decay,
Which warring passions hourly raise,
A short and momentary blaze.
My Hume, my beauteous Hume constrains
My heart in voluntary chains;
Well pleas'd for her my voice I raise,
For daily joys claim daily praise.
Can I forsake the fair, complete
In all that's soft and all that's sweet,
When heaven has in her form combin'd
The scatter'd graces of her kind?
Has she not all the charms that lie
In Gordon's blush and Lockhart's eye;
The down of lovely Haya's hair,
Kinlochia's shape or Cockburn's air?
Can time to love a period bring
Of charms forever in their spring?
'Tis death alone the lover frees,
Who loves so long as she can please.

161

INTERVIEW OF GLAUCUS AND DIOMED BETWEEN THE GRECIAN AND TROJAN ARMIES.

Homer's Iliad, Book VI.

Now paused the battle (godlike Hector gone),
When daring Glaucus and great Tydeus' son
Between the armies met. The chiefs from far
Observed each other, and had marked for war;
Near as they drew, Tydides thus began:

What art thou, boldest of the race of man?
Our eyes, till now, that aspect ne'er beheld,
Where fame is reaped amid the embattled field;
Yet far before the troops thou darest appear,
And meet a lance the fiercest heroes fear.
Unhappy they, and born of luckless sires,
Who tempt our fury, when Minerva fires!
But if from heaven celestial thou descend,
Know with immortals we no more contend.
Not long Lycurgus viewed the golden light,
That daring man, who mixed with gods in fight;
Bacchus, and Bacchus' votaries, he drove
With brandished steel from Nyssa's sacred grove,
Their consecrated spears lay scattered round,
With curling vines and twisted ivy bound;
While Bacchus headlong sought the briny flood,
And Thetis, armed, received the trembling god.
Nor failed the crime the immortals' wrath to move,
(The immortals blest with endless ease above),

162

Deprived of sight by their avenging doom,
Cheerless he breathed, and wandered in the gloom;
Then sunk unpitied to the dire abodes,
A wretch accursed, and hated by the gods!
I brave not heaven: But if the fruits of earth
Sustain thy life, and human be thy birth;
Bold as thou art, too prodigal of breath,
Approach, and enter the dark gates of death.

What, or from whence I am, or who my sire,
(Replied the chief) can Tydeus' son inquire?
Like leaves on trees the race of man is found,
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground;
Another race the following spring supplies,
They fall successive, and successive rise:
So generations in their course decay,
So flourish these, when those are past away.
But if thou still persist to search my birth,
Then hear a tale that fills the spacious earth.

He spoke, and transport filled Tydides' heart;
In earth the generous warrior fixed his dart,
Then friendly thus the Lycian prince addressed:
Welcome, my brave hereditary guest!
Thus ever let us meet, with kind embrace,
Nor stain the sacred friendship of our race.
Know, chief, our grandsires have been friends of old,
Œneus the strong, Bellerophon the bold;
Our ancient seat his honoured presence graced,
Where twenty days in genial rites he passed
The parting heroes mutual presents left;
A golden goblet was my grandsire's gift:
Œneus a belt of matchless work bestowed,
That rich with Tyrian dye refulgent glowed.
(This from his pledge I learned, which, safely stored
Among my treasures, still adorns my board;
For Tydeus left me young, when Thebes's wall
Beheld the sons of Greece untimely fall.)
Mindful of this, in friendship let us join,
If heaven our steps to foreign lands incline,
My guest in Argos thou, and I in Lycia thine.
Enough of Trojans to this lance shall yield,
In the full harvest of yon ample field;
Enough of Greeks shall dye thy spear with gore,
But thou and Diomed be foes no more.
Now change we arms, and prove to either host
We guard the friendship of the line we boast.

Thus having said, the gallant chiefs alight,
Their hands they join, their mutual faith they plight;
Brave Glaucus then each narrow thought resigned,
Jove warmed his bosom, and enlarged his mind;

163

For Diomed's brass arms, of mean device,
For which nine oxen paid (a vulgar price),
He gave his own, of gold divinely wrought,
A hundred beeves the shining purchase bought.

INTERVIEW OF MISS DALRYMPLE AND MISS SUTTIE

BETWEEN THE PILLARS AT THE EDINBURGH ASSEMBLY.

[_]

IN IMITATION OF HOMER'S ILIAD, BOOK VI.

Now paused the dance (retired fair Wemyss's beauty),
Godlike Dalrymple, and divine Miss Suttie,
Between the pillars met. The nymphs from far
Observed each other, and had marked for war.
Near as they drew, Miss Suttie thus began:

What art thou, bolder than the boldest man?
Our eyes, till now, ne'er saw that form advance,
Where fame is reaped amid the embattled dance;
Yet far before the rest thou dar'st appear,
And meet an eye the brightest beauties fear.
When Venus crowns me with superior ray,
All come ill-fated here, to fade away;
But if a goddess in that shape descend,
Submiss I yield, nor will with heaven contend,
Lest poor unhappy Gordon's fate be mine,
Who braved the goddesses of number nine;
Fool to divide the myrtle from the vine.
Nor failed the crime the immortals' wrath to move,
Who, sportful in the Mint, laugh, dance, and love.
Ah! wretched youth, what scoffs are thine to come,
For Maitland fixed the irrevocable doom!
Condemned in the dull scorner's chair to sit,
And thresh for life an empty sheaf of wit;
Egyptian darkness in thy works shall reign,
Without one inch of Goshen in thy brain;
Dull, genuine night, without one straggling spark,
But thoughts meet thoughts, and jostle in the dark.
In foggy weather, as two Dutchmen stray,
Thy rhymes shall shock, or wander from their way.

164

Such was his fate: I war not with the skies;
But if of earth, and mortal be those eyes—
If woman, as a woman ought to be,
Thou deal'st in scandal, and has sipt Bohea—
If Atalantis thou hast learned by rote,
Or minuet steps, new fashioned by Lamott;
Whoe'er thou art—prude be'st thou or coquette—
Approach, this moment shall decide thy fate.

What, or from whence I am, or who my sire,
(Replied the chief) can Suttie's tongue inquire?
Like leaves on trees, frail beauty's race is found,
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground,
Extolled in song, or toasted deep in wine,
A while, like lovely Jeanie Stewart, shine;
But swift decays the perishable grace,
And Lady Orbieston scarce knows the face.
Another year does other toasts restore,
And Tibby charms, when Jeanie charms no more:
Then hear my wonderous birth, a tale revered
Far as John Jolly's sounding bells are heard.

Graceful the beauteous warrior spoke, and ceased;
A generous joy sprung warm in Suttie's breast;
Keen burst no more the lightnings from her eye,
And on her lips the angry accents die.
With air benign she furled her threatening fan,
And smiled a smile she never smiled on man;
Then thus the Dalmahoian queen addressed—
Welcome, my fair hereditary guest!
Know, beauty (oft I have the tale been told)
Our mothers were familiar friends of old;
In the same childish games their days they led,
And at one dancing-school they both were bred.
By mutual gifts, alternate they exprest
The sacred friendships of each glowing breast:
I lately found, as I reviewed my stock,
My mother's present was a shuttlecock,
That from my infant arm along the skies
On snowy pinions oft was seen to rise;
Thine gave a patch-box, when constrained to part,
Studded with gold, and shaped into a heart.
If to East Lothian fate thy steps shall draw,
Gladly I'll meet thee at North-Berwick-Law;
If mine to stray to Dalmahoia's bowers,
You'll from thy windows point me Hatton's towers.
Enough of beaux to either's charms shall yield,
In the full harvest of this ample field;

165

Long as those eyes shall glance, those cheeks shall glow,
Let not Dalrymple be Miss Suttie's foe;
Let it around to either host be seen,
We fight for fame and glory, not for spleen;
Exchange some gift on this important day,
Take thou my bard, and give me Rothemay.

She said: Dalrymple's generous breast was fir'd;
Joyful she sprung, and gave the boon desir'd.
All gaz'd with wonder, who the deed survey'd,
For Venus of her senses robb'd the maid.
For Suttie's bard, of mean and poor device,
For whom five groats was much too dear a price,
She gave her Rothemay, a gallant dear,
Who weigh'd full fifteen thousand merks a-year.

Probably Janet, daughter of Colonel Francis Charteris, and wife of James, fourth Earl of Wemyss. When the lady who presided retired, the ball was at an end.

Once a fashionable pendicle of the Cowgate.

Mrs Manley's scandalous and indecent book, formerly so popular with women of almost every stamp!—See Pope's Rape of the Lock.

THE PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

[_]

FROM THE SIXTH ILIAD OF HOMER, TRANSLATED LITERALLY. Beginning verse 407.

Δαιμονιε, φθισει σε το σον μενος,------

O daring thou! to thy own strength a prey,
Nor pity moves thee for thy infant son,
Nor miserable me, a widow soon!
For, rushing on thy single might, at once
The Greeks will overwhelm thee. Better far
I had been wrapt in earth, than live of thee
Forlorn, and desolate; if thou must die,
What further comfort then for me remains,
What solace, but in tears? No father mine,
Nor mine no venerable mother's care.
Noble Achilles' hand my father slew,
And spread destruction through Cilicia's town,
Where many people dwelt, high-gated Thebes.
He slew Action, but despoiled him not,
For inly in his mind he feared the gods;
But burnt his body with his polished arms,
And o'er him reared a mound; the mountain nymphs,
The daughters fair of Egis-bearing Jove,
Planted with elms around the sacred place.
Seven brothers flourished in my father's house;
All in one day descended to the shades,

166

All slain by great Achilles, swift of foot,
Midst their white sheep, and heifers flexile-hoofed.
My mother, woody Hypoplacia's queen,
Brought hither, numbered in the victor's spoils;
Till loosed from bands, for gifts of mighty price,
By chace-delighting Dian's dart she fell,
Smote in my father's house. But Hector, thou,
Thou art my sire, my hoary mother thou,
My brother thou, thou husband of my youth!
Ah! pity, Hector, then; and in this tower
With us remain, nor render by thy fall
Him a sad orphan, me a widowed wife.
Here at this fig-tree station, where the town
Is easiest of ascent, and low the walls,
Here thrice the bravest of the foes have tried
To pass; each Ajax, brave Idomeneus,
The Atridæ too, and Tydeus' warlike son;
Whether some seer, in divination skilled,
Prompted the attempt, or their own valour dared
To execute a deed their wisdom planned.

To whom plume-nodding Hector thus replied:
These, woman, are my care; but much I fear
The Trojan youth, and long-gowned Trojan dames,
If, coward-like, I shun afar the fight.
Not so my courage bids; for I have learnt
Still to be brave, and foremost to defend
My father's mighty glories, and my own.
For well I know, and in my mind foresee,
A day will come, when sacred Ilion sinks,
Old Priam perishes, the people too
Of Priam aspen-speared. Yet not so much
The woes the Trojans yet in after-times
Must undergo, not Hecuba herself,
Nor princely Priam, nor my brothers dear,
Who, numerous and brave, fall'n in dust
Below the boasting foe, distract my soul,
As thou. Then when some brazen-coated Greek,
In the sad day of thy distress, shall drag
Thee weeping; or in Argos, breathing sad,
To some imperious mistress handmaid, thou
Shalt weave the web, or fetch the water's weight
From Messeis or Hyperia's springs, against
Thy will, but hard necessity compels.
Then shall he say, who sees thee sunk in tears,
Lo, Hector's wife! who far the chief of all
The Trojan steed-subduing race excell'd
Who fought at Ilion. Thus shall they say,
But thee new pangs shall seize; on thee shall come
Desire of such a husband, to repel
The evil hour: but may I low beneath

167

The monumental earth be laid to rest,
Nor thy soft sorrows, nor the melting voice
Of thy captivity, e'er reach my ear.

So saying, the illustrious Hector stretch'd
His hands to reach his child; the child averse,
In the soft bosom of the fair-zon'd nurse
Weeping, fell back, abhorrent, from his sire
Of warlike aspect: for he fear'd the shine
Of armour, and the horse-hair horrid crest
That nodded dreadful on the helmet's top.
The loving father smil'd, the mother smil'd;
Straight from his head th' illustrous Hector took
His helm, and plac'd it blazing on the ground;
Then fondled in his arms his much lov'd son
He took; thus praying Jove, and all the gods:

Jove and ye other gods, grant this my son,
Grant he may too become, as I am now,
The grace of Troy, the same in martial strength,
And rule his Ilion with a monarch's sway;
That men may say, when he returns from fight,
“This youth transcends his sire:” Then may he bear
The bloody spoils aloft of hostile chiefs
In battle slain, and joy his mother's heart.

He said: and to his much lov'd spouse resign'd
His child; she on her fragrant bosom lull'd
Smiling thro' tears, receiv'd him: at the sight,
Compassion touch'd her husband's heart; her cheek
With gentle blandishment he stroak'd, and spoke:

O best beloved! oh sadden not thy heart
With grief beyond due bounds. I trust, no hand
Shall send me down to shades obscure, before
My day of doom decreed; for well I ween
No man of mortal men escapes from death,
Fearful or bold: whoe'er is born must die.
But thou returning to thy home, attend
The spindle, and the loom, thy peaceful cares,
And call thy duteous maidens round to share
Their tasks by thee assign'd; for war belongs
To men, and chief to me, of Ilion's sons.

This said, illustrious Hector seiz'd his helm,
And to her home return'd his much lov'd spouse,
Oft looking back, and shedding tears profuse.
Then sudden at the lofty dome arriv'd,
With chambers fair adorn'd, where Hector dwelt,
The godlike Hector! There again she wept!
In his own house the living Hector wept;
For now foreboding in their fears, no more
They hop'd to meet him with returning step
From battle, 'scap'd the rage and force of Greece.

168

TO A SWALLOW.

[_]

FROM ANACREON—ODE TWELFTH.

Malicious bird! what punishment
Due to thy crimes can love invent!
Or clip thy wings, or cut thy tongue,
And spoil thy flight and future song?
That thus, unseasonable guest!
Thou darest disturb a lover's rest,
And tear the maid profuse of charms,
My fair Maria, from my arms!

TO A DOVE.

[_]

FROM ANACREON—ODE NINTH.

Say, beauteous dove, where dost thou fly?
To what new quarter of the sky
Dost thou with silken plumes repair,
To scent with sweets the ambient air?
Stay, gentle bird, nor thou refuse
To bear along a lover's vows.

O tell the maid, of me beloved,
O tell how constant I have proved;
How she to me all nymphs excelled,
The first my eyes with joy beheld;
And, since she treats me with disdain,
The first my eyes beheld with pain.
Yet, whether to my wishes kind,
She hear my prayer with gracious mind,
Or, unrelenting of her will,
Her hot displeasure kindle still,
I, in her beauty's chains bound fast,
Shall view her with indifference last.
Fly swift, my dove, and swift return,
With answer back to those that mourn;
O, in thy bill bring soft and calm
A branch of silver-flowering palm!
But why should I thy flight delay?
Go fleet, my herald, speed away!

THE NINETEENTH ODE OF ANACREON.

Fair Niobe old times surveyed,
In Phrygian hills a marble maid.

169

Changed, Pandion! to the swallows hue,
On swallow's wings thy daughter flew.

But I a looking-glass would be,
That thou mightst see thyself in me.
No; I would be a morning gown,
That so my dear might me put on.
But I a silver stream would flow,
To wash thy skin, as pure as snow.
I would myself in ointment pour,
To bathe thee with the fragrant shower.
But I would be thy tucker made,
Thy lovely swelling bosom's shade.
I would a diamond necklace deck
The comely rising of thy neck.
I would thy slender feet enclose,
To tread on me, transformed to shoes.

THE TWENTY-FIRST ODE OF ANACREON.

Fill, with Bacchus' blessings fraught,
Ye virgins fill a mighty draught;
Long since dried up by heat, I faint,
I scarcely breathe, and feverish pant.

O, with these fresher flowers, renew
The fading garland on my brow,
For oh! my forehead's raging heat
Has rifled all their graces sweet;
The rage of thirst I yet can quell,
The rage of heat I can repel;
But love, thy heat, which burns my soul,
What draughts can quench! what shades can cool!

THE TWENTY-SECOND ODE OF ANACREON.

Come sit beneath this shade with me,
My lovely maid! how fair the tree.
Its tender branches wide prevail,
Obedient to each breathing gale;
Summer's loom industrious weaves,
In mazy veins the silken leaves,
Soft as the milky veins I view,
O'er thy fair breast, meandering blue;
Hard by a fount, with murmuring noise,
Runs a sweet persuasive voice;
What lover—say, my lovely maid!—
So foolish as to pass this shade?

170

LOVE TURNED TO DESPAIR.

'Tis past! the pangs of love are past,
I love, I love no more;
Yet who would think I am at last
More wretched than before?
How blessed, when first my heart was freed
From love's tormenting care,
If cold indifference did succeed,
Instead of fierce despair!
But, ah! how ill is he released,
Though love a tyrant reigns,
When the successor in his breast
Redoubles all his pains!
In vain attempts the woeful wight,
That would despair remove;
Its little finger has more weight
Than all the loins of love.
Thus the poor wretch that left his dome,
With spirit foul accurst,
Found seven, returning late at home,
More dreadful than the first.
Well hoped I once that constancy
Might soften rigour's frown,
Would from the chains of hate set free,
And pay my ransom down;
But, ah! the judge is too severe,
I sink beneath his ire;
The sentence is gone forth to bear
Despair's eternal fire.
The hopes of sinners, in the day
Of grace, their fears abate;
But every hope flies far away,
When mercy shuts her gate;
The smallest alms could oft suffice
Love's hunger to assuage;
Despair, the worm that never dies,
Still gnaws with ceaseless rage.

171

THE RHONE AND THE ARAR.

Two rivers in famed Gallia's bounds are known,
The gentle Arar and the rapid Rhone;
Thro' pleasing banks, where love-sick shepherds dream,
Mild Arar softly steals her lingering stream—
Her wave so still, the exploring eye deceives,
That sees not if it comes, or if it leaves—
With silver graces ever dimpled o'er,
Reflects each flower, and smiles on every shore;
Each youth with joy the enchanting scene surveys,
And thinks for him the amorous stream delays;
While the sly nymph above unseen to flow,
To her own purpose true, steals calm below.
More rapid rolls the Rhone, tumultuous flood,
All raging, unwithheld and unwithstood;
In vain or fertile fields invite its stay,
In vain or roughest rocks oppose its way;
It bounds o'er all, and, insolent of force,
Still hurries headlong on, a downward course.
Sometimes, 'tis true, we snatch with painful sight,
Across the working foam a moment's light;
The momentary vision snatched again,
The troubled river boils and froths amain.
To which of these, alas! shall I confide?
Say, shall I plunge in Rhone's impetuous tide,
And by the various eddies rolled about,
Just as the whirlpools guide, sucked in, cast out?
Till, through a thousand giddy circles tossed,
In the broad ocean's boundless floods I'm lost?
Or, tell me, friend—less venturous, shall I lave
My glowing limbs in Arar's gentle wave?
In whose fair bosom beauteous prospects rise,
The earth in verdure, and in smiles the skies:
With thoughtless rapture every charm explore,
Heaved by no breeze, or wafted to no shore;
Till, trusting credulous to the false serene,
I sink to ruin in the pleasing scene.

FIRST SCENE OF THE PHILOCTETES OF SOPHOCLES.

(Ulysses speaks.)

Son of Achilles! brave Neoptolemus,
You tread the coast of sea-surrounded Lemnos,
Where never mortal yet his dwelling reared.
Here, in obedience to the Grecian chiefs,
I erst exposed the son of noble Pæan,

172

Consuming with his wounds, and wasting slow
In painful agonies; wild from despair,
He filled the camp with lamentations loud,
And execrations dire. No pure libation,
No holy sacrifice, could to the gods
Be offered up: ill-omened sounds of woe
Profaned the sacred rites. But this no more—
Should he discover my return, 'twere vain
The plan my wakeful industry has wove,
Back to restore yet to the aid of Greece
This most important chief. 'Tis thine, brave youth,
To ripen into deed what I propose.
Cast round thy eyes, if thou by chance mayst find
The double rock, where from the winter's cold
He shrouds his limbs, or when the summer glows
Amid the cool, the zephyrs gentle breath
Lulls him to his repose; fast on the left
Flows a fresh fountain; if the hero sees
This living light, one of the attendant train
Speed with the hour to glad my listening ears,
If in that savage haunt he harbours yet,
Or in some other corner of this isle;
Then farther I'll disclose, what chief imports
Our present needs, and claims our common care.

KING LEAR'S SPEECH TO EDGAR.

TAKING A VIEW OF MAN FROM THE SIDE OF HIS MISERIES.

Is man no more than this? consider him well. Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! here's three of us are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings; come, unbutton here. Shakespeare.

See where the solitary creature stands,
Such as he issued out of nature's hands;
No hopes he knows, no fears, no joys, no cares,
Nor pleasure's poison, nor ambition's snares;
But shares, from self-forged chains of life released,
The forest kingdom with his fellow beast.
Yes, all we see of thee is nature's part;
Thou art the creature's self—the rest is art.
For thee, the skilful worm of specious hue,
No shining threads of ductile radiance drew;
For thee, no sun the ripening gem refined;
No bleating innocence the fleece resigned:

173

The hand of luxury ne'er taught to pour,
O'er thy faint limbs, the oil's refreshing shower:
His bed the flinty rock; his drink, his food,
The running brook, and berries of the wood.
What have we added to this plain account?
What passions? what desires? a huge amount!
Clothed, fed, warmed, cooled, each by his brother's toil,
We live upon the wide creation's spoil.
Quit, monarch, quit thy vain superfluous pride;
Lay all thy foreign ornaments aside:
Bid art no more its spurious gifts supply;
Be man, mere man; thirst, hunger, grieve, and die.

VERSES TO BE PUT BENEATH MRS C[UNINGHAME] OF C[RAIGEND]S PICTURE.

By various youths admired, by all approved,
By many sought, by one sincerely loved,
Chief of Edina's fair I flourished long,
First in the dance, the visit, and the song;
Beauty, good-nature, in my form combined,
My body one adorned, and one my mind.
When youthful years, a foe to lonely nights,
Impels young hearts to Hymen's chaste delights,
I viewed the admiring train with equal eye,
True to each hope, and faithful to each sigh:
The happy hours of admiration past,
The hand of nuptial love was given at last;
Not to the faithful youth my charms inspired,
Nor those who sought my charms, nor who admired;
He not preferred for merit, wit, or sense,
Not chose, but suffered with indifference,
Who neither knew to love, or be beloved,
Approved me not, and just not disapproved,
Nor warmth pretended, nor affection showed;
Asked, not implored; I yielded, not bestowed.
Without or hopes, or fears, I joined his side,
His mistress never, and but scarce his bride.
No joys at home, abroad was only show;
I neither gained a friend, nor lost a foe;
For, lost alike to pleasure, love, and fame,
My person he enjoys, and I his name.
Yet patient still I lead my anxious life,
Pleased that I'm called my formal husband's wife.

174

THE YOUNGEST GRACE.

A LOVE ELEGY, ADDRESSED TO A LADY WHO HAD JUST FINISHED HER FIFTEENTH YEAR.

His saltem accumulem donis et fungar inani
Munere ------
Virg. Æneid VI.

As beauty's queen, in her ærial hall,
Sublimely seated on a golden throne,
Before her high tribunal summoned all
Who or on earth, sea, air, her empire own.
First came her son, her power, her darling boy,
Whose gentlest breath can raise the fiercest flame,
Oft working mischief, though his end be joy,
And though devoid of sight, yet sure of aim.
With him, his youthful consort, sad no more,
Psyche, enfranchised from all mortal pain,
Who, every trial of obedience o'er,
Enjoys the blessings of the heavenly reign.
Next, as it well beseemed, the tuneful nine,
Daughters of memory, and dear to Jove,
Who, as they list, the hearts of men incline
To wit, to music, poetry, or love.
She who with milder breath inspiring fills,
Than ever zephyr knew, the heart-born sigh,
Or else from nature's pregnant source distils
The tender drops that swell the love-sick eye.
Or she who from her copious store affords,
When love decrees, the faithful youth to bless,
The sacred energy of melting words,
In the dear hour, and season of success.
Last in the train, two sisters fair appeared,
Sorrowing they seemed, yet seemed their sorrow sweet;
Nor ever from the ground their eyes they reared,
Nor tripped, as they were wont, on snowy feet.
The Cyprian goddess cast her eyes around,
And gazed o'er all, with ever-new delight;
So bright an host was nowhere to be found:
Her heart dilates, and glories in its might.
But when, without their loved companion dear,
Two solitary graces hand in hand
Approached, the goddess inly 'gan to fear
What might befal the youngest of the band.
Ah! whither is retired my darling joy,
My youngest grace, the pride of all my reign?
First in my care, and ever in my eye,
Why is she now the lag of all my train?

175

Ah me! some danger threats my Cyprian state,
Which, goddess as I am, I can't foresee;
Some dire disaster labours (ah, my fate!)
To wrest love's sceptre from my son and me.
She wept: not more she wept, when first her eyes
Saw low in dust her Ilion's towery pride;
Nor from her breast more frequent burst the sighs,
When her loved youth, her dear Adonis, died.
Yet, yet, she cried, I will a monarch reign!
In my last deed my greatness shall be seen:
Ye loves, ye smiles, ye graces, all my train,
Attend your mother, and obey your queen.
Wisdom's vain goddess weaves some treacherous wile,
Or haughty Juno, heaven's relentless dame;
Haste! bend each bow; haste! brighten every smile,
And launch from every eye the lightning's flame.
Then had fell discord broke the golden chain
That does the harmony of all uphold,
And where these orbs in beauteous order reign,
Brought back the anarchy of chaos old:
When Cupid keen unlocks his feathered store,
When Venus burns with more than mortal fire,
Mortals, immortals, all had fled before
The loves, the graces, and the smiles in ire:
In vain, to avert the horrors of that hour,
Anxious for fate, and fearing for his sky,
The sire of gods and men had tried his power,
And hung his golden balances on high:
Had not the eldest grace, serene and mild,
Who wished this elemental war might cease,
Sprung forward, with persuasive look, and smiled
The furious mother of desires to peace.
Ah! whence this rage, vain child of empty fear?
With accent mild thus spoke the heavenly maid,
What words, O sovereign of hearts! severe
Have passed the roses of thy lips unweighed?
Think not mankind forsake thy mystic law:
Thy son, thy pride, thy own Cupido reigns;
Heard with respect, and seen with tender awe;
Mighty on thrones, and gentle on the plains.
Rememberest not how in the blest abodes
Of high Olympus an etherial guest,
Mixed with the synod of the assembled gods,
Thou shared'st the honours of the ambrosial feast?
Celestial pleasures reigning all around,
Such as the powers who live at ease enjoy,
The smiling bowl with life immortal crowned,
By rosy Hebe, and the Phrygian boy:
Hermes, sly god! resolved thy spleen to hit,
Thy spleen, but, of itself, too apt to move;

176

Prone to offend with oft-mistaking wit,
That foe perverse to nature and to love.
Much glozed he spiteful, how rebellious youth,
Lost to thy fear, and recreant from thy name,
False to the interest of the heart, and truth,
On foreign altars kindles impious flame.
Much glozed he tauntful, how to nobler aims
The youth awakening from each female wile,
No longer met in love's opprobrious flames,
Slaves to an eye, or vassals to a smile.
Now fifteen years the still-returning spring
With flowers the bosom of the earth has sowed,
As oft the groves heard Philomela sing,
And trees have paid the fragrant gifts they owed,
Since our dear sister left the heavenly bowers:
So willed the fates, and such their high command,
She should be born in high Edina's towers,
To thee far dearer than all other lands.
There, clad in mortal form, she lies concealed,
A veil more bright than mortal form e'er knew;
So fair was ne'er to dreaming bard revealed,
Nor sweeter e'er the shaddowing pencil drew.
Where'er the beauteous heart-compeller moves,
She scatters wide perdition all around:
Blessed with celestial form, and crowned with loves,
No single breast is refractory found.
Vain Pallas now the unequal conflict shuns;
Vain are the terrors of her Gorgon shield:
Wit bends—but chief Apollo's yielding sons—
To thy fair doves Juno's proud peacocks yield.
No rival powers thy envied empire share;
Revolted mortals crowd again thy shrine;
Duteous to love, and every pleasing care,
All hearts are her's, and all her heart is thine.
So mild a sway the willing nations own;
By her thou triumph'st o'er this subject ball;
Whilst men (the secret of the skies unknown)
The beauteous apparition Laura call.

THE CORYCIAN SWAIN.

[_]

FROM GEORG. IV., LINE 116.

But, were I not, before the favouring gale,
Making to port, and crowding all my sail,
Perhaps I might the garden's glories sing,
The double roses of the Pæstan spring;
How endive drinks the rill, and how are seen
Moist banks with celery forever green;

177

How, twisted in the matted herbage, lies
The bellowing cucumber's enormous size;
What flowers Narcissus late, how nature weaves
The yielding texture of Acanthus' leaves;
Of ivy pale the culture next explore,
And whence the lover-myrtle courts the shore.
For I remember, where Galesus yields
His humid moisture to the yellow fields,
And high Oebalia's towers o'erlook the plain,
I knew in youth an old Corycian swain;
A few and barren acres were his share,
Left and abandoned to the good man's care;
Nor these indulged the grassy lawn, to feed
The fattening bullock, nor the bounding steed,
Nor gave to cattle browse, nor food to kine,
Bacchus, averse, refused the mantling vine.
What happy nature to his lands denied,
An honest, painful industry supplied;
For, trusting pot-herbs to his bushy ground,
For bees, fair candid lilies flourished round,
Vervain for health, for bread he poppies plants,
With these he satisfied all nature's wants;
And late returning home from wholesome toil,
Enjoyed the frugal bounty of the soil.
His mind was royal in a low estate,
And dignified the meanness of his fate.
He first in spring was seen to crop the rose,
In autumn first to unload the bending boughs;
For every bud the early year bestowed,
A reddening apple on the branches glowed.
Even in the midst of winter's rigid reign,
When snow and frost had whitened o'er the plain,
When cold had split the rocks, and stripped the woods,
And shackled up the mighty running floods,
He then, anticipating summer's hopes,
The tendrils of the soft acanthus crops;
His industry awaked the lazy spring,
And hastened on the zephyr's loitering wing.
For this with pregnant bees he chief was known
To abound—the balmy harvest all his own.
Successive swarms reward his faithful toil;
None pressed from richer combs the liquid spoil.
He crowned his rural orchard's plain design,
With flowering lime-trees, and a wealth of pine.
He knew, in graceful order, to dispose
Large-bodied elms, transplanted into rows.
Hard pear-trees flourished near his rustic dome,
And thorns already purple with the plumb;
Broad planes arose to form an ample bower,
Where mirth's gay sons refreshed the sultry hour.

178

But I this grateful subject must discard,
The pleasing labour of some future bard.

SONG TO A LADY WHO RIDICULED THE AUTHOR'S LOVES.

I

A female friend advised a swain,
Whose heart she wished at ease,
Make love thy pleasure, not thy pain,
Nor let it deeply seize.

II

Beauty, where vanities abound,
No serious passion claims;
Then, till a phœnix can be found,
Do not admit the flames.

III

But grieved, she finds all his replies
(Since prepossessed when young),
Take all their hints from Silvia's eyes,
None from Ardelia's tongue.

IV

Thus, Cupid, all their aim they miss,
Who would unbend thy bow;
And each slight nymph a phœnix is,
If thou wouldst have it so.

MITHRIDATES.

ACT I.—SCENE I.

[_]

AFTER THE MANNER OF THE FRENCH DRAMATIC RHYME OF RACINE.

Xiphares. Arbates.
Xiphares.
'Tis true, Arbates! what all tongues relate,
Rome triumphs, and my father yields to fate:
He whose wide empire stretched from shore to shore,
The mighty Mithridates is no more.
Pompey, wide-scattering terror and affright,
Surprised his prudence in the shades of night;
Through all his camp a sudden ruin spread,
And heaped it round with mountains of the dead:

179

On broad Euphrates' bank the monarch lies—
His diadem is fallen the victor's prize.
Thus he whom Asia forty years beheld
Still rising nobler from each well-fought field,
Who bold avenged, high-raised on valour's wings,
The common cause of empire and of kings,
Dies, and behind him leaves, by fortune crossed,
Two sons, alas! in mutual discords lost.

Arbates.
How, prince! so soon does fell ambition move
To break the union of fraternal love?

Xiphares.
Far, far such guilt be from Xiphares' breast,
Far such ambition, which the good detest;
Nor glory shines so tempting in my eye,
Nor rate I empire at a price so high;
True to the kindred honours of my name,
I recognise a brother's juster claim;
Nor further does my highest wish aspire,
Than those fair kingdoms left me by my sire;
The rest without regret I see become
His valour's purchase, or the gift of Rome.

Arbates.
The gift of Rome, say'st? can Pharnaces owe—
Can Mithridates' son?—

Xiphares.
Arbates, know,
In vain Pharnaces veils himself in art,
Long since become all Roman at the heart;
Lost to his father's glories, and his own,
He longs to mount a tributary throne:
Whilst I, more desperate from my father's fate,
Nourish within my breast immortal hate.
But yet, not all the rage that hatred breeds,
Not all the jealousies ambition feeds,
Not all the glories Pontus' realms can boast,
Not these divide our wretched bosoms most.

Arbates.
What nearer care Xiphares' fear alarms?

Xiphares.
Then hear astonished, friend! Monimia's charms,
Whom late our father honoured with his vows,
And now Pharnaces with bold zeal pursues—

Arbates.
Monimia?

Xiphares.

I love, nor longer will conceal
A flame which truth and honour bid reveal:

180

Nor duty further binds my tongue, since here
I now no rival but a brother fear.
Nor is this flame the passion of a day,
A sudden blaze that hastens to decay;
Long in my breast I pent the rising groan,
Told it in secret to my heart alone.
O, could I, faithful to its rage, express
Its first uneasiness, my last distress!
But lose not now the moments to disclose
The long, long story of my amorous woes.—
Suffice it thee to know, that ere my sire
Beheld this beauteous object of desire,
I saw and felt the charmer in my heart,
And holy passion dignified the dart.
My father saw her too, nor sought to move
With vows that she and virtue could approve;
Haughty of sovereign rule, he hoped to find
An easy conquest o'er a woman's mind:
But when he found, in honour resolute,
She scorned indignant his imperious suit,
'Twas then he sent, in Hymen's sacred name,
His diadem, the pledge of purer flame.
Judge then, my friend! what agonizing smart
Tore up my senses, and transfixed my heart,
When first from fame the dreadful tale I heard,
The fair Monimia to his throne preferred,
And that Arbates with his beauteous prey
Shaped for Nymphea's walls the destined way.

'Twas then, the more to aggravate my doom,
My mother listened to the arts of Rome:
Whether by her great zeal for me misled,
Or stung with rage for her deserted bed,
Betrayed to Pompey (impotent of mind)
The fort and treasures to her charge consigned.
How dreadful did my mother's guilt appear!
Soon as the fatal tidings reached my ear,
No more I saw my rival in my sire,
My duty triumphed o'er my fond desire;
Alone in the unhappy man surveyed
The father injured, and the king betrayed.
My mother saw me, prodigal of breath,
In every field encounter every death;
Keen to redeem the honours of my name,
Repair her wrongs, and disavow her shame.
Then the broad Euxine owned my father's sway,
I made the raging Hellespont obey;
His happy vessels flew without control,
Wherever winds could waft, or oceans roll.
My filial duty had attempted more,
Even hoped his rescue on Euphrates' shore;

181

Sudden I heard, amid the martial strife,
A hostile arm had cut his thread of life.
'Twas then, I own, amid my various woes,
Monimia dear to my remembrance rose:
I feared the furious king, the dire excess
Of amorous rage, and jealous tenderness;
Hither I flew, some mischief to prevent,
With all the speed presaging passion lent;
Nor less my fears sinister omens drew,
When in these walls Pharnaces struck my view.
Pharnaces, still impetuous, haughty, bold,
Rash in design, in action uncontrolled,
Solicits the fair queen, again renews
His interrupted hopes, and former vows,
Confirms his father's death, and longs to move
Her gentle bosom to more equal love.
I own, indeed, whilst Mithridates reigned,
My love was by parental law restrained;
Revered submissive his superior power,
Who claimed my duty from my natal hour:
Enfranchised by his death, it scorns to yield
To any other's hopes so dear a field.
Either Monimia, adverse to my claim,
Rejects—ah, heaven forbid!—my tender claim;
Or—but whatever danger's to be run,
'Tis by my death alone the prize is won.
'Tis thine to choose, which of the two to save,
Thy royal master's son, or Pompey's slave.
Proud of the Romans who espouse his cause,
Pharnaces proudly thinks to dictate laws;
But let him know, that here that very hour
My father died, I knew no rival power.
The realms of Pontus own his sovereign sway,
Him Colchus and its provinces obey.
And Colchus' princes ever did maintain
The Bosphorus a part of their domain.

Arbates.
My lord, what power I boast you justly claim,
My duty and affection are the same;
Arbates has but one plain point in view,
To honour and his royal master true.
Had Mithridates reigned, nor force nor art
Had e'er seduced this faithful, loyal heart;
Now by his death released, my duteous care,
His royal will declared, awaits his heir;
The self-same zeal I to your succour bring,
With which I served your father, and my king.
Had heaven Pharnaces' impious purpose sped,
I the first victim of his rage had bled;

182

Those walls so long his entrance which withstood,
Ere this had reddened with my odious blood.
Go, to the blooming queen your suit approve,
And mould her gentle bosom to your love;
Affianced in my faith, dismiss your fear,
Either Arbates has no credit here,
Or else Pharnaces, by my arts o'ercome,
Elsewhere shall boast him of the aids of Rome.

HORACE, EPISTLE I., BOOK I., IMITATED.

Stewart! whose smiles inspire my present lays,
Whose smiles shall brighten up my latest praise;
My earliest had been thine, but that too long
Thy charms delayed to ripen on my song:
The faithful ardours now return the same,
For gentle Alvos differed but in name.
Ah! why, unequal to the lover's part,
No more, alas! the master of my art,
Wouldst thou involve me in the amorous strife?
See, e'en Blair-Drummond's self now weds a wife;
In peace at length concludes his gentle toils,
And loads one woman with her sex's spoils.

PSALM LXV. IMITATED.

Thrice happy he! whom thy paternal love
Allows to tread the radiant courts above,
To range the climes where pure enjoyments grow,
Where blessings spring, and endless pleasures flow.
Awful in majesty, thy glories shine,
Thy mercy speaks its author all divine.
Thy tender and amazing care is owned,
Where'er old ocean walks his wavy round;
Those that explore the terrors of the main,
Embroiled with storms, in search of paltry gain,
Where tides encounter with tumultuous roar,
Derive their safety from thy boundless power;
Within their stated mounds thy nod contains
The lawless waves, where headlong tumult reigns;
At thy despotic call the rebels cease,
Sink to a smiling calm—and all is peace.

183

Those that inhabit earth's remotest bound,
Trembling survey thy terrors all around,
When kindling meteors redden in the air,
And shake thy judgments from their sanguine hair;
At thy command fair blushes lead the day,
And orient pearls glow from each tender spray,
Night with her solemn gloom adores a God,
And spreads her sable horrors at his nod,
Whole nature cheerful owns her Maker's voice,
Each creature smiles, and all his works rejoice.
Thy bounty streams in soft descending showers,
And wakens into bloom the drooping flowers;
Pregnant on high thy cloudy cisterns move,
And pour their genial treasures from above;
Earth smiles, arrayed in all her youthful charms,
Her flowery infants ope their blushing arms,
And kindling life each vernal blossom warms.
Thus the glad year with circling mercies crowned,
Enjoys thy goodness in an endless round.
Whene'er thou smilest, fresh beauties paint the earth,
And flowers awakened vegetate to birth.
The dreary wilds, where no delights are found,
Where never spring adorned the sterile ground,
At thy command a pompous dress assume,
Fair roses glow, and opening lilies bloom:
Here verdant hills arise on every side,
And shoot their tops aloft with conscious pride;
There lowing herds adorn the fertile soil,
And crown with fleecy wool the shepherd's toil;
While tender lambs their infant voices raise,
And sweetly bleat the almighty Giver's praise.
Here loaded vallies smile with waving corn,
And golden prospects every field adorn;
They shout for joy, and lowly bending sing,
With sweet harmonious notes, their gracious king.

EPITAPH.

Does great and splendid villany allure?
Go search in W---'s trial for a cure.
Blest with enough, wouldst thou increase it still?
Examine Ch---'s life, and R---d's will.
Wouldst thou be happy? then these rules receive,
Read this verse gratis, and thy soul shall live.
Learn from this man, who now lies five feet deep,
To drink when doubting, and when tempted sleep.
This led him safe through life's tempestuous steerage,
Poor by no place, ignoble by no peerage;

184

An easy mind, by no entails devised;
An humble virtue, by no kings excised;
Stated no law case, and no critic quoted;
Spoke what he thought; and never swore, nor voted.
Courts he abhorred, their errors, their abuses,
St James', Versailles—all, all, but Sancta Crucis;
There, where no statesmen buys, no bishop sells—
A virtuous palace, where no monarch dwells.
With kind Bargany, faithful to his word,
Whom heaven made good and social, though a lord;
The cities viewed of many-languaged men,
Popes, pimps, kings, gamesters; and saw all was vain.
Enjoyed, what Hopetoun's groves could never yield,
The philosophic rapture of the field!
Nor asked, nor feared. His life, and humble lays,
No critics envy, and no flatterers praise.
Sure those who know how hard to write, and live,
Would judge with candour, pity and forgive.
Known but to few, as if he ne'er had been,
He stole through life unheeded, and unseen.
He often erred, but broke no social duty;
Unbribed by statesmen, and unhurt by beauty.

Holyrood house.

ON A DIAL IN MY GARDEN.

Once at a potent leader's voice it stay'd,
Once it went back when a good monarch pray'd.
Mortals, howe'er we grieve, howe'er deplore,
The flying shadow shall return no more.

ON AN OBELISK IN MY GARDEN.

View all around, the works of power divine,
Inquire, explore, admire, extol, resign;
This is the whole of human kind below,
'Tis only giv'n beyond the grave to know.

185

INSCRIPTION ON A DOG.

Calm tho' not mean, courageous without rage,
Serious not dull, and without thinking sage;
Pleased at the lot that nature has assign'd,
Snarl as I list, and freely bark my mind,
As churchman wrangle not with jarring spite,
Nor statesman-like caressing whom I bite;
View all the canine kind with equal eyes,
I dread no mastiff, and no cur despise.
True from the first, and faithful to the end,
I balk no mistress, and forsake no friend.
My days and nights one equal tenor keep,
Fast but to eat, and only wake to sleep.
Thus stealing along life I live incog,
A very plain and downright honest dog.

EPIGRAM ON A LION ENRAGED AT SEEING A LAD IN THE HIGHLAND DRESS.

Calm and serene the imperial lion lay,
Mildly indulging in the solar ray;
On vulgar mortals with indifference gazed,
All unconcerned, nor angry, nor amazed;
But when the Caledonian lad appeared,
Sudden alarmed, his manly mane he reared,
Prepared in fierce encounter to engage
The only object worthy of his rage.

University of Virginia Library

AN EPITAPH ON THE AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POEMS,

WROTE BY HIMSELF IN THE YEAR 1738.

TO A LADY, ON HER TAKING SOMETHING ILL THAT MR H. SAID.

UPON HEARING HIS PICTURE WAS IN A LADY'S BREAST.

SONG.

[Ye shepherds and nymphs that adorn the gay plain]

SONG.

[Ah the shepherd's mournful fate]

HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XI., IMITATED.

SONG.

[Adieu ye pleasant sports and plays]

TO MRS A. R.

THE BRAES OF YARROW.

TO THE COUNTESS OF EGLINTOUN,

WITH “THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.”

THE MAID OF GALLOWSHIELS.

IN TWELVE BOOKS.

BOOK I.

THE ARGUMENT:

BOOK II.

THE ARGUMENT:

EPITAPH ON LORD BINNY.

EPITAPH ON LORD BARGANY.

EPITAPH ON SIR JAMES SOOTY.

EPITAPH ON LORD NEWHALL.

EPITAPH ON MR BAILLIE OF JERVISWOOD.

CONTEMPLATION: OR THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE.

TO A YOUNG LADY WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM.

ODE I.—TO FANCY.

ODE II.

[Begone, pursuits so vain and light]

MISS AND THE BUTTERFLY,

A FABLE.

ODE I.—TO FANCY.

ODE IV.—ON THE NEW YEAR M.DCC.XXXIX.

EPITAPH ON MRS KEITH.

EPITAPH ON MRS HEPBURN.

ON THE DEATH OF MR BASIL HAMILTON.

AN ODE ON THE BATTLE OF GLADSMUIR, 1745.

EPITAPH.

A SOLILOQUY IN IMITATION OF HAMLET.

BEGINNING OF THE FIRST GEORGICK OF VIRGIL.

A SOLILOQUY WROTE IN JUNE M.DCC.XLVI.

TO LADY MARY MONTGOMERY.

ON SEEING THE LADY MARY MONTGOMERY SIT TO HER PICTURE.

THE FLOWER OF YARROW.

THE FLOWERS.

—A FRAGMENT.

THE EPISODE OF LAUSUS AND MEZENTIUS.

THE EPISODE OF THE THISTLE.

SONG.

[Would'st thou know her sacred charms]

A SONG, BY A YOUNG LADY ON READING THE FOREGOING.

REPLY BY MR. HAMILTON.

THE YOUNG LADY'S ANSWER.

TO A GENTLEMAN GOING TO TRAVEL.

TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER SINGING.

SONG.

[Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale]

SONG.

[Go, plaintive sounds! and to the fair]

SONG.

[You ask me, charming fair]

SPEECH OF RANDOLPH.

DOVES.

—A FRAGMENT.

THE WISH.

A SERIOUS THOUGHT.

PALINODE.

EPITAPH ON MRS COLQUHOUN OF LUSS.

ON A SUMMER-HOUSE IN MY OWN GARDEN.

EPITAPH ON MISS SETON.

EPITAPH ON MR CUNINGHAME OF CRAIGENDS.

HORACE, ODE V., BOOK I., IMITATED.

HORACE, BOOK I., ODE VII., IMITATED.

HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XXII.

HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XXIII.

HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XXIV., IMITATED.

I.