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 volume of his poems, and containing several pieces hitherto unpublished; with illustrative notes, and an account of the life of the author.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 |
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HORACE, BOOK II., ODE XVI., IMITATED. |
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 | The poems and songs of William Hamilton of Bangour |  |
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.
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,
Rich prize, not to be bought or sold,
For purple, precious gems, or gold,
Or wide and large command.
Ease, graceful in his tartan plaid,
The Highlander demands,
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
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.
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.
| The poems and songs of William Hamilton of Bangour | |