University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson

... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c

expand sectionI. 
collapse sectionII. 
Part II. —English Poems.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
expand section 
expand section 
expand sectionIII. 
expand sectionIV. 


109

II. Part II. —English Poems.


111

THE FORESTERS.

DESCRIPTION OF A PEDESTRIAN JOURNEY TO THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

ARGUMENT.

Exordium—American scenery seldom the theme of poetry—the season —the Foresters, Duncan, Leech, and the author—Germantown— Springhouse tavern—its guests, &c.—Bucks, a Dutch settlement— employment of Hans and his frau—Easton—Blue Mountains—a school—the teacher—the dignity, utility, and miseries of the profession —prayer in behalf of teachers—Effects of a tornado—Shades of Death—woodman's hut—Address to the Susquehanna—Benevolent landlord—Duncan in love—Hospitality apostrophized—money the greatest curiosity in the township—Pat Dougherty's hotel—Wyalusing —French royalists in exile—Breakneck—Spanish Hill—Apostrophe to Industry—Chemung—Eulogium on Sullivan and others—Newtown —Catherine's Swamps—Exiled Indian's Lament—Fowling—howling of wolves—a panther seen—the forest on fire—appearance of the woodman—his hut—parting of friends—a nocturnal voyage—Address to Columbus—Trapper's hut—an Indian hunter—Fort Oswego— Lake Ontario—embarkation—Sickness—Landing at Queenstown— First view of the falls of Niagara—Description of the various falls— Address to the God of Nature—the Foresters set out on their return —lodge near the Falls—Dream of the scenery—awake in horror of perishing in the rapids, and are again rocked to rest by the tumult of the waters.

Sons of the city! ye whom crowds and noise
Bereave of peace and Nature's rural joys,
And ye who love through woods and wilds to range,
Who see new charms in each successive change;

112

Come roam with me Columbia's forests through,
Where scenes sublime shall meet your wandering view:
Deep shades magnificent, immensely spread,
Lakes, sky-encircled, vast as ocean's bed,
Lone hermit streams that wind through savage woods,
Enormous cataracts swoln with thundering floods;
The settler's farm

A term usually applied in America to those persons who first commence the operations of agriculture in a new country, by cutting, clearing, and actual settlement. The varied appearance of the woods when these are rapidly going on, forms a busy, novel, and interesting picture.

with blazing fires o'erspread,

The hunter's cabin and the Indian's shed,
The log-built hamlet, deep in wilds embraced,
The awful silence of th'unpeopled waste:
These are the scenes the Muse shall now explore,
Scenes new to song, and paths untrod before.
To Europe's shores, renowned in deathless song,
Must all the honours of the bard belong?
And rural Poetry's enchanting strain
Be only heard beyond th'Atlantic main?
What though profuse in many a patriot's praise,
We boast a Barlow's soul-exalting lays;
An Humphreys, blessed with Homer's nervous glow,
And Freedom's friend and champion in Freneau;
Yet Nature's charms that bloom so lovely here,
Unhailed arrive, unheeded disappear;
While bare bleak heaths, and brooks of half a mile
Can rouse the thousand bards of Britain's Isle.
There scarce a stream creeps down its narrow bed,
There scarce a hillock lifts its little head,
Or humble hamlet peeps their glades among,
But lives and murmurs in immortal song;
Our western world, with all its matchless floods,
Our vast transparent lakes and boundless woods,
Stamped with the traits of majesty sublime,
Unhonoured weep the silent lapse of Time,
Spread their wild grandeur to the unconscious sky,
In sweetest seasons pass unheeded by;
While scarce one Muse returns the songs they gave,
Or seeks to snatch their glories from the grave.

113

The sultry heats of Summer's sun were o'er,
And ruddy orchards poured their ripened store;
Stripped of their leaves the cherry av'nues stood,
While sage October ting'd the yellow wood,
Bestrew'd with leaves and nuts the woodland path,
And roused the Katydid

A species of Gryllus, very numerous and very noisy in the woods at that season.

in chattering wrath;

The corn stood topped, there punkins strewed the ground,
And driving clouds of blackbirds wheeled around.
Far to the south our warblers had withdrawn,
Slow sailed the thistle-down along the lawn,
High on the hedge-rows, pendant over head,
Th'embow'ring vines their purple clusters spread.
The buckwheat flails re-echoed from the hill,
The creaking cider-press was busier still;
Red through the smoky air the wading sun
Sunk into fog ere half the day was done;
The air was mild, the roads embrowned and dry,
Soft, meek-eyed Indian Summer

This expression is so well understood in the United States as hardly to require any explanation. Between the months of October and December there is usually a week or two of calm serene, mirky weather, such as here described, which is nonsensically denominated the Indian Summer. [I add—This corresponds with our English St. Martin's Summer in October and November.]

ruled the sky.

Such was the season when equipt we stood
On the green banks of Schuylkill's winding flood,
Bound on a Tour wide northern forests through,
And bade our parting friends a short adieu.
Three cheerful partners: Duncan was the guide,
Young, gay, and active, to the Forest tried;
A stick and knapsack, all his little store,
With these, whole regions Duncan could explore;
Could trace the path to other eyes unseen,
Tell where the panther, deer, or bear had been;
The long dull day through swamp and forest roam,
Strike up his fire and find himself at home;
Untie his wallet, taste his frugal store,
And under shelbury bark profoundly snore;
And, soon as morning cheered the forest scene,
Resume his knapsack and his path again.
Next Leech advanced, with youthful sails unfurled,
Fresh on his maiden cruise to see the world;

114

Red o'er his cheek the glow of health was spread,
And oilskin covering glittering round his head;
His light fuzee across his shoulder thrown,
His neat-slung knapsack full and glistening shone;
Though unknown regions wide before him lay,
He scorned all fear while Wilson shared the way.
He next appeared, with glittering arms supplied,
A double gun, a deadly dirk beside;
A knapsack, crammed by Friendship's generous care,
With cakes and cordials, drams, and dainty fare;
Flasks filled with powder, leathern belts with shot,
Clothes, colours, paper, pencils—and what not.
With hope elate, and ardour in his eye,
He viewed the varying scenes approaching nigh,
Prepared and watchful (heedless of repose)
To catch the living manners as they rose;
Th'exploits, fatigues, and wonders to rehearse,
In no inglorious or enfeebled verse;
Nor scene nor character to bring to view
Save what fair Truth from living Nature drew.
Thus each equipt beneath his separate load,
We, fellow-pilgrims, gaily took the road;
A road immense, yet promised joys so dear,
That toils, and doubts, and dangers, disappear.
Behind us soon the lessening city flies,
New vallies sink and other hills arise,
Till through old Germantown we lightly trod,
That skirts for three long miles the narrow road;
And rising Chesnut-Hill around surveyed,
Wide woods below in vast extent displayed.
Studded with glitt'ring farms, the distant view
Died into mingling clouds and mountains blue;
The road was good, the passing scenery gay,
Mile after mile passed unperceived away;
Till in the west the day began to close,
And Spring-house tavern furnished us repose.

115

Here two long rows of market-folks were seen,
Ranged front to front, the table placed between,
Where bags of meat and bones, and crusts of bread,
And hunks of bacon all around were spread;
One pint of beer from lip to lip went round,
And scarce a crumb the hungry house-dog found;
Torrents of Dutch from every quarter came,
Pigs, calves, and saur-craut the important theme;
While we, on future plans revolving deep,
Discharged our bill and straight retired to sleep.
The morning star shone early on our bed:
Again our march the vigorous Duncan led.
The vault of heaven with constellations hung,
Their myriads twinkling as he cheerly sung,
Beguiling the lone hours. Thus half the day,
O'er hill and dale our stretching journey lay,
Through fertile Bucks

The country of Bucks, is a wide well-cultivated tract of country, containing nearly half-a-million of acres, and upwards of 30,000 inhabitants.

, where lofty barns abound:

For wheat, fair Quakers, eggs, and fruit renowned;
Full fields, snug tenements, and fences neat,
Wide spreading walnuts drooping o'er each gate;
The spring-house peeping from enclustering trees,
Gay gardens filled with herbs, and roots and bees,
Where quinces, pears, and clustering grapes were seen,
With pond'rous calabashes hung between;
While orchards, loaded, bending o'er the grass,
Invite to taste and cheer us as we pass.
But these too soon give place to prospects drear,
As o'er Northampton's barren heights

Northampton is an oblong, hilly country, adjoining that of Bucks. It is crossed nearly at right angles by that remarkable range of the Allegany, known by the name of the Blue Ridge or Blue Mountain, which presents the appearance of an immense rampart, extending further than the eye can reach, with an almost uniform height of summit.

we steer;

Bleak land of stones, deep swamps, and pigmy woods
Where the poor Swabian o'er his drudgery broods;
Toils hard; and when the heats of harvest burn,
Gleans from the rocks his pittance in return.
Yet though so cursed his soil, his sheaves so few,
All-conquering Industry still bears him through:
Averse to change, pleased patiently to plod
The same dull round his honest father trod.

116

Below his low-roofed hut on yonder green,
There no gay front or proud piazza's seen:
Let wealthy fools their precious hoards disburse,
No whim can tempt him to untie his purse.
A moss-grown penthouse shades his narrow door,
One window 'joins, with patches covered o'er;
Around the garden numerous hives are ranged,
And pendent gourds to fading yellow changed.
Sheds, smoke-house, hog-pens, crowd the miry yard,
Where endless yells from growling pigs are heard.
Approach this humble hut; look in, nor fear;
Say, could Ambition find one comfort here?
Yet sweet Content e'en here is sometimes found,
Turning the wheel, or slumb'ring by its sound.
No mirrors dazzle, no rich beds appear,
Wide wasting Fashion never entered here.
Those plates of pewter, ranged along the frame,
In ancient days from distant Teuchland came.
That oaken table, so uncouth and low,
Stood where it stands some sixty years ago.
In this arm-chair where Hans delights to snore,
His great-grandfather nodded long before.
Thus glows his greasy stove throughout the year,
The torrid zone for ever rages here.
Here, when the shades of weary evening fall,
Sits Hans, the lord and sovereign of all;
Das Neue Callender

The New Almanac.

from the nail unhooks,

His dark brows solemn, and morose his looks;
Beside his lamp, with spectacles on nose,
To-morrow's weather seeks, its rains or snows;
The moon's eventful signs, th'auspicious hour
To plant the downward root or rising flower;
Of witch-confounding doctors tells the tale,
Sips his metheglin, or his cider stale.
All other joys for which he ever sighs
His dear-loved saur-craut or his pipe supplies.

117

Abroad at toil ere yet the morning breaks,
Each rugged task his hardy frau partakes;
With brawny arms the struggling ploughshare guides,
Whips up her nags and o'er the furrow strides;
Awakes the echoes with her clamorous tongue,
And lends e'en Hans a clout when things go wrong;
Sweeps round her head the loud-resounding flail,
And sweats the sturdiest mower in the vale.
Light beat our hearts with changing prospects gay,
As down through Durham Vale we bend our way,
And pause, its furnace curious to explore,
Where flames and bellows lately wont to roar,
Now waste and roofless; as its walls we pass
The massive shells lie rusting in the grass!
There let them rust, fell messengers of death!
Till injured Liberty be roused to wrath,
In whose right hand may they, though hosts oppose,
Be blasting thunderbolts to all her foes.
The setting sun was sinking in the west,
And brightly burnishing the mountain's breast,
When from afar, as down the steep we hie,
The glittering roofs of Easton caught the eye:
Low in the shelter'd vale, while rude around
Hills piled on hills the dreary prospect bound.
Around the mountain's base, in winding pride,
The rapid Lehigh rolls his amber tide,
To meet old Delaware, who moves serene,
While Easton rises on the plains between.
Tired with the day's long toil we gladly greet
The snug stone buildings, and the pavements neat;
The busy townsmen, jabbering Dutch aloud,
The court-house, ferry, hanging signs, and crowd;
At length one waving sign enchained our view,
'Twas Pat's Split-crow,—a filthy raven too:
Thither for rest and shelter we repair,
And home's kind decencies, that ne'er were there.

118

Here might the Muse with justice due, record
The wretched fare its scurvy walls afford;
The black wet bread, with rancid butter spread,
The beastly drunkards who beside us fed;
The beds with fleas and bugs accursèd stored,
Where every seam its tens of thousands poured:
The host's grim sulkiness, his eager look,
When from our purse his glittering god we took.
But nobler themes invite; be these suppressed,
The eagle preys not on the carrion's breast.
Long ere the morn had showed its opening sweets,
We clubbed our arms, and passed the silent streets;
Slow o'er the pavement limpingly we tread,
But soon recovering, every ailment fled.
Forward we march, o'er mountains rude and bare,
No decent farm, and even a cabin rare;
Thick wastes of ground-oak

This species of dwarf oak produces great quantities of acorns, which the bears, pigeons, grous, jays, &c., are extremely fond of. It grows to the height of about five feet, very close, and affords good shelter for the deer and bear.

o'er the country spread,

While haggard pines sigh distant overhead.
Lo! the Blue Mountain now in front appears,
And high o'er all its lengthened ridge uprears;
Th'inspiring sight redoubled vigour lends,
And soon its steeps each traveller ascends;
Panting we wind aloft, begloomed in shade,
'Mid rocks and mouldering logs tumultuous laid
In wild confusion; till the startled eye
Through the cleft mountain meets the pale blue sky
And distant forests; while sublimely wild,
Tow'rs each tall cliff to heaven's own portals piled,
Enormous gap

This pass in the Blue Mountain is usually called the Wind Gap. The reader will find some curious conjectures on its formation, in Jefferson's Notes on Virginia.

, if Indian tales be true,

Here ancient Delaware once thunder'd through,
And rolled for ages; till some earthquake dread,
Or huge convulsion, shook him from his bed.
Here, under rocks, at distance from the road,
Our pond'rous knapsacks cautiously we stowed;
The mountain's top determined to explore,
And view the tracks already travelled o'er;

119

As nimble tars the hanging shrouds ascend,
While hands and feet their joint assistance lend;
So we, from rock to rock, from steep to steep,
Scaled those rude piles, suspended o'er the deep;
Through low dwarf underwood with chesnuts crowned,
Whose crooked limbs with trailing moss were bound.
Eager we brush th'impending bushes through,
Panting for breath, and wet with dashing dew:
Cliff after cliff triumphant we attain,
And high at last its loftiest summits gain:
But such a prospect—such a glorious show!
The world, in boundless landscape lay below:
Vast coloured forests, to our wandering eyes,
Seemed softened gardens of a thousand dyes;
Long lakes appeared, but at the increase of day
Assumed new forms

The effect of this deception was really astonishing. Nothing could be more evident to the eye—the shores, the waters, studded with numerous islands, seemed to disappear as if by enchantment.

, and rolled in mist away.

Scooped from the woods unnumbered spots were seen,
Embrowned with culture, or with pasture green;
Some cottage smoke moved slow, and dimly white,
But every hut had dwindled from the sight:
In long-trailed fogs that all its windings showed,
For many a league the distant Delaware flowed;
And all beyond seemed to the ravished eye
One waste of woods, encircling earth and sky.
We gazed delighted—then, with short delay,
Descending fixed our loads and marched away.
From this rough mountain, northward as we bend,
Below us, wide the woody hills extend;
The same ground-oak o'er all the country lies,
The same burnt pines in lonely prospect rise,
Mute and untenanted; save where the jay
Set up his shrill alarm, and bore away.
One solitary hawk that sailed serene,
Secure, and eyeing the expanded scene,
High from his zenith, 'midst the bursting roar,
Dropt at our feet, and fluttered in his gore.

120

‘Thus falls,’ said Duncan, ‘many a son of pride,
While buoyed in thought o'er all the world beside.’
From these dull woods, emerging into day,
We pass where farms their opening fields display;
Barns, fences, cottages, and lawns appeared,
Where various sounds of human toil were heard;
There round a hut, upon a sloping green,
Gay laughing bands of playful boys were seen:
Soon ‘Books,’ aloud is thunder'd from the door,
And balls and hoops must charm the hours no more;
But frequent tears the blotted leaves assail,
And sighs for dear-loved liberty prevail.
Thither, by long yet fond remembrance led,
With awe we enter this sequestered shed;
All eyes are turned the strangers to survey:
One tap is heard! and all the hint obey;
Then grave and courteous, rising from his seat,
The decent Master bows with meekness meet,
Invites to sit—looks round with watchful eyes,
And bids, by signs, alternate classes rise;
Hears, reads, instructs, with solemn voice and slow,—
Deep, busy silence muffling all below;
Slates, pens, and copy-books in order pass,
And peace and industry pervade each class.
Dear to the Muse, to Truth, to Science dear,
Be he who humbly toils and teaches here!
His worth, his labours, shall not sleep forgot,
And thus the Muse records them as she ought.
Of all professions that this world has known,
From clowns and cobblers upwards to the throne;
From the grave architect of Greece and Rome,
Down to the framer of a farthing broom;
The worst for care and undeserved abuse,
The first in real dignity and use,
(If skilled to teach and diligent to rule)
Is the learned Master of a little school;

121

Not he who guides the legs, or skills the clown
To square his fist, and knock his fellow down;
Not he who shows the still more barbarous art
To parry thrusts, and pierce the unguarded heart;
But that good man, who, faithful to his charge,
Still toils, the opening reason to enlarge;
And leads the growing mind, through every stage,
From humble A, B, C, to God's own page;
From black, rough pothooks, horrid to the sight,
To fairest lines that float o'er purest white;
From Numeration, through an opening way,
Till dark Annuities seem clear as day;
Pours o'er the mind a flood of mental light,
Expands its wings, and gives it powers for flight,
Till Earth's remotest bound, and heaven's bright train
He trace, weigh, measure, picture, and explain.
If such his toils, sure honour and regard,
And wealth and fame shall be his dear reward;
Sure every tongue shall utter forth his praise,
And blessings gild the evening of his days!
Yes—Blest indeed, by cold ungrateful scorn,
With study pale, by daily crosses worn;
Despised by those who to his labour owe
All that they read, and almost all they know;
Condemned, each tedious day, such cares to bear
As well might drive e'en Patience to despair;
The partial parent's taunt—the idler dull—
The blockhead's dark, impenetrable scull—
The endless round of A, B, C's whole train,
Repeated o'er ten thousand times in vain.
Placed on a point, the object of each sneer,
His faults enlarge, his merits disappear;
If mild—‘Our lazy master loves his ease,
The boys at school do anything they please;
If rigid—‘He's a cross, hard-hearted wretch,
He drives the children stupid with his birch;

122

My child, with gentle means, will mind a breath,
But frowns and flogging frighten him to death.’
Do as he will his conduct is arraigned,
And dear the little that he gets is gained;
E'en that is given him, on the quarter day,
With looks that call it—money thrown away.
Just Heaven! who knows the unremitting care
And deep solicitude that teachers share;
If such their fate, by Thy divine control,
O give them health and fortitude of soul!
Souls that disdain the murderous tongue of Fame,
And strength to make the sturdiest of them tame;
Grant this, ye powers! to Dominies distrest,—
Their sharp-tailed hickories will do the rest.
Again the shades of sober Eve appeared,
Up the dark windings of a Creek we steered,
Where, glad to rest, and each in hungry plight,
In Marewine's humble hut we spent the night.
Our social host piles up a jovial fire,
Brings his best cider, still as we desire,
Inspects our arms, with nice inquiring gaze,
And while we eat, his hunting spoils displays;
The skins of wolves and bears, a panther's jaws

This animal, generally, though improperly, called by the above name, is felis couguar of European writers; and is considered as the most dangerous and formidable inhabitant of our forests on this side of the Ohio. They are still numerous among the mountains of Pennsylvania that border on the Susquehanna, and frequently destroy deer, calves, sheep, colts, and sometimes, it is said, horses and cows. They are bold and daring; and lie in wait in the low branches of trees for the deer, on whom they spring with prodigious force, and soon destroy them. The one mentioned above had seized a calf in the evening, within a few feet of the girl who was milking; who, supposing it to be a large dog, gave the alarm, and attempted to drive it off. The old hunter, our landlord, soon drove him up a tree with his dog, where he shot him.

,

His horrid tusks and life-destroying claws;
Recounts the toils and terrors of the chase,
And gave us fiddling too, by way of grace;
All which, when bed-time warned us to lie down,
We fully paid him for with half-a-crown.
Refreshed with sleep, before the peep of day,
O'er rising Pocano

A small spur of the Blue Ridge, and one of the few places in Pennsylvania frequented by the tetrao cupido, or pinnated grous.

we scour away.

Beyond whose top the Dismal Swamp extends,
Where Tobihanna's savage stream descends.
Here prostrate woods, in one direction strewed,
Point out the path the loud tornado

These tornadoes are very frequent in the different regions of the United States. The one above alluded to had been extremely violent; and for many miles had levelled the woods in its way. We continued to see the effects of its rage for above 20 miles.

rode,

When from the black north-east it gathered strong,
Creating ruin as it roared along,

123

Crashing outrageous. Still with awe-struck mien,
The pilgrim stops, and gazes on the scene.
Huge pines that towered for centuries on high,
Crushed by each other's ruins prostrate lie;
Black with devouring flames, of branches bare,
Their ragged roots high tilted frown in air;
While shivered trunks, like monuments of wrath,
Add deeper horror to the wreck beneath.
Cut through this chaos rude, the narrow road,
Alone by solitary traveller trod,
Winds through the wilds of this forlorn domain
Where ruin drear and desolation reign.
Here as we loitered on, with restless gaze,
Absorbed in silence, musing and amaze,
The rustling bushes and the snorting sound,
Of startled Bruin

At this season of the year great numbers of bears resort to the mountains in search of whortleberries, which they devour with great voracity. They are at this time very fat, and some are frequently shot that weigh upwards of 400 lbs.

fixed us to the ground!

With levelled guns we momentary stood—
He's gone! loud crashing through the distant wood;
Sad disappointment throbs in every breast,
And vengeance dire is threatened on the rest.
And now each passing stump, and bush, and nook,
Is eyed with eager and suspicious look;
But one deep solitude around prevails,
And scarce a cricket, eye or ear assails.
Thus many a tedious mile we travelled o'er,
Each passing scene more rueful than before;
Till night's dun glooms descending o'er our path,
We took up lodgings at the Shades of Death

A place in the Great Swamp, usually so called, from its loud, hollow situation, overgrown with pine and hemlock trees of an enormous size, that almost shut out the light of day.

.

The blazing fire, where logs on logs were laid,
Through the red hut a cheerful radiance spread;
Large horns of deer the owner's sports reveal,
The active housewife turns her buzzing wheel;
Prone on the hearth, and basking in the blaze,
Three plump but ragged children loitering gaze;
And all our landlord's odd inquiries o'er,
He dealt out tales and anecdotes in store;

124

Of panthers trapt

Our host made himself very merry by relating to us an anecdote of one of his neighbours, living ten or twelve miles off, who, having fixed his large steel traps, in the evening, returned to the spot next morning, when, to his terror, he saw two panthers (f. couguar) surrounding a trap in which a very large one was taken by the leg. Afraid to hazard a shot, lest the surviving one who was at liberty might attack him he hurried home, loaded another gun and gave it to his wife, an intrepid amazon, who immediately followed him to the scene. Arrived within forty or fifty yards, the hunter presented to take aim, but was so agitated with terror that he found himself altogether unable. His wife instantly knelt down before him, ordering him to rest the rifle on her shoulder, which he did, and by this expedient succeeded in killing the three.

, of wounded bears enraged,

The wolves and wildcats

Felis Montano, mountain lynx. Another species is also found among these mountains, and appears to be the f. rufa of Turton. I measured one that from the nose to the insertion of the tail, was upwards of three feet.

he had oft engaged,

The noble bucks his rifle had brought down,
How living rattlesnakes he took to town.
His dog's exploits—the glory of his kind!
Now gashed by bears, and lame, and almost blind;
Displayed his hat, with bullet-holes o'errun,
To prove the many matches he had won.
On powder, rifles, locks and balls enlarged,
And a whole broadside on his art discharged.
The mother spun, the children snored around,
And Sox, the landlord, still fresh stories found;
Our nodding heads the power of sleep confess'd,
And the kind hunter led us to our rest.
Once more the dawn aroused us to the road:
Our fare discharged, we left this lone abode,
And down, through deepening swamps, pursued our way,
Where pines and hemlocks quite shut out the day.
Majestic solitudes; all dead and deep!
The green moss matted o'er each mouldering heap;
On every side with watchful looks we spy,
Each rustling leaf attracts our eager eye:
Sudden the whirring tribe before us rise!
The woods resound, the fluttering partridge

This is the tetrao Virginianus of Linnæus. In the States of New England it is called the quail.

dies;

Light floating feathers hover on the gale,
And the blue smoke rolls slowly through the vale.
Again, slow-stealing o'er the shaded road,
Trailing their broad barr'd tails, two pheasants

The bird here called a pheasant is the ruffed grous (tetrao umbellus) of European naturalists. In New England it is called the partridge.

strode;

The levelled tube its fiery thunders poured,
And deep around the hollow forest roared;
Low in the dust the mangled victims lie,
And conscious triumph fills each traveller's eye.
Now thickening rains begin to cloud the air,
Our guns we muffle up—our only care;
Darker and heavier now the tempest lowered,
And on the rattling leaves incessant poured;

125

The groaning trees in hollow murmurs waved,
And wild around the rising tempest raved;
Below dark-dropping pines we onward tread,
Where Bear Creek grumbles down his gloomy bed,
Through darksome gulfs; where bats for ever skim,
The haunts of howling wolves and panthers grim.
At length two hovels through the pines appear,
And from the pelting storm we shelter here.
Two lank lean dogs pace o'er the loosened floor,
A pouch and rifle hung behind the door;
Shrill through the logs the whistling tempest beats,
And the rough woodsman welcomes us to seats.
Before the blazing pile we smoking stand,
Our muskets glittering in the hunter's hand;
Now poised, now levelled to his curious eye,
Then in the chimney-corner set to dry.
Our clear, green powder-flasks were next admired,
Our powder tasted, handled, rubbed, and fired;
Touched by the spark, lo! sudden blazes soar,
And leave the paper spotless as before.
From foaming Brandywine's rough shores it came,
To sportsmen dear its merit and its name;
Dupont's best Eagle

A celebrated manufacturer of gunpowder on the Brandywine, whose packages are usually impressed with the figure of an eagle.

, matchless for its power,

Strong, swift and fatal as the bird it bore.
Like Jove's dread thunderbolts it with us went,
To pour destruction wheresoever sent.
These, as they glistened careless by our side,
With many a wishful look the woodsman eyed.
Thus bears on beech-nuts, hungry steeds on maize,
Or cats on mice, or hawks on squirrels gaze.
His proffered skins of all the forest train,
His looks, and empty horn, implored in vain!
Till to a family's wants we freely give
What cold, hard-hearted Prudence bade us save.
And, now this treasure on our host bestowed,
His sunburnt visage at the present glowed;

126

New-moulded bullets quickly he prepared,
Surveyed the glistening grain with fixed regard,
Then charged his rifle with the precious store,
And threw the horn his brawny shoulders o'er;
Secured his punk, his matches, purse and steel,
The dogs in transport barking at his heel;
Then, in his blanket, bade his wife good-bye,
For three long nights in dreary woods to lie.
Our morsel ended, through the pouring rain,
O'er barren mountains we proceed again;
And now Wiomi opened on our view,
And, far beyond, the Alleghenny blue,
Immensely stretched; upon the plain below,
The painted roofs with gaudy colours glow,
And Susquehanna's glittering stream is seen
Winding in stately pomp through vallies green.
Hail, charming river! pure transparent flood!
Unstained by noxious swamps or choaking mud;
Thundering through broken rocks in whirling foam,
Or pleased o'er beds of glittering sand to roam;
Green be thy banks, sweet forest-wandering stream!
Still may thy waves with finny treasures teem:
The silvery shad and salmon crowd thy shores,
Thy tall woods echoing to the sounding oars;
On thy swol'n bosom floating piles appear,
Filled with the harvest of our rich frontier:
The pine-browned cliffs, thy deep romantic vales,
Where wolves now wander, and the panther wails;
Where, at long intervals, the hut forlorn
Peeps from the verdure of embowering corn;
In future times (nor distant far the day)
Shall glow from crowded towns and villas gay;
Unnumbered keels thy deepened course divide,
And airy arches pompously bestride;
The domes of Science and Religion rise,
And millions swarm where now a forest lies.

127

Now up green banks, through level fields of grass
With heavy hearts the fatal spot we pass,
Where Indian rage prevailed, by murder fired,
And warriors brave by savage hands expired;
Where bloody Butler's iron-hearted crew,
Doomed to the flames the weak submitting few;
While screams of horror

The massacre here alluded to, took place after the battle of 3rd July, 1778, which was fought near this spot. The small body of American troops were commanded by the brave, humane, and intelligent officer, Colonel Butler; the tories and savages were headed by another Colonel Butler, of a very different description. Were I disposed to harrow up the feelings of the reader, I might here enlarge on the particulars of this horrible affair; but I choose to decline it. Those who wish to see a detail of the whole are referred to the Philadelphia Universal Magazine for March 20, 1797, p. 390.

pierced the midnight wood,

And the dire axe drank deep of human blood.
Obscured with mud, and drenched with soaking rain,
Through pools of splashing mire we drove amain,
Night darkening around us; when in lucky hour,
Led by its light we reached a cottage door;
There welcomed in, we blest our happy lot,
And all the drudgery of the day forgot.
A noble fire its blazing front displayed,
Clean shelves of dazzling pewter round arrayed,
Where rows of ruddy apples, ranged with care,
With grateful fragrance filled the balmy air;
Our bard (chief orator in times like these,)
Though frank, yet diffident, and fond to please,
In broken German joked with all around,
Told who we were, from whence and whither bound;
The cottage group a ready opening made,
And “welcome friends,” the little Dutchman said.
Well pleased, our guns and knapsacks we resigned,
Th'adjoining pump or running stream to find;
There washed our boots, and entering, took our seat,
Stript to the trousers in the glowing heat.
The mindful matron spread her table near,
Smoking with meat, and filled with plenteous cheer;
And, supper o'er, brought forth and handed round
A massy bowl with mellow apples crowned;
For all our wants a mother's care expressed,
And pressed us oft, and picked us out the best;
But Duncan smiled, and often seemed to seek
More tempting fruit in Susan's glowing cheek;

128

Where such sweet innocence and meekness lay
As fairly stole our pilot's heart away:
He tried each art the evening to prolong,
And cheered the passing moments with a song,
So sadly tender, with such feelings raised,
That all but Susan with profusion praised;
She from his glance oft turned her glistening eye,
And paid in tears and many a stifled sigh.
Thus passed the evening charmingly away,
Each pleased and pleasing, innocent and gay;
Till early bed-time summoned us to part,
And Susan's glances spoke her captive heart.
Swift flew the night, in soundest sleep enjoyed,
By dawn we start and find all hands employed;
The wheel, the cards, by fire-light buzzing go;
The careful mother kneads her massy dough;
Even little Mary at her needle sits,
And while she nurses pussy, nicely knits.
Our generous friends, their courtesy bestowed,
Refused all price, and pointed out the road;
With kindest wishes bade us all farewell;
What Susan felt, the rising tear could tell.
Blest Hospitality! the poor man's pride,
The stranger's guardian, comforter, and guide,
Whose cheering voice and sympathetic eye,
Even angels honour, as they hover nigh;
Confined (in mercy to our wandering race)
To no one country, people, age, or place;
But for the homeless and the exiled lives,
And smiles the sweeter still the more she gives;
O, if on earth one spot I e'er can claim,
One humble dwelling, even without a name,
Do thou, blest spirit! be my partner there,
With sons of wo our little all to share;
Beside our fire the pilgrim's looks to see,
That swim in moisture as he looks on thee;

129

To hear his tales of wild woods wandering through,
His ardent blessings as he bids adieu;
Then let the selfish hug their gold divine,
Ten thousand dearer pleasures shall be mine.
The morning fogs that o'er the country lay,
Dispersing, promised a delightful day,
Clear, warm, serene; the sun's resplendent beams,
Plays on the rocks and from the river gleams;
The cheerful robins

Turdus migratorius.

chattering round us fly,

And crested wood-cocks

Picus pileatus, the great scarlet-crested black woodpecker; called also in some of the Southern States, the log-cock.

hammer from on high.

Poor Duncan's sober looks and glistening eye,
His broken sentences, and half-fetched sigh,
His frequent backward gaze, and anxious mien,
While Susan's sheltered cottage could be seen,
Betrayed the thoughts that hovered through his breast,
The fruitful source of many a rallying jest;
At length his song the echoing forest hailed,
And laughing Comus over love prevailed.
By Susquehanna's shores we journey on,
Hemmed in by mountains over mountains thrown;
Whose vast declivities rich scenes display
Of green pines mixed with yellow foliage gay;
Each gradual winding, opening to the sight
New towering heaps of more majestic height,
Grey with projecting rocks; along whose steeps
The sailing eagle

Falco leucocephalus, the white-headed or bald eagle.

many a circle sweeps.

Few huts appeared; the wretched few we spied
Seemed caves where Sloth and Poverty reside;
The ragged owners happier far to hear
Men, boys, and dogs arouse the bounding deer;
In fluttering rags, with scarce a hat or shoe,
Down the rough steep the roaring chase pursue.
To tree the bear; the midnight wolf to watch;
Minx, otters, 'possums, or racoons to catch;
The bloodly panther boldly to destroy,
Their highest glory, and their greatest joy.

130

While round each hut the richest soil is seen,
Bleak squalid wretchedness is found within;
Filth, want, and ignorance from sire to son,
The sad attendants of the dog and gun;
As sage experience long ago has said,—
A good amusement, but a wretched trade.
'Twas now deep noon, the winding pathway led
Beneath tall maples near the river's bed,
Where moss-grown logs in mouldering ruins lay,
And spice and dogwood fringed the narrow way;
The scarlet berries clustering hung around,
And mixed with yellow leaves bestrewed the ground;
There glistening lay, extended o'er the path,
With steadfast, piercing eye, and gathering wrath,
A large grim rattlesnake,—of monstrous size,
Three times three feet in length,—enormous lies;
His pointed scales in regular rows engraved,
His yellow sides with wreaths of dusky waved;
Fixed to the spot, with staring eyes we stood,
He slowly moving, sought the adjoining wood;
Conscious of deadly power, he seemed to say,
“Pass on: in peace let each pursue his way.”
But when th'uplifted musket met his view,
Sudden in sounding coils his form he threw!
Fierce from the centre rose his flattened head,
With quivering tongue and eyes of fiery red,
And jaws extended vast, where threatening lay
The fangs of death in horrible array:
While poised above, invisible to view,
His whizzing tail in swift vibration flew.
Back sprung our Bard! and, aiming to let fly,
Glanced o'er the deadly tube his vengeful eye;
And now destruction seemed at once decreed,
But Duncan's pleading checked the barbarous deed;
‘O spare the brave!’ our generous pilot cried,
‘Let Mercy, sir! let Justice now decide;

131

This noble foe, so terrible to sight,
Though armed with death, yet ne'er provokes the fight;
Stern, yet magnanimous, he forms his den
Far from the noisy dangerous haunts of men.
Th'unconscious foot that presses him he spares,
And what was harmless meant, forgiving bears;
But dare his life—Behold, he rises brave,
To guard that being bounteous Nature gave;
We are th'aggressors here, the hero he;
Honour the brave defence of one to three!’
He spoke. Three cheers the voice of Mercy hailed,
And heaven's most glorious attribute prevailed.
Here, in deep glens, we groves of shellbarks found,
And brought their thousands rattling to the ground.
Here clustering grapes on bending saplings grew,
And down the loaded vines we labouring drew;
The luscious fruit our vigorous toil repaid,
And Bacchus' honours crowned us in the shade.
Now Keeler's Ferry heartily we hail,
And o'er the clear expanse serenely sail;
High up th'adjacent banks again we go,
The lessened river winding deep below;
Here rocky masses from the cliffs we tore,
And down the mountain made them bounding roar
Through tops of crashing pines, with whistling sound,
Dashing the thundering waves in foam around.
Now night drew on, dull owls began to scream;
We crossed Tunkhannoc's slow and silent stream,
Lodged at a famished inn that near it stood,
Of all things destitute, save fire and wood;
Old Squares, the owner, indolent and poor,
His house unshingled and without a door;
No meat, or drink, or bread, or liquor there,—
As Afric's wilds, of every comfort bare.
But Duncan's load across his cudgel cast,
Fruits, birds, and beasts, bespeak a rich repast;

132

While Leech's knapsack loaves of bread supplied,
And mine a cordial for the heart beside;
So, sans delay, all hands at once begin,
Some pick the pheasants, some the squirrels skin,
Soon o'er the fire our crackling nostrums brawl,
And soon like hungry wolves to work we fall;
Hew down the wheaten loaf o'er whose thick side
The ample sheets of yellow butter glide;
While piles of bones like polished ivory rise,
And the starved boors look on with wild surprise.
Such blessèd comforts health and hunger bring,
The hunter feasts more nobly than the king,
Whose sated appetite, by luxury cloyed,
Even the richest sauces satiate unenjoyed.
The table cleared, our Journal we survey,
And minute down the wanderings of the day;
For fresh materials at our host inquire,—
Who broiled his brawny limbs before the fire.
‘What Township's this, old daddy?’ ‘Why—hm—well;
Township? The dickens, Sir, if I can tell;
It's Pennsylvania though.’ ‘Right, daddy Squares.
Who are your nearest neighbours?’ ‘Why, the bears.’
‘No mill or school-house near you?’ ‘Yes, we've one
Beyond the church a piece, on Panther's Run.’
‘Is church far distant, daddy?’ ‘Why—hm—no;
Down Susquehanna, twenty miles or so.’
‘You go to preaching, then?’ ‘Besure, that's clear;
We go to mill and meeting twice a-year.’
‘No curiosities about?’ ‘Why—yes,
You've brought a few of them yourselves, I guess.’
‘What, dollars?’ ‘Aye, and fi'-pennybits, I swear
Are downright rarities among us here.’
Thus passed the evening, till the time of bed,
When to a kennel we at last were led;
There, slumbering, shivered till the dawn of day,
Then cursed this scurvy cave, and marched away.

133

Before us now in huge extension rise
Dark wood-clad mountains of enormous size;
Surrounding fogs their towering summits hide,
And sailing clouds, in silent grandeur, glide
Around their airy cliffs. These we survey
As dull forebodings of a cheerless day.
Up steeps immense with labouring steps we bend,
Then down in hollow gulfs for miles descend,
Buried in depth of woods, obscure and dark,
Where pheasants drum and angry squirrels bark.
With these (though rain in streaming torrents poured)
Our pilot's pack abundantly we stored;
And when, at length the driving tempest cleared,
And through the woods a distant hut appeared,
There, though the sour inhospitable clown
Returned our smiles with many a surly frown,
Compelled by Hunger,—that imperious lord,—
We cooked our game and shared our little hoard;
And left the savage boor, whose looks conveyed
Dark hate and murder every move they made.
Still through rude wilds with silent steps we steer,
Intent on game, all eager eye and ear;
Each opening turn, each dark recess survey,
Each mouldering heap that round tumultuous lay,
As o'er those Alpine steeps we slowly past;
But all was silent, solitary, vast!
No sound of distant farm assailed the ear,
No rising smoke, no opening fields appear;
But each high summit gained, the eye was shown
Hills piled on hills in dreary prospect thrown.
So, from the mast, when boisterous tempests roar,
And the tost vessel labours far from shore,
The toil-worn sailor all around him spies
One sea of mountains mingling with the skies.
At length with vast descent we winding go,
And see the river gliding deep below;

134

And up the vale, suspended o'er the path,
A sign-board waving o'er the hut beneath;
The straggling characters with soot portrayed,
Defied awhile all efforts that we made;
At length we spelt this precious piece of lore;
‘Pat Dougherty's Hotel and Drygood Store.’
Blest tidings! welcome to the wandering wight,
As sheltered harbours in a stormy night;
And thou, sweet Muse! in lofty numbers tell
The matchless comforts of this log hotel.
Here streams of smoke the entering stranger greet,
Here man and beast with equal honors meet;
The cow, loud bawling, fills the spattered door,
The sow and pigs, grunt social round the floor;
Dogs, cats, and ducks in mingling groups appear,
And all that Filth can boast of, riots here.
Happy the hungry souls who hither speed!
Here, like cameleons, they may freely feed;
Here champ, with vigorous jaws, the empty air,
Without a bottom find one broken chair;
On dirty benches snore the night away,
And rise like thieves upon their judgment day.
Ye threadbare pilgrims! halt as ye pass by,
This gorgeous store will all your wants supply;
Three long tobacco-pipes the shelf adorns,
Two rusty penknives fit to saw your corns,
One rag of calico in musty folds,
A stick of liquorice-ball for coughs and colds;
And one half keg of brandy—glorious cheer!—
Arrives from Philadelphia once a year.
What boundless wealth! what can they wish for more,
Who such a tavern meet and such a store?
To crown the whole—defiled from ear to ear,
Behold the majesty of clouts appear!
The ragged lord of all this costly scene,
Whose hands and face old ocean scarce could clean;

135

Whose sun-burnt legs and arms and shoulders bore
What once was coat and trowsers—such no more!
But shapeless fragments, gashed with holes profound,
And rag-formed fringes dangling all around.
Bent o'er a tub that once tobacco knew,
And still from whence the dear effluvia flew,
Pat grumbling stood; and while he eager viewed,
Each nook and seam, the scanty gleanings chewed;
His busy mouth such savoury joys exprest
That scarce our stifled laughter we supprest.
On this foul mass of misery as we gazed,
The man of rags his brandy loudly praised;
Leech sought the door, disgusted with the scene,
And Duncan followed, grasping hard his cane;
Our Bard alone, with pleasure in his face,
Silent surveyed the wonders of the place;
In whose vile groups he but a picture saw,
That all might marvel at, but few could draw.
Though long and rough the road before us rose,
And toil and evening urged us to repose,
Yet were the forest glooms at once preferred
To this vile Hottentot's most beastly herd.
So thence, up towering steeps again we scale,
And trace the depths of many a darksome vale;
While oft some oak's huge, antiquated form,
That through long ages had defied the storm;
Whose hollow trunk had lodged the skulking bear,
While owls and 'possums found concealment there,—
Rose like the ruins of some reverend pile,
While moss and lichens its hoar arms defile;
Great in distress it mouldering drops away,—
Time's mournful monitor of life's decay.
Night's shades at last descend—the stars appear—
Dull, barking dogs proclaim the village near;
Soon Wyalusing round us we survey,
And finished here the labours of the day.

136

The inn was silent, not a mortal there,
Before the fire each plants his crazy chair,
When slow downstairs a cautious step was heard,
And Job, the landlord, soberly appeared;
Begged our excuse—bewailed his luckless lot,
‘Wife in the straw, and everything forgot;’
So finding honest Job so hard bestead,
We skinned our squirrels, supped, and went to bed.
The morning dawned, again we took the road,
Each musket shouldered o'er the lightened load,
Through Wyalusing's plains we gaily pass,
'Midst matted fields of rank luxuriant grass.
Here Nature bounteous to excess has been,
Yet loitering hunters scarce a living glean;
Blest with a soil that, even in Winter day,
Would all their toils a hundred-fold repay,
Few cultured fields of yellow grain appear,
Rich fenceless pastures rot unheeded here.
Huge from the vale the towering walnuts grow,
And wave o'er wretched huts that lie below;
No blossomed orchards scent their opening May,
No bleating flocks upon their pastures play;
‘The wolves,’ say they, ‘would soon our flocks destroy,
And planting orchards is a poor employ.’
The hungry traveller, dining on this plain,
May ask for fowls and wish for eggs in vain;
And while he dines upon a flitch of bear,
To wolves and foxes leave more gentle fare.
Now down through hoary woods we scour along,
Rousing the echoes with our jovial song,
Through paths where late the skulking Indian trod,
Smeared with the infant's and the mother's blood.
Their haunts no more: far to the setting day,
In western woods their prowling parties stray,
Where vast Superior laves his drifted shores,
Or loud Niagara's thundering torrent roars;

137

Gaul's exiled royalists—a pensive train,—
Here raise the hut, and clear the rough domain;
The way-worn pilgrim to their fires receive,
Supply his wants, but at his tidings grieve;
Afflicting news for ever on the wing,
A ruined country and a murdered king!
Peace to their lone retreats, while sheltered here,
May those deep shades to them be doubly dear;
And Power's proud worshippers, wherever placed,
Who saw such grandeur ruined and defaced;
By deeds of virtue to themselves secure
Those inborn joys that spite of kings endure,
Though thrones and States from their foundations part,—
The precious balsam of a blameless heart.
All day up winding solitudes we past,
Steep hung o'er steep, as if at random cast;
Through every opening, towering groups were seen
Piled to the clouds, with horrid gulphs between;
Thus (as the bard of old creation sings,
'Mongst other marvellous scenes and mighty things,)
When squabbling angels raised in heaven a rout,
And hills uprooted flew like hail about;
Thus looked, in those tremendous days of yore,
Their field of battle when the fight was o'er;
Impending cliffs with ruined woods o'ergrown,
And mountains headlong over mountains thrown.
One vast pre-eminent ascent we scaled,
And high at last its level summit hailed;
There, as we trod along fatigued and slow,
Through parting woods the clouds appeared below,
And lo! at once before our ravished view,
A scene appeared, astonishing and new:
Close on the brink of an abyss we stood,
Concealed till now by the impending wood;
Below, at dreadful depth, the river lay,
Shrunk to a brook, 'midst little fields of hay;

138

From right to left, where'er the prospect led,
The reddening forest like a carpet spread;
Beyond, immense, to the horizon's close,
Huge amphitheatres of mountains rose.
Charmed with this spot, our knapsacks we resigned,
And here, like gods, in airy regions dined;
Like gods of old the cordial cup we quaffed,
Sung songs to Liberty, and joked and laughed;
Huzza'd aloud—then listening from on high,
If humbly slumbering Echo would reply.
A long dead pause ensued—at once the sound
In tenfold shouts from distant hills rebound;
Not Polyphemus' self e'er louder roared,
When burning goads his monstrous visage gored.
‘Huzza, huzza!’ the echoing mountains cry;
‘Huzza, huzza!’ more distant hills reply;
And still more distant, till the faint huzza,
In lessening shouts, successive died away.
Surprised, astonished—heedless of our meal,
We seized our muskets for a nobler peal;
Filled their dark bowels with the glistening grain,
And facing, pointed to the extended scene;
Then at the word their fiery thunders poured,
That through the wide expanse impetuous roared.
Deep silence hung—the loud returning roar
From bellowing mountains thunders o'er and o'er;
Peal after peal successive bursts away,
And rolls tremendous o'er the face of day;
From hill to hill the loud responses fly,
And in the vast horizon lessening die

This echo may be considered as one of the greatest curiosities of this part of the country.—After more than a quarter of a minute had elapsed, the sound was reverberated with astonishing increase, at least ten successive times, each time more and more remote, till at last it seemed to proceed from an immense distance. The word, or words were distinctly articulated; as if giants were calling to one another from mountain to mountain. When our guns were discharged at once, the effect was still more astonishing, and I scarcely believe, that a succession of broadsides from a train of seventy-fours, at like distances, in any other place, would have equalled it. The state of the atmosphere was very favourable; and the report roared along the clouds in one continued peal. This detached mountain stands near the line which separates New York from Pennsylvania, not far from the public road; is of a conical form, and may be between two and three hundred feet high.

.

Thus from Olympus,—o'er a prostrate world,
The fabled Jove his bolts imperious hurled;
Earth heard, and echoed back the peals profound,
And heaven's exalted regions shook around.
With deep reluctance, ne'er to be forgot,
And many a lingering look, we left this spot,

139

Since called Olympus—worthier of the name
Than that so blazoned by the trump of Fame.
Ye souls! whom Nature's glorious works delight,
Who chance to pass o'er this stupendous height,
Here turn aside; and if serene the day,
This cliff sublime will all your toils repay;
Here regions wide your ravished eye will meet,
Hills, rivers, forests, lying at your feet:
Here to Columbia make your muskets roar,
While heaven's artillery thunders back encore.
'Twas now dull twilight, trudging on we keep,
Where giddy Breackneck nods above the steep;
And down the dark'ning forest slowly steer,
Where woods receding, showed a dwelling near;
A painted frame, tall barracks filled with hay,
Clean white-washed railings raised along the way;
Young poplars, mixed with weeping willows green,
Rose o'er the gate, and fringed the walk within;
An air of neatness, gracing all around,
Bespoke that courtesy we quickly found;
The aged Judge, in grave apparel dressed,
To cushion'd chairs invites each weary guest;
O'er the rich carpet bids the table rise,
With all the sweets that India's clime supplies;
And supper served with elegance, the glass
In sober circuit was allowed to pass.
The reverend sire, with sons and grandsons round,
Ruddy as health, by Summer suns embrowned,
Inquires our road and news, with modest mien,
Tells of the countries he himself had seen;
His Indian battles, midnight ambuscades,
Wounds and captivity in forest glades;
And with such winning, interesting store,
Of wild-wood tales and literary lore,
Beguiled the evening and engaged each heart,
That though sleep summoned, we were loth to part;

140

And ev'n in bed reposed, the listening ear
Seemed still the accents of the sage to hear.
The morning came; ye gods! how quickly hies
To weary folks the hour when they must rise!
Groping around we fix our various load,
And full equipt forth issued to the road:
Inured to toil, the woods slide swiftly past;
O'er many an opening farm our eyes we cast.
Here rich flat meadows most luxuriant lie,
Some glowing orchards gladly we espy,
Full-loaded peach trees drooping hung around,
Their mellow fruit thick scattered o'er the ground;
Six cents procured us a sufficient store,
Our napkins crammed and pockets running o'er;
Delicious fare! Nor did we prize them less
Than Jews did manna in the wilderness.
Still journeying on, the river's brink we keep,
And pass the Narrows' high and dangerous steep,
That to the clouds like towering Atlas soars,
While deep below the parted river roars.
Beyond its eastern stream, on level lands,
There Athens (once Tioga) straggling stands;
Unlike that Athens known in days of old,
Where Learning found more worshippers than gold;
Here waste, unfinished, their sole school-house lies,
While pompous taverns all around it rise.
Now to the left the ranging mountains bend,
And level plains before us wide extend,
Where rising lone, old Spanish-hill appears,
The post of war in ancient unknown years;
Its steep and rounding sides with woods embrowned,
Its level top with old entrenchments crowned;
Five hundred paces thrice we measure o'er
Ere all their circling boundaries we explore;
Now overgrown with woods alone it stands,
And looks abroad o'er open fertile lands.

141

Here on the works we ruminating lay,
Till sudden darkness muffled up the day;
The threatening storm soon drove us to the plain,
And on we wandered through the woods again.
For many a mile through forests deep we passed,
Till girdled trees rose to the view at last;
The fence and field successively appear,
And jumbling cow-bells speak some cottage near;
Anon the sounding axe, the yelping dogs,
The ploughman's voice, the sight of snorting hogs;
And sudden opening on the ravished eye,
Green fields, green meadows, gardens, orchards, lie
In rich profusion round the cottage neat,
Log-built; but Peace and Industry's retreat.
Here down green glades the glittering streams descend;
Here loaded peach trees o'er the fences bend;
Deep flow'ry pastures clothe the steeps around,
Where herds repose, and playful coursers bound.
The groaning cider-press is busy heard.
The fowls loud cackling swarm about the yard;
The snowy geese harangue their numerous brood,
The flapping flail re-echoes through the wood;
And all around that meets the eye or ear,
Proclaims the power that spreads its influence here.
Hail rural Industry! man's sturdiest friend,
To thee each virtue must with reverence bend;
To thee what heart denies spontaneous praise,
From gloomy woods such glorious scenes to raise!
Great giver of God's gifts to man below,
Through whose rough hand all human blessings flow.
Here as in ancient and illustrious Rome,
May chiefs and heroes cheer thy humble home;
The wise, the brave, from public broils retreat,
To walk with heaven and thee, through arbours sweet;
To share thy toils, thy little plans inspire,
And joke at night around thy glowing fire.

142

Still, near thy hut, upon the flowery green,
May Temperance, Hope, and Cheerfulness be seen;
Health, Plenty, Innocence, thy temples crown,
And Peace each night embosom thee in down;
And still, where'er thy humble roofs arise,
In northern climes, or under burning skies,
May guardian Liberty thy fields enclose,
Befriend thy friends, and baffle all thy foes.
Cheered with the rural sweets on every side,
Slow through this charming vale we gaily glide.
Delightful spot! from stormy winds secured,
By mountains sheltered and in wilds immured;
Still as we pass rich level fields appear,
Chemung's huge barns and fertile farms draw near.
How changed those scenes from what so late they were;
Ere Freedom's banners waved triumphant here;
While o'er our coasts a powerful foe prevailed,
Here from behind the savages assailed;
In bloody bands ransacked our weak frontier,
Fire, rapine, murder, marked their fell career.
Amid his corn the gasping planter fell,
Deep sunk the axe, and direful rose the yell;
The midnight cottage, wrapt in sweet repose,
In flaming ruins with the morning rose;
There slaughtered corses, babes and fathers lay,
The naked mothers driven 'mid fiends away.
To thee, brave Sullivan! who scourged this crew,
Thy country's gratitude shall still be due;
And future ages on these summits rear
Honours to him who planted freedom here.
We pause to mark amid this valley green
How changed the tenant, how improved the scene!
Where wretched wigwams late like kennels stood,
Where bark-canoes stole skulking o'er the flood,
Where mangled prisoners groaned, and hatchets glared,
And blood-stained savages the fire prepared!

143

There glittering towns and villages extend,
There floating granaries in fleets descend,
There ploughmen chant, and mowers sweep the soil,
And taverns shine, and rosy damsels smile.
Thanks to the brave, who through these forests bore
Columbia's vengeance on the sons of gore;
Who drove them howling through th'affrighted waste,
Till British regions sheltered them at last.
Here, on the heights, where suddenly arrayed,
These hordes their last despairing effort made,
Where still the mould'ring breastwork meets the view,
From whose defence as suddenly they flew

In this expedition against the hostile Indians, which was committed to the management of General Sullivan, and crowned with the most complete success, the only stand made by the savages was at this place, 29th August, 1799. After a short skirmish they were driven from this their last hold, and pursued beyond the Gennessee river. Forty of their towns, and upwards of 160,000 bushels of Indian corn were destroyed. The remnant of the tribes took refuge in Canada; and thus an immense extent of the most fertile country of the United States was laid open to the enterprise of our active and industrious settlers. The white population of these parts of the State of New-York, settled since, may be fairly estimated at three times the number of all the Indians within five hundred miles of the place.

;

Here, on the approach of night we lodgings found,
And buried all our toils in sleep profound.
The lingering night still hung in drowsy gloom,
Must'ring our loads, we pace the darkened room;
With tedious groping, find at last the door,
And down the narrow stair our way explore;
Dull fogs and darkness o'er the country lay,
But guiding fences pointed out the way.
In cheerful chat we marched along, till morn,
On dewy wings from eastern regions borne,
Rose on the world, and o'er the landscape gay,
'Midst songs of joyous birds, led on the day.
Two whirring pheasants swept across our path,
And swift as lightning flew the fiery death.
A cloud of quails in rising tumult soar;
Destruction follows with resounding roar.
From bough to bough the scampering squirrels bound,
But soon, in smoky thunders, bite the ground;
Life's gushing streams, their sable furs defile,
And Duncan's stick sustains the bloody spoil.
Thus up Tioga's side we thundering steered,
Till Newtown glittering on its banks appeared;
Where opening hills retiring, wide display,
On level plains a city rising gay;

144

Ranged on the northern bank, so smooth and green,
Rich busy stores and waving signs are seen;
With crowding boats that here for freight attend,
And deeply loaded to the sea descend.
Here, when soft Spring dissolves the wastes of snows,
And wide, and deep, the roaring river flows,
Huge loaded arks

These vessels are constructed of oak and pine plank, and built in the form of a parallelogram; they are flat-bottomed, and capable of containing many thousand bushels of wheat each; sometimes droves of oxen compose part of their cargoes. On arriving at their place of destination, and the cargo disposed of, the arks are sold to the lumber dealers, and taken to pieces with little trouble.

rush down the boiling tide,

And winding through wild woods triumphant ride;
Hills, towering steeps and precipices high,
Rich plains and hanging rocks, behind them fly;
The watchful pilot every eddy eyes,
As down the torrent's foaming course he flies;
Views with stern look, the frightful Falls disclose,
And down th'outrageous breakers headlong goes;
A thousand toils, a thousand dangers past,
Columbia's harbour

The town of Columbia, on the north-east bank of the Susquehanna, at Wright's Ferry, ten miles from Laurister, is the great depot for those immense stores of wheat, flour, lumber, &c., brought down the river for an extent of more than three hundred miles. The bridge, which it is in contemplation to erect over the Susquehanna, near this town, will be an additional source of prosperity to this thriving and populous place.

shelters them at last.

With lingering steps the busy streets we trace,
Pleased with the prospect of this growing place;
Though now so gay, scarce fifteen years have flown
Since two log huts were all that it could own;
Since waving reeds and scrubby ground-oak grew
Where stores and taverns now arrest the view:
Around the tree where panthers lurked for prey,
Now evening groups of laughing children play;
And churches neat, their pious crowds enclose
Where Indian fires and midnight yells arose.
So wonder-working is the hand of toil,
When Heav'n has blest and Freedom guards the soil;
And streams so vast their powerful aid bestow
To float down plenty wheresoe'er they flow.
Now to the North, through open plains we wind,
And leave the river's bending course behind;
And now, where level lengthening meadows spread,
Through hazel thickets rapidly we tread;
Here, when descending rain in torrents pour,
And the broad meadows float from shore to shore,

145

In two wide routes their waters seek the main;
Part through St. Lawrence meets the sea again,
Part to the south pursues its wandering way,
And rolls to Chesapeake's capacious bay

In a matter-of-fact poem, such as this, I need hardly observe, that the above is literally true. The proprietor of part of this meadow assured me, that with his spade he could, at pleasure, send the waters either into the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, or the Chesapeake Bay. A species of salmon, common to the river Susquehanna and to the lake Ontario, has been frequently known to pass from one to the other by this communication.

.

Now dark before us gulfs of pines are seen,
That bear the name still of their Indian Queen;
Great Catherine's Swamps, that deepening round extend,
Down whose dun glooms we awfully descend;
Around us thick the crowding pillars soar,
Surpassing all we ever viewed before,
So straight, so tall, so tow'ring side by side,
Each, in itself, appears the forest's pride:
A thousand fleets, with twice ten thousand more,
May here find masts in everlasting store.
Here melancholy monks might moping dwell,
Nor ray of sunshine ever reach their cell.
Through the dead twilight, reigning horrid here,
In holy groans their relics sad revere.
Great solitary shades! so still and deep,
Even passing sighs in hollow murmurs creep!
The silence deep, the solemn gloom profound,
The venerable piles that rise around,
Such awe impress, that as we upward gaze,
In whispers low we murmur our amaze!
Here to the god

Hunger.

, whose keen voracious brood

Pursue the pilgrim ravenous for food,
With stump of pine, an altar we uprear,
And round its mouldering roots arranged appear;
There bread, cheese, meat, with liberal hand we laid,
And, like true priests, devoured the offering made;
The power appeased, in silence soon withdrew,
And left us braced with vigorous life anew.
All day through this deep swamp, in splattered plight,
Begulfed in mire we laboured on till night,
When lo! emerging from the opening wood,
'Midst narrow fields, a little cottage stood:

146

A mill hard by in clattering murmur played,
Before the door a rapid rivulet strayed,
Trees round the garden, bent, with apples hung,
And cows and sheep their twinkling music rung.
Sacred to peace it seemed, and sweet repose,
And here, well pleased, our night's retreat we chose;
Approached the door, presented our request;
The dame's kind looks already bade us rest,
And soon the landlord, entering with his train,
Confirmed her kindness o'er and o'er again;
And now the table showed its welcome head,
With cheering fare, and rural dainties spread;
Green sparkling tea, obscured with floating cream,
Delicious salmon from the neighbouring stream;
Nice cakes of wheaten flour, so crisp and good,
And piles of honeycomb, ambrosial food!
While in the cheerful looks of all around,
A still more pleasing, grateful treat we found.
Our host intelligent, and fond of news,
Long tales of trade and politics pursues;
The States' enlarging bounds, so mighty grown,
That even the bare extent remains unknown;
Of Europe's wars and Bonaparte's glories,
Wolves, rifles, Louisiana, Whigs and Tories;
Of bears and wildcats, many a tale relates,
With every circumstance of day and dates;
Till leaden sleep our weary eye assailed,
And spite of eloquence at length prevailed.
The following morning found us on the way,
Through woods of wallnut trees—conversing gay,—
Whose limbs enormous spread sublime around,
Their huge forefathers mouldering on the ground;
The soil with leaves and showers of nuts was spread,
While millions more hung yellow overhead;
Here maples towered,—with little troughs below,—
From whose gashed sides nectarious juices flow;

147

The half-burnt logs, and stakes erected near,
Showed that the sugar-camp

In passing among these stately and noble trees, which grow here in great luxuriance, it is an object of regret to observe how unmercifully their trunks are cut and gashed with the axe; many of these notches are so deep, that the trees have either been killed or overthrown by the first storm of wind. It is well-known that all the chopping is unnecessary; and that a small auger-hole is equally efficient, nowise injurious to the tree, and may be done in one tenth part of the time.

once flourished here.

Ye generous woodsmen! let this bounteous tree,
For ever sacred from your axes be;
O let not mangling wounds its life destroy,
But the nice auger for the axe employ;
So shall these trees for ages lift their head,
And green and fresh their thickening foliage spread;
And each returning Spring their tribute pour,
More rich, and more abundant than before.
Now opening woods, in circuit wide, display
A level vale with lawns and pastures gay,
Where music hailed us from a numerous brood,
The lone bells jumbling through the sounding wood;
Sheep, oxen, cows, in busy parties strayed,
While snorting steeds our passing steps surveyed;
Surrounding hills this peaceful place enclose,
And form a scene of sheltered sweet repose

This Indian town, Catherine, situated near the head of the Seneca Lake, in one of the most delightful and romantic spots imaginable, containing a great number of houses, with large orchards and extensive corn fields. It was totally destroyed in 1779, by the troops under the command of General Sullivan, who, entering the place at night, found it nearly deserted of its inhabitants. One miserable old squaw alone remained, who, from extreme old age, was incapable of walking, and looked like “the last survivor of the former age.” The General ordered a hut to be erected for her, with provisions for her subsistence; but she did not long survive the catastrophe of her nation.

.

Ah! melancholy scene, (though once so dear)
To the poor Indian haply wandering here,
Whose eye forlorn amid the gushing flood,
Beholds the spot where once his wigwam stood;
Where warriors' huts, in smoky pride were seen,
His nation's residence, his native green;
Methinks, even now, where yon red maples play,
The black-haired wanderer slowly bends his way,
And pensive stops, and heaves the stifled sigh,
As well-known objects meet his rural eye;
No words escape him, but while mem'ry grieves,
These gloomy thoughts his burdened heart relieves;
‘O happy days! for ever, ever gone!
When these deep woods to white men were unknown;
Then the Great Spirit gave us from on high,
A plain broad path, and an unclouded sky;
Then herds of deer in every thicket lay,
Peace blessed our nights, and Plenty crowned our day;

148

But now dark clouds around our nation roar,
The path is lost, we see the sun no more;
A poor lone wanderer here unhappy raves,
Returned once more to see his fathers' graves;
Where all he sees bereaves his heart of rest,
And sinks like poisoned arrows in his breast.
‘Here stood the tree beneath whose awful shade,
Our aged chiefs the nation's welfare weighed;
In these sweet woods my early days I spent,
There through the hare the quivering arrow sent;
Or stealing wary by that creek so clear,
Transfixed the struggling salmon with my spear;
Here rose our fires in many a towering flame,
When the young hunters found abundant game;
The feast, the dance, whole days and nights employ,
These hills resounding with our screams of joy;
There, on that bank our painted warriors stood,
Their keen knives reddened with the white men's blood:
Now all is lost! and sacrilege is spread!
Curst ploughs profane the mansions of the dead!
Our warriors wander on a distant shore,
And strangers triumph where they begged before.’
Indignant sorrow rushes on his soul,
And in wild agony his eyeballs roll;
Wrapt in his rug the forest he regains,
A homeless exile on his native plains.
Howe'er stern Prejudice these woes may view,
A tear to Nature's tawny sons is due;
The same false virtue and ambitious fire,
Which nations idolize, and kings admire,
Provoke the white man to the bloody strife,
And bid the Indian draw his deadly knife;
The glory ours, in victory to save,
His still to glut with every foe the grave;
Nor age nor sex his country's foe avails,
So strong this passion o'er the rest prevails;

149

And equal woes must wring his manly heart,
From native shades for ever forced to part.
Through this sweet vale

Catherine's Creek, which forms the head waters of the Seneca Lake, and falls into its southern extremity. From this lake to the landing, a distance of about five miles, the creek is navigable for large loaded boats. The country between this place and Newtown, on the Susquehanna, is nearly level; and the distance, in a direct line, is probably not more than twenty miles. The practicability of uniting these two waters by a canal, at a comparative small expense, and the immense advantages that would result from the completion of such an undertaking, have long been evident to all those acquainted with that part of the country.

that wooded hills enclose,

A clear deep stream in glassy silence flows;
There sportive trout disturb the dimpling tide,
And shoals of salmon, pike, and suckers glide;
Thick vines and sycamores in rich array,
Bend o'er its banks, and mark its winding way;
Gigantic walnuts

Some of these trees, owing to the richness of the soil, grow to an enormous size. I measured one that was thirty feet in circumference.

bare and blasted rise,

And stretch their bleach'd arms midway to the skies;
There sits the hawk

The fishing hawk, or osprey, differing considerably from the bird of text known in Europe.

, inured to feasts of blood,

Watching the scaly tenants of the flood;
Or listening pensive to the distant roar
Of yon white Falls that down the mountain pour;
Thence to the Lake, broad level marshes spread,
Where close, rank weeds conceal the musk-rat's bed;
Above, around, in numerous flocks are seen
Long lines of ducks o'er this their fav'rite scene;
Some to the Lake in wedg'd divisions bend,
Some o'er the Creek in lengthening showers descend.
Ah, how could sportsmen such a sight survey,
Nor seek to share the pleasures of the day!
Do well-dressed beauties shun theatric walls?
Or sleeps the swain when his own sweetheart calls?
A skiff and paddles o'er the landing lay,
Two striplings proffered to conduct my way.
Fixed in the bow, for slaughter I prepare
The deadly barrels, ready poised in air;
Slow round an opening point we softly steal,
Where four large ducks in playful circles wheel;
The far-famed canvass-backs

These celebrated and justly esteemed ducks appear to be the anas ferina of Linnæus. From the great abundance of their favourite food (the roots of the Valiseneria Americana,) in the tide waters of many of our large rivers, it is probable that their flesh is much more delicious here than in Europe.

at once we know,

Their broad flat bodies wrapt in pencilled snow;
The burnished chesnut o'er their necks that shone,
Spread deepening round each breast a sable zone;
Wary they gaze—our boat in silence glides,
The slow-moved paddles steal along the sides;

150

Quick flashing thunders roar along the flood,
And three lie prostrate, vomiting their blood!
The fourth aloft on whistling pinions soared:
One fatal glance, the fiery thunders poured—
Prone drops the bird amid the dashing waves,
And the clear stream his glossy plumage laves.
Now all around us rising trains appear,
Wild whistling wings on every hand we hear;
The alarm of death amid their legions spread,
In files immense they winnow overhead;
Hoarse heavy geese scream up the distant sky,
And all the thunders of our boat defy;
Close, under rustling vines, we skulking glide,
Till the loud uproar and alarm subside;
Here grapes delicious, clustering, hung around,
The mother vine through bending birches wound;
Not richer ripen on Vesuvius' side,
Than here spontaneous nodded o'er the tide.
Now all again is silent and serene,
Slow glides our skiff along the glassy scene;
O'er the flat marsh we mark the plovers sweep,
And clustering close, their wheeling courses keep,
Till, like a tempest, as they past us roar,
Whole crowds descend, to rise again no more;
Prone on the sand the snowy tribe are spread,
Then hove on board, and piled among the dead.
Beyond a point, just opening to the view,
A fleet of ducks collect their scattered crew;
Part soon alarmed, with sudden spattering soar,
The rest remaining seek the farther shore;
There 'cross a neck, concealed by sheltering vines,
Down the smooth tide I view their floating lines:
With sudden glance the smoky vengeance pour,
And death and ruin spread along the shore;
The dead and dying mingling, float around,
And loud the shoutings of my guides resound.

151

But now the Lake

The Seneca Lake. This beautful sheet of water is about 40 miles long by from one and-a-half to three miles in breadth. The shores are generally precipitous, consisting of a brittle blue slate in which many curious impressions of marine shells are perceivable. In a short search I found upwards of twenty.

wide opening spreads below,

Bright o'er its smooth expanse the sun-beams glow;
There downward skies in concave vast appear,
And circling wide complete one boundless sphere;
Far-spreading forests from its shores ascend,
And towering headlands o'er the flood impend;
These, deep below, in softened tints are seen,
Where Nature smiles upon herself serene.
‘O lovely scenes!’ in ecstasy I cried,
‘That sink to nothing all the works of pride!
What are the piles that puny mortals rear,
Their temples, towers, however great or fair,
Their mirrors, carpets, tapestry and state,—
The nameless toys that Fashion's fools create!
To this resplendent dome of earth and sky,
Immensely stretch'd, immeasurably high!
Those yellow forests, tinged with glowing red,
So rich around in solemn grandeur spread;
Where here and there, in lazy columns rise,
The woodman's smoke, like incense to the skies!
This heaven-reflecting Lake, smooth, clear, profound,
And that primeval peace that reigns around!
As well may worms compare with souls divine,
As Art, O Nature! match her works with thine.’
Now high in heaven the hastening sun had sped,
My comrades, too, were trudging far ahead;
Piled at my feet enough of carnage lay,—
So, slow to shore, we cut our liquid way.
There, where a hill the level marsh confines,
Lifts its rough front, and o'er the Lake reclines,
Where glittering through the trees that rise below,
A brawling cataract falls in sheets of snow,
Prone from the precipice; and steals unseen,
Through birchen thickets to the Lake serene;
While softened echoes join in cadence sweet,
And sheltering scenery form a blest retreat;

152

There, on the slaty shore, my spoils I spread,
Ducks, plover, teal, the dying and the dead;
Two snow-white storks

Ardea alba of Linnæus. These are only summer birds, and very transient visitants in these Northern regions.

, a crane of tawny hue,

Stretched their long necks amid the slaughtered crew;
A hawk

The white-tailed eagle (falco fulvus) so much sought after by Indians of North America, for its quill and tail feathers, with which they plume their arrows, ornament their calumet, and adorn their dresses. It inhabits from Hudson's Bay to Mexico.

whose claws, white tail, and dappled breast,

And eye, his royal pedigree confest;
Snipes, splendid summer-ducks

Called by some the wood-duck (anas sponsa), the most beautiful of its tribe in North America. They are easily tamed, and become very familiar. About thirty-five years ago, a Mr. Nathan Nicholls, who resided in Maryland, on the west side of Gunpowder river, succeeded completely in domesticating these ducks, so that they bred and multiplied with him in great numbers. In their wild state they build in hollow trees, and fly directly in, without alighting at the entrance.

, and divers wild,

In one high heap triumphantly I piled;
Then joining heads that ne'er were joined before,
Across my gun the feathery burden bore;
Sought out the path that scaled the mountain's side,
‘Farewell!’ ‘Goodbye!’ the smiling younkers cried;
Up through the incumbent shades I took my way,
They to their boat with glittering dollar gay.
The day was hot, the load of ponderous size,
To heaven's own gates the mountain seemed to rise;
Large ruined logs the winding labyrinth crost,
And soon the path in tangling brush was lost.
Up these rough steeps I bore my plunder through,
That still more prized and more oppressive grew;
Till drenched with sweat, I gained the mountain's head,
And steered as chance or blind conjecture led;
Filled the deep forest with the shouts I made,
That died, unanswered, through the distant shade;
While startled squirrels, mounting in affright,
Looked down, and chattered, at th'alarming sight.
At length two guns, that made the mountain roar,
Produced an answering peal from those before;
And ten long miles in doubt and drudgery past,
I reached my comrades and the road at last;
Where peals of mirth succeeding their amaze,
They shared my load, and loaded me with praise.
Beyond the woods where Erie's waves extend,
Behold, once more, the setting sun descend;
Lone chirping crickets, hail the coming night,
And bats around us wheel their giddy flight;

153

The drumming pheasant vibrates on the ear;
The distant forests dimly disappear.
Slow sinks the day, and through the impending woods,
Night spreads her wings, and deepening darkness broods.
A death-like silence reigns the forest through,
At last the path evanishes from view.
Here as we stoop, our dubious course to steer,
Inhuman screams at once assail our ear;
The hollow, quivering, loud-repeated howl,
Full overhead, betrays the haggard owl;
Who, well for her, in muffling darkness past,
Else this heart-sinking scream had been her last.
Thus through the forest, wrapt in deepest shade,
Beneath black arms of tow'ring oaks we strayed;
At solemn intervals, the peace profound
Disturbed by rattling nuts that dropt around.
Shrill, wildly issuing from a neighbouring height,
The wolf's deep howlings pierce the ear of Night;
From the dark swamp he calls his skulking crew,
Their nightly scenes of slaughter to renew;
Their mingling yells, sad, savage woes express,
And echo dreary through the dark recess.
Steady along through swamps and pools we went;
The way-worn foresters fatigued and faint,
Scrambling o'er fallen logs that fractured lay,
Or stunned by viewless boughs, that crossed our way;
While glaring round, through roots and stumps decayed,
Phosphoric lights their pallid gleams displayed.
Sudden a horrid human shriek we hear,
That shot its terrors through our startled ear;
‘Ha! are you there!’ the watchful Duncan cried,
‘Halt! fix your bayonets, and look out ahead!’
A second scream announced the panther nigh,
The dark woods echoing back the rueful cry:
Still as the grave, suspending every breath,
Steady we stood to mark its passing path;

154

Prepared and eager for one deadly aim,
To pour destruction through its tawny frame;
But vain our listening; nothing seemed awake,
Save the lone murmur of the neighbouring Lake;
All else lay dead and silent as before,
And even the distant wolf was heard no more.
Amidst this deep Egyptian darkness lost,
Our faithful pilot ne'er forsook his post;
But knew or seemed to know, each swamp and pond,
And kept his steady course unerring on.
Behold! in front, a spreading radiance gleams!
Wide, glowing, ruddy, and immense it seems,
Such as the rising moon's broad orb bestows,
When up night's starry vault she solemn goes;
Each moment brightening, lo! to our amaze,
The woods on fire in ardent fury blaze;
Dark trees before us, of gigantic size,
In deeper shades and gloomy pomp arise;
The flames beyond, ascending, with them bear
Thick clouds of sparkling smoke that fill the air.
Approaching near, it opes in dread display,
Diffusing round th'effulgency of day;
Where, glad to view each other's looks again,
We stand contemplating this furious scene;
Here piles of logs like furnaces appear,
The rows of underbrush rage far and near;
Huge tow'ring oaks amid this sea of fire,
Descend in thunders, and in flames expire:
Or, blazing high, with burning gaps imprest,
Rain showers of fire infectious on the rest;
Loud roar the flames, the crackling branches fly,
And black behind the smoky ruins lie.
Thus some fair city, pride of many an age,
Gleams with the light of War's devouring rage,
Through its high domes the flaming torrents pour,
And naked turrets o'er the burnings lour;

155

The midnight sky reflects the dreadful blaze,
The foe, at distance with enjoyment gaze;
Exult to find their vengeance well employed,
The work of ages in one night destroyed.
So looked the woodman, who behind us stood,
Begrimmed with soot, in tattered garments rude,
On pitchfork leaning, hailed with ‘How d'ye do?’
And looked like Lucifer just risen to view.
At Duncan's voice, advancing, stood amazed,
And each on other for a moment gazed;
‘What, Johnny!’ ‘Duncan!’ ‘Bless my heart, so near!
How glad our folks will be to see you here!’
Kind invitations now were not forgot,
And through corn fields we followed to his cot;
Their ‘O's!’ and ‘Dears!’ and salutations o'er,
The ponderous knapsacks sunk upon the floor;
Seats, quickly ranged, our weary limbs invite,
And kind inquiries all our toils requite;
And while our meal a young brunnette prepared,
The ancient father's humorous jokes we shared;
Though ninety years had silvered o'er his head,
Yet life's green vigour seemed but little fled;
The burning woods that late before us blazed,
His axe had levelled, and his handspike raised;
None laughed more hearty, sung with livelier glee,
Or joked, or told a merrier tale than he;
Kind, cheerful, frank, in youth a sailor brave,
‘Now bound for brighter worlds beyond the grave.’
Two favourite sons, obliging, open, mild,
With wild-wood anecdotes the hours beguiled;
Produced their rifles, sedulous to please,
Described their farm, their horses, harvest, bees;
While a whole hive, the crowded garden's boast,
Crowned our repast, and spoke the generous host.
To Johnny's joke succeeded William's tale,
Sweet Mary served with many a witching smile,

156

And thou, Devotion, wert a kindred guest,
Of all our joys the noblest and the best;
Around convened, with David's holy lays,
In solemn strains awoke our evening praise;
The kneeling father's fervent prayers ascend,
‘O be the strangers' comfort, guide and friend;
Their trust, their guardian, wheresoe'er they go,
To view Thy greatness in Thy works below;
O leave them not! but their Director be,
To that last stage that leads them home to Thee!’
Such pious goodness, aged worth so dear,
The trembling voice that spoke the soul sincere,
With thoughts unspeakable my mind opprest,
Till tears relieved the tumult of my breast;
And all to rest retired, and silence deep,
To lose the hardships of the day in sleep.
By bawling calves and jumbling bells awoke,
We start amazed to see the morning, broke;
Such blest oblivion balmy sleep bestows
Where toil-worn Industry and Peace repose.
Geese, turkeys, ducks, a noisy, numerous brood,
Mingle their gabblings with the echoing wood;
Through whose tall pillared trees, extending blue,
The lake Cayuga

This lake is about thirty-eight miles long, and from two to three and four miles in breadth. It is nearly parallel with, and about eight or ten miles east from the Seneca lake. The bed of the former is said to be thirty or forty feet lower than that of the latter, which flows into the Cayuga nearly at its outlet, and forms what is usually called Seneca River. The waters of both these lakes are extremely pure and transparent; are much frequented by wild ducks, and contain abundance of various kinds of fish, particularly salmon, and also suckers of a very large size. One of these last, which we purchased from a party of Indians encamped on the shore, measured upwards of two feet in length.

caught our ravished view.

Soon on its oak-crowned banks sublime, we stood,
And viewed from right to left, its lengthened flood,
Of vast extent, pure, glassy, and serene;
Th'adjacent shores and skirting huts were seen,
The eye could mark the whitened frames, the ear
Faint sounds of barking dogs remotely hear.
Hither before, our liberal friends had sent
Whate'er of stores we voyagers might want,
Filled all our wallets, pressed us to take more,
And side by side conveyed us to the shore;
There the good father grasped each traveller's hand,
His sons and family mingling o'er the strand.

157

‘Farewell!’ ‘Goodbye!’ ‘God bless you!’ was the cry,
The tears of friendship swelling in each eye:
Charmed with a love, so free, so nobly shown,
His clubb'd fuzee across his shoulder thrown,
Our pilgrim-Bard the parting group addressed,
And thus his gratitude and ours expressed:
‘For all your goodness, hospitable friends!
We gladly would, but cannot, make amends;
All that we can we humbly offer here,
Our dearest wishes, ardent and sincere;
Long with success may all your toils be blest,
And each rich harvest rival all that's past;
Long may your glittering axe, with strength applied,
The circling bark from massy trunks divide,
Or wheeled in air, while the wide woods resound,
Bring crashing forests thundering to the ground;
Long may your fires in flaming piles ascend,
And girdled trees their wintry arms extend;
Your mighty oxen drag the logs away,
And give the long-hid surface to the day:
While fields of richest grain and pasture good
Shall wave where Indians strayed and forests stood;
And as you sweat the rustling sheaves among,
Th'adjoining woods shall echo to your song.
These are the scenes of truest joys below,
From these, health, peace, and independence flow;
Blest with the purest air, and richest soil,
What generous harvests recompense your toil!
Here no proud lordling lifts his haughty crest,
No tinsel'd scoundrel tramples the distrest,
No thief in black, demands his tenth in sheaves,
But man from God abundantly receives.
In rustic dress you range the echoing wood,
Health makes you gay, and simple manners good.
Society's best joys your bosoms know,
And Plenty's smiling cup, without its woe;

158

Farewell, good friends! be Virtue still your guide,
Still scorn injustice, cruelty, and pride.
Whate'er be your pursuits, whate'er your care,
Let temperance, peace, and industry be there;
From these, want, pain, and care, and ruin fly,
And half the ills that teach mankind to sigh.
Fear not success! though one attempt should fail,
Fate yields when strength and constancy assail;
Store up your harvests, sow your Winter grain,
Prepare your troughs the maple's juice to drain;
Then, when the wintry North outrageous blows,
And nought is seen but one wide waste of snows,
Ascend the fleeting sleigh, and like the wind,
Scour o'er the hills, and leave the woods behind;
Along the drifted swamps and mountains high,
O'er rocks and narrows

These are passes on the high steep sides of the mountain overhanging the Susquehanna, and, in some places, will not admit more than one person abreast.

make your horses fly;

Shoot o'er the Susquehanna's frozen face,
And bleak Wyoming's lofty hills retrace;
Nor let the hunter's hut, or venison stale,
Or his loved bottle, or his wond'rous tale
Of deer and bear, your lingering steeds detain,
But swift descend and seek the southern plain;
There where the clouds of Philadelphia rise,
And Gray's flat bridge across the Schuylkill lies;
There shall your grateful friends with choicest store,
And hearts o'erflowing welcome you once more;
There friendship's purest joys will crown the whole,
“The feast of reason and the flow of soul.”’
Our boat now ready and our baggage stored,
Provisions, mast, and oars and sails aboard;
With three loud cheers that echoed from the steep,
We launched our skiff ‘Niagara’ to the deep;
The shores recede—the oars resounding play,
Fleet through the unruffled flood we scour away;
Till evening sweet suspends her starry veil,
And all around her sparkling orbs prevail;

159

There high in front the Bear's bright splendours glow,
His answering glories gild the deep below;
Profound and vast, and, as we onward glide,
Dance on the bosom of the dimpling tide.
Lone Night and listening Silence seem to sleep
On the smooth surface of the glistening deep;
Save where the ducks in rising thousands soar,
Leaving the dark expanse with lengthened roar,
That like a cataract bursts from legions near,
And dies in distance on the vacant ear;
Meantime young Duncan, as the oar he plies,
With voice melodious bids the song arise,
The theme, Columbia, her sublime increase:
‘Blest land of freedom, happiness, and peace:
Far, far, removed from Europe's murderous scene,
A wide, a friendly waste of waves between;
Where strangers driven by tyranny to roam,
Still find a nobler and a happier home:
Hail, blessed asylum! happy country, hail!
O'er thee may truth, but never foe, prevail.’
From neighbouring shores, and cliffs that o'er them rise,
The listening spirit of the Lake replies,
And in responses sweet and accents plain,
Repeats each period of th'inspiring strain.
Now like dull stars the lighted bridge

This bridge extends across the lake, which at this place is about a mile in width. It is built of wood, is laid on two hundred and fifteen trestles, each consisting of three posts, connected by girths and braces. The posts are sunk to hard gravel, which is generally about thirty feet from the surface.—The expense was twenty thousand dollars.

appears

Beneath it soon our little vessel steers,
Where, snugly moored, we passed away the night,
And weighed next morning by the peep of light:
Here the clear Lake contracts its straightened floods,
And winds a deepened stream, through level woods;
In vain our tow'ring mast for soundings tries,
Beyond its utmost depths the bottom lies;
Yet so transparent its pure waters flow,
We marked the smallest leaf that lay below.
Ducks, whistling past, like meteors fill the air,
Our fatal guns pursue them deadly there;

160

Glanced from the eye the thundering tubes rebound,
Fluttering they fall, and flap, and scream around.
Here from the shore, low marshes wide expand,
Where bare and bleak the little salt-works stand;
There numerous pits their briny treasures yield,
And pumps and tunnels checker all the field;
Whether old Neptune these blest springs supplies,
Or deep below the massy substance lies,
Let idlers guess; while nobler souls revere
The all-providing Power who raised them here.
Beneath mild sunshine as we onward glide,
Flat moss-clad forests rise on either side;
High 'midst the leafless multitude is seen
The dark majestic pine in deepest green;
The snow-white sycamores that love to drink
The passing stream and skirt the river's brink,
Wide o'er the flood their arms capacious throw,
To meet their softened forms that lie below.
Still files of ducks in streaming thousands pour,
At every bend their rising torrents roar;
Till near Musquito Point their flocks decrease,
Where night o'ertook us and we moored in peace.
High rose its banks, and on its rugged height,
A small log-hovel shone with glimmering light;
Here one lone woman and a boy we found;
The trapper absent on his usual round,
On board his skiff had sailed, six days ago,
To try his luck some twenty miles below.
This solitary hut, small, cheerless, rude,
Amidst vast swamps and wildernesses stood;
Where nightly horrors banished oft repose,
Such savage cries from wolves and panthers rose;
Even round the bolted door the woman said,
At midnight frequent she could hear their tread.
The fire blazed bright; around us we surveyed
The pendent furs with which it was arrayed;

161

A sacred horse-shoe, guardian of the whole,—
Terror of spirits profane, and witches foul,
Dread, powerful talisman, 'gainst imps unknown:—
Nailed o'er the door in silent mystery shone.
Just as the dame her glowing hearth had cleared,
The ragged owner of the hut appeared;
Laden with skins, his traps around him slung,
Two dead racoons across his shoulders hung,
Musk-rats and 'possums in each hand he bore,
A large brown otter trailed along the floor;
And as he soused them down with surly gloom,
The skunk's

The reader is not to imagine that this animal formed part of our trapper's game. It is never seen in this particular part of the country; and the trappers take advantage of this circumstance to circumvent their prey. In the lower parts of the State where this animal is abundant, there are people who collect the liquor with which nature has supplied it for its defence. This is put into small vials, sealed, placed mouth downwards in a pot of earth, and sold to the trappers. A drop or two of this precious aroma is put on or near the steel traps after they are set, and the strange and extraordinary odour is said to decoy other animals to the spot. Our landlord himself being furnished with a bottle of this essence of skunk, and his traps profusely saturated with the same, produced the effect alluded to.

abhorr'd effluvia filled the room.

‘Friends, how d'ye do? Well, wife, how come you on?
How fare the calves?’ ‘Why, three of them are gone!’
‘Three! Damn these wolves! they'll eat up house and hall!
And have they killed the sheep?’ ‘They have.’—‘What, all?’
‘Yes, all.’ . . ‘I thought it would be so,
Well, now they're at the devil, let them go.’
So said, he whets his knife to skin his store,
While heaps of red raw carrion fill the floor.
As morning dawned, our little skiff we trimmed,
And through the misty flood with vigour skimmed:
Now gliding smooth, we hail with songs the morn,
Now down white boiling breakers headlong borne;
Again enclosed, the gray woods round us rise,
We pass where Cross Lake green and stagnant lies;
And mark the snakes, amid their watery way
With heads erect, our dipping oars survey.
Dead lie the lonely woods, and silent shore,
As Nature slept and mankind were no more.
How drear! how desolate to ear and eye!
What awful solitudes around us lie!
Sad were his fate, too dreadfully severe,
For life condemned to linger hopeless here;
From such lone thoughts of gloomy exiled woe,
All human ties for ever to forego;

162

The heart shrinks back, dejected and dismayed,
And owns that man for social joy was made.
Yet still, whate'er our doubtful hearts may say,
Even Nature's self to habit will give way;
And these vast solitudes, so deep and drear,
As more frequented might become more dear.
On yonder island, opening by degrees,
Behold the blue smoke mounting through the trees;
There, by his fire, 'mid sheltering brush obscured,
His bark-canoe along the margin moored;
With lank jet locks that half his face conceal,
The Indian hunter eats his morning meal.
Stakes rudely reared, his little pot suspend,
Amid the smoke his busy partners bend;
Beyond, sly peeping, fearful to be seen,
Two copper chubs their favourite shell-barks glean.
Another night another hut supplies,—
In half-an-hour the crazy fabrics rise;
The roof with bark, the floor with spruce bespread,
The stakes around with skins and venison clad;
At our approach Suspicion lours his eye,
That scarce regards us gliding swiftly by:
His life how simple, and his wants how few!
A blanket, leggins, rifle and canoe,
Knife, hatchet, moccasins,—not much beside,
And all beyond to him is empty pride.
O'er these lone swamps the Muse impatient flies,
Where mightier scenes and nobler prospects rise;
Nor stoops in dull rehearsal to detail
Each roaring rapid and each adverse gale;
What vagrant tribes, what islands met our view,
How down Oswego's foaming Falls we flew;
Now plunging in our sinking bark to save,
Now headlong hurried down th'outrageous wave;
How through the clear still flood, with sounding oars,
We swept, and hailed with songs the echoing shores;

163

These had their pleasures, and perhaps their fears;
But terrors fly when daring Courage steers.
A thousand toils, a thousand dangers past,
The long-expected Lake appears at last,
Seen through the trees, like Ocean's boundless blue,
Huzza! huzza! Ontario is in view!
With flying hats we hail the glorious spot,
And every care and every fear's forgot.
So, when of old, we crossed th'Atlantic waves,
And left a land of despots and of slaves,
With equal joy Columbia's shores we spyed,
And gave our cares and sorrows to the tide.
Here, ere we launch the boundless deep along,
Surrounding scenes demand their share of song.
Mark, yon bleak hill, where rolling billows break,
Just where the river joins the spacious Lake;
High on its brow, deserted and forlorn,
Its bastions levelled, and its buildings torn,
Stands Fort Oswego; there the winds that blow
Howl to the restless surge that groans below;
There, the lone sentry walked his round, or stood
To view the sea-fowl coursing o'er the flood;
'Midst Night's deep gloom, shrunk at the panther's howl,
And heard a foe in every whooping owl:
Blest times for soldiers! times, alas, not near,
When foes like these are all they have to fear;
When man to man will mutual justice yield,
And wolves and panthers only stain the field.
Those straggling huts that on the left appear,
Where boats and ships their crowded masts uprear,
Where fence, or field, or cultured garden green,
Or blessèd plough, or spade was never seen,
Is old Oswego; once renowned in trade,
Where numerous tribes their annual visits paid,
From distant wilds—the beaver's rich retreat,—
For one whole moon they trudged with weary feet,

164

Piled their rich furs within the crowded store,
Replaced their packs, and plodded back for more;
But time and war have banished all their trains,
And nought but potash, salt, and rum remains.
The boisterous boatman, drunk but twice a day,
Begs of the landlord, but forgets to pay;
Pledges his salt, a cask for every quart,
Pleased thus for poison with his pay to part.
From morn to night here Noise and Riot reign,
From night to morn 'tis noise and roar again.
Around us now Ontario's ocean lay,
Rough rose its billows, crowned with foaming spray;
The grim north-east in roaring fury blew,
And our frail bark, deep-dashing laboured through;
Our blanket sail, and feeble sapling mast,
Drank the rough waves and quivered in the blast.
A friendly sloop for Queenstown

This place lies on the Canada side of the Niagara river, seven miles below the Falls.

harbour bound,

While night's foul hurricanes were gathering round,
Beheld our danger, saw our numbers few,
And for our boat received its willing crew;
Both safe on board, they trim their thundering sail,
The boom and main-sheet bending to the gale.
Hard by the helm th'experienced master stood,
And, far to windward, eyed the whitening flood;
Saw in the east the coming tempest

These storms are very frequent on this lake; and the want of sea-room is also dangerous. A few days previous to our arrival at Oswego, a British packet called the ‘Speedy,’ with the judge advocate on board, the judges, witnesses, and an Indian prisoner, and others to the amount of twenty or thirty persons, foundered in a violent gale, and every soul perished. No part of the vessel was afterwards found except the pump, which we picked up, and carried to Queenstown.

lour,

On Night's black wings impetuous to devour!
Her roaring bow the boiling spray divides,
Two foaming torrents sweep along the sides;
Reef after reef retrench the straining sail,
And the racked vessel staggers in the gale.
Now up th'outrageous waves' high steep we go,
Now plunge down headlong in the gulf below;
Slow-rising, shivering through tempestuous clouds,
That howled like demons in the whizzing shrouds,
Down in the cabin by the uproar driven,
Heedless of all the warring winds of heaven,

165

Sick, groaning, speechless and unfit to pray,
Our three pale foresters inglorious lay;
Groan answered groan, while at each desperate throe
The deep bilge-water churned and roared below.
Sad night of sickness, tumult, fears and hopes,
Of roaring surges, and of rattling ropes;
Heart-rending retchings, tossings to and fro,
And all the horrors land-born lubbers know.
At length the morn arose, the storm withdrew,
And fair the breeze with steady vigour blew.
First upon deck, our Bard, uncheered with sleep,
Gazed silent round upon the shoreless deep;
From whose vast bosom, where the orient glows,
The glorious sun in reddening pomp arose.
The cold camboose with blazing faggots filled,
And, though in culinary lore unskilled,
Fried the nice venison, well with onions stored,
And summoned Leech and Duncan to the board;
Slow from the cabin mount the staggering pair,
Pale their chang'd cheeks, and wild their haggard air:
So look two ghosts that Tyburn's tree attend,
When the last signal calls them to ascend.
Soon as the sav'ry steams their nostrils gain,
They sicken, heave, and stagger down again.
Bold-hearted Duncan! who'd have dreamt to see
This pale sea-spectre fix her fangs on thee?
On thee, who dauntless down the torrent's course,
'Midst rocks and foam, defied its roaring force;
Still first the dangers of the chase to share,
To pierce the panther, or o'erwhelm the bear;
And at the joyous feast that crowned the whole,
With mirth and songs to elevate each soul.
‘Cheer, comrades, cheer! deliverance is at hand!
Lo! on the lee-bow lies the hazy land!’
Loud hailed the Bard. At once, in cheerful mood,
Firm upon deck the active Duncan stood;

166

The wide expanse with freshened looks he eyed,
And ‘Who's afraid?’ in sportive humour cried.
Meantime the gale our flying vessel bore,
On wings of wind, full thirteen knots an hour;
And just as day its closing light withdrew,
Niagara's lighthouse opened on our view.
Its star-like radiance shone with steady ray,—
Like Venus lingering in the rear of day.
By slow degrees the sinking breezes die,
And on the smooth, still flood, we logging lie.
Roused by the morning and the neighbouring drum,
Swift upon deck with eager eyes we come;
There, high in air, (the fortress full in view)
Our star-crowned stripes in waving triumph flew:
Hail, sacred flag! to sons of Freedom dear,
Thy country's valour reared thine honours here;
Eternal blessings crown her rich increase,
Her Bands of Union and her Stars of Peace.
Before us now the opening river pours,
Through gradual windings and projecting shores;
Smooth sloops the green where Newark's village lies,
There, o'er their fort, the British ensign flies.
‘From whence?’ they hail; we shout with trumpet's sound
‘From Fort Oswego; up to Queenstown bound.’
‘What news?’ ‘The Speedy's pump on board we bear,
The sole found fragment of that sad affair.’
Th'increasing distance drowns their faint reply,
And up the adverse stream we foaming fly.
Now full in front the Ridge

This singular ridge commences about the head of Lake Ontario, and, running in an easterly direction, loses itself in the country towards the Seneca Lake. The plain, extending from its base northwardly to the shores of the lake, is between two and three hundred feet lower than that extending from its top, south, to Lake Erie.

its height uprears,

Its high, grim gap, like some vast cave appears;
Thick wheel strong eddies, marked with whirling foam,
As from this gloomy chasm they hurrying come;
Low at its foot, with stores and gardens gay,
Close, snugly sheltered, little Queenstown lay.
Here Night once more her shadows o'er us threw,
And, safely moored, we bid our bark adieu.

167

Long seemed the night; impatient of repose,
By day's first dawn delighted we arose;
A day replete with scenes sublime and new
About to burst on our astonished view.
Sweet rose the morning, silent and serene,
No vagrant cloud, or stirring leaf was seen;
The sun's warm beams with dazzling radiance glow,
And glittering dance upon the flood below.
Soon full equipt the towering Ridge we scale,
Thence, gazing back, a boundless prospect hail.
Far in the east Ontario's waters spread,
Vast as the Ocean in his sky-bound bed.
Bright through the parted plain that lay between,
Niagara's deep majestic flood was seen;
The right a wilderness of woods displayed,
Fields, orchards, woods, were on the left arrayed.
There, near the Lake's green shore, above the flood,
The tall, white light-house like a column stood.
O'er each grim fort, high waving to the view,
Columbia's stars and Britain's crosses, flew,
Thus two stern champions watch each other's eye,
And mark each movement, ready to let fly.
Up to the Ridge's top, high winding led,
There on a flat, dry plain, we gaily tread;
And stop, and list, with throbbing hearts to hear
The long expected cataract meet the ear;
But list in vain. Though five short miles ahead.
All sound was hushed and every whisper dead.
‘'Tis strange,’

This will appear almost incredible to those who have heard it asserted that the noise of the cataract is frequently heard at the distance of forty miles. Both these facts, however, are actually true, and depend entirely on the state of the atmosphere, and current of the air.

said Duncan, ‘here the sound might reach.’

‘'Tis all an April errand,’ answered Leech.
‘Men to make books a thousand tales devise,
And nineteen-twentieths are a pack of lies.
Here, three long weeks by storms and famines beat,
With sore-bruised backs, and lame and blistered feet;
Here nameless hardships, griefs, and miseries past,
We find some mill-dam for our pains at last.

168

Once safe at home, kick'd, cudgell'd let me be,
If e'er bookmaker make a fool of me.’
He spoke and groaned: for heedless of his woe,
A stubborn stump assailed his corny toe;
Stunned with the stroke, he grinned and hopped around,
While peals of mirth and laughter loud resound.
Heavy and slow, increasing on the ear,
Deep through the woods a rising storm we hear;
Th'approaching gust still loud and louder grows,
As when the strong north-east resistless blows;
Or black tornado, rushing through the wood,
Alarms the affrighted swains with uproar rude.
Yet the blue heavens displayed their clearest sky,
And dead below the silent forests lie;
And not a breath the slightest leaf assailed,
But all around tranquility prevailed.
‘What noise is that?’ we ask, with anxious mien,
A dull salt-driver passing with his team.
‘Noise! noise!—why nothing that I hear or see,
But N'agra falls—Pray, whereabouts live ye?’
All looked amazed! yet not untouched with fear,
Like those who first the battle's thunders hear,
Till Duncan said, with grave satiric glee,
‘Lord, what a monstrous mill-dam that must be!’
Leech blushed assent, while as we nearer drew,
The loudening roar more harsh and heavy grew.
Awe-struck sensations now all speech represt,
And expectation throbbed in every breast.
Now from the woods, emerging into day,
Before us fields and farms and orchards lay;
The sloping hills a hollow vale disclose,
Whence hurrying clouds

This train of black clouds extends along the heavens in the direction in which the wind blows, as far as the eye can reach, forming a very striking and majestic appearance.

of boiling smoke arose,

Till in one congregated column thrown,
On whose bright side a glorious rainbow shone;
High in the heavens it reared its towering head,
And o'er the day its train gigantic led:

169

Beyond its base, there like a wall of foam,
Here in a circling gulf unbroken thrown,
With uproar hideous, first the Falls appear,
The stunning tumult thundering on the ear.
Above, below, where'er the astonished eye
Turns to behold, new-opening wonders lie,
Till to a steep's high brow, unconscious brought,
Lost to all other care of sense or thought,
There the broad river like a lake outspread,
The islands, rapids, falls, in grandeur dread;
The heaps of boiling foam, the ascending spray,
The gulf profound, where dazzling rainbows play;
This great o'erwhelming work of awful Time,
In all its dread magnificence sublime,
Rose on our view; amid a crashing roar,
That bade us kneel and Time's great God adore.
As when o'er tracks immense of desert drear,
Through dangerous nations, and 'midst toils severe;
Day after day condemned a war to wage
With thirst and hunger, men and lions' rage,
Noon's burning heat, and night's distressing cold,
Arabian pilgrims Mecca's walls behold:—
Those holy walls, whose sacred roof contains
Mahomet's tomb—their prophet's blest remains;
Past sufferings vanish, every sigh's supprest,
A flood of rapture rises in each breast;
All hearts confess an awful joy serene,
And humbly bow before the glorious scene.—
Such were our raptures, such the holy awe
That swell'd our hearts at all we heard and saw;
Fixed to the rock, like monuments we stood
On its flat face, above the outrageous flood;
There, while our eyes the amazing whole explored,
The deep loud roar our loudest voice devoured.
High o'er the watery uproar, silent seen,
Sailing sedate, in majesty serene,

170

Now 'midst the pillared spray sublimely lost,
And now, emerging, down the rapids tost,
Swept the gray eagles; gazing calm and slow,
On all the horrors of the gulf below;
Intent, alone, to sate themselves with blood,
From the torn victims of the raging flood.
Whate'er the weather, or whate'er the gale,
Here ceaseless haze and flying rains prevail;
Down bend the boughs with weight of moisture borne,
Each bush, each tree, the dazzling drops adorn;
Save when deep Winter's fiercest rigours blow,
Then falls the whirling spray in silent snow;
While the dew-drops to icicles are changed,
In glittering pendent parallels arranged.
Then, too, amid the Falls, stupendous rise
Bright icy pillars of prodigious size!
As if some pile immense of Greece or Rome,
Were deep engulfed within their hideous womb.
Drenched to the skin, our baggage down we throw,
Fixed to descend into the gulf below;
Amid whose wreck, and from whose depths profound,
Some new resource for wonder might be found;
Along the dreadful verge we cautious steered,
Till the tall ladder's

This ladder was fixed in an almost perpendicular position; not leaning on the brink, but fastened to a projecting root, in such a manner that, on descending, the steep was on our right hand and a tremendous abyss of 150 feet deep presented itself before us.

tottering top appeared;

A tree's projecting root its weight sustains,
The dread abyss wheels round our giddy brains.
Leech, like a bird, with the whole gulf in view,
Down its slight slippery bars regardless flew!
The Bard came after, not devoid of fear,
And Duncan, gay and laughing, closed the rear;
The cumb'rous weight its bending sides assails,
It yields! it cracks! its whole foundation fails!
Fear, swift as light, the rocks' grim pavement stains
With mangled limbs, and blood, and spattered brains;
But firm above the roots remained, though rude,
And safe below on Chaos' shores we stood.

171

Genius of song—Great Source of light and day,
How shall the Muse this dreadful place pourtray?
Where, all around, tremendous rocks

These rocks being worn smooth by the perpetual action of the water, and lying upon a deep declivity, composed of loose masses of smaller ones, were displaced at every pressure of the foot, so that masses larger than milestones were easily launched down with a single kick, rendering it highly dangerous for more than one person to pass abreast.

were spread,

That from our feet in headlong fury fled;
Rocks that great Ajax, with his hundreds more,
Could scarce have moved one hairbreadth from the shore;
Where logs, and boards, and trees of reverend age,
Beat to a pulp amid the torrent's rage;
Fragments of boats, oars, carcasses unclean,
Of what had bears, deer, fowls, and fishes been,
Lay in such uproar, 'midst such clamour drown'd,
That death and ruin seemed to reign around.
High in our front th'outrageous river roared,
And in three separate falls stupendous poured;
First, slow Fort Slusher's

The height of this fall is said to be 154 feet. The current above is much slower than in any other part of the river near the Falls, and the water drops here almost perpendicularly, presenting the appearance of an immense white curtain of foam.

, down was seen to roam

In one vast living sheet of glittering foam;
On its south side a little islet towers,
There one small patch o'er broken fragments pours:
Goat-Island next, with oaks and cedars crown'd,
Its shelving base with dwarfish shrubbery bound;
Along the brink a rocky front extends
Four hundred yards, and at the Horse-shoe

These Falls are 12 or 14 feet lower than those of Fort Slusher on the American side; and the main body of the river rushes over at this place with indescribable violence and uproar.

ends.

There the main forces of the river pour,
There, fierce above, the rushing Rapids roar!
The mighty wat'ry mass, resistless grown,
Green down the impending brink unbroken thrown,
Whelmed amidst dazzling hills of boiling spray,
In raging, deafening torrents roar away.
One last grand object

The Great Pitch. Of the general appearance of this tremendous scene I find it altogether impossible for me to give any adequate conception.

yet remained unviewed:

Thither we crawl, o'er monstrous fragments rude,
Struggling o'er caverns deep; now prostrate thrown,
Now up wet slippery masses clambering on;
Below, in foam, the raging rapids sweep,
Above, dark hollowed hangs the enormous steep,
Scooped out immense; resounding, gloomy, bare,
Its giddy verge projected high in air;

172

There such a scene of rage and uproar new,
In awful grandeur burst upon our view;
As seized at once all power of speech away,
And filled our souls with terror and dismay.
Great God of Nature! whose bless'd sun and showers
Called into action these tremendous powers;
Where shall my tongue fit force of language find
To speak the dread sensations of the mind,
When o'er the impending brink, in bounding sweep,
The eye pursued this deluge to the deep;
Saw its wild torrents undulating pour
From heaven to earth with deafening, crashing roar;
Dashed in the wild and torn abyss below,
'Midst dazzling foam and whirling storms of snow;
While the whole monstrous mass, and country round,
Shook as with horror

This is literary true. In the house where we lodged, which is more than half-a-mile from the Falls, the vibration of a fork, stuck in a broad position, were plainly shewable across the room.

at the o'erwhelming sound.

Within this concave vast, dark, frowning, deep,
Eternal rains and howling whirlwinds sweep;
The slippery rocks, at every faithless tread,
Threaten to whelm us headlong to the dead;
Our Bard and pilot, curious to survey,
Behind this sheet what unknown wonders lay,
Resolved the dangers of th'attempt to share,
And all its terrors and its storms to dare;
So, hand in hand, with firm yet cautious pace,
Along the gloom they grope this dreary space;
'Midst rushing winds, descending deep, they gain
Behind th'o'erhanging horrors of the scene;
There dark, tempestuous, howling regions lie,
And whirling floods of dashing waters fly.
At once of sight deprived, of sense and breath,
Staggering amidst this caverned porch of death,
One moment more had swept them in the waves
To the most horrible of human graves;
But danger, here, to desperate force gave way,
And drove them, drenched and gasping out to day.

173

The glooms of evening now began to close,
O'er heaps of rocks our homeward steps we chose;
And one by one the infernal ladder scaled,
While Night's grim darkness deep around prevailed;
Safe on the fearful brink, we search around,
And, glimmering near, a light and lodgings found;
There full of all the wonders of the day
In vain our bed our weary heads we lay;
Still loud, without, a mighty tempest heaves;
Still the calm air our terror undeceives,
And when some short and broken slumbers came,
Still round us roaring swept th'outrageous stream;
Whelmed in the deep we sunk, engulfed, forlorn,
Or down the dreadful Rapids helpless borne;
Groaning we start! and at the loudening war,
Ask our bewildered senses where we are.
At length with watching and with toil opprest,
The thundering tumult rocked us into rest.

THE SOLITARY TUTOR.

Whoe'er across the Schuylkill's winding tide,
Beyond Gray's Ferry half a mile has been;
Down at a bridge, built hollow, must have spy'd,
A neat stone school-house on a sloping green;
There tufted cedars scatter'd round are seen,
And stripling poplars planted in a row;
Some old grey white oaks overhang the scene,
Pleas'd to look down upon the youths below,
Whose noisy noontide sports no care or sorrow know.
On this hand rise the woods, in deep'ning shade,
Resounding with the sounds of warblers sweet;
And there a waving sign-board hangs display'd
From mansion fair,—the thirsty soul's retreat:

174

There way-worn pilgrims rest their weary feet,
When noontide heats, or evening shades prevail;
The widow's fare still plentiful and neat,
Can nicest guest deliciously regale,
And make his heart rejoice the Sorrel Horse to hail.
Adjoining this, old Vulcan's shop is seen,
Where winds, and fires, and thumping hammers roar;
White-wash'd without, but black enough within,—
Emblem of modern patriots many a score;
The restive steed impatient at the door,
Starts at his thundering voice, and brawny arm;
While yellow Jem with horse-tail fans him o'er,
Drawing aloof, the ever-buzzing swarm,
Whose shrill blood-sucking pipes, his restless fears alarm.
An ever-varying scene the road displays,
With horsemen, thundering stage, and stately team;
Now burning with the sun's resplendent rays,
Now lost in clouds of dust the traveller's seen;
And now a lengthen'd pond or miry stream,
Deep sink the wheels, and slow they drag along;
Journeying to town with butter, apples, cream,
Fowls, eggs, and fruit, in many a motley throng,
Cooped in their little carts their various truck among.
And yonder nestled in enclust'ring trees,
Where many a rose-bush round the green yard glows;
Wall'd from the road with seats for shade and ease,
A yellow-fronted cottage, sweetly shows:
The tow'ring poplars rise in spiry rows,
And green catalphas, white with branchy flowers;
Her matron arms, a weeping willow throws
Wide o'er the dark green grass, and pensive low'rs,
'Midst plum trees, pillar'd hops, and honeysuckle bowers.
Here dwells the guardian of these younglings gay,
A strange, recluse, and solitary wight;

175

In Britain's isle, on Scottish mountains gray,
His infant eyes first open'd to the light;
His parents saw, with partial fond delight,
Unfolding genius crown their fostering care;
And talk'd with tears of that enrapturing sight,
When clad in sable gown, with solemn air,
The walls of God's own house should echo back his pray'r.
Dear smiling Hope, to thy enchanting hand,
What cheering joys, what ecstacies we owe;
Touch'd by the magic of thy fairy wand,
Before us spread, what heavenly prospects glow!
Thro' life's rough thorny wild we lab'ring go,
And, though a thousand disappointments grieve,
Ev'n from the grave's dark verge we forward throw
Our straining wishful eyes on those we leave,
And with their future fame our sinking hearts relieve.
But soon, too soon, these fond illusions fled,
In vain they pointed out that pious height;
By Nature's strong resistless impulse led,
These dull dry doctrines ever would he slight;
Wild Fancy formed him for fantastic flight,
He lov'd the steep's high summit to explore,
To watch the splendour of the orient bright,
The dark deep forest and the sea-beat shore,
Where thro' resounding rocks the liquid mountains pour,
When gath'ring clouds the vaults of heaven o'erspread,
And opening streams of livid lightning flew;
From some o'erhanging cliff, the uproar dread,
Transfix'd in rapt'rous wonder, he would view
When the red torrent, big and bigger grew;
Or deep'ning snows, for days obscur'd the air,
Still with the storm his transports would renew:
Roar, pour away, was still his eager pray'r,
While shiv'ring swains around were sinking in despair.

176

That worldly gift, which misers merit call,
But wise men cunning, and the art of trade;
That scheming foresight, how to scrape up all,
How pence may groats, and shillings pounds be made,
As little knew he, as the moorland maid,
Who ne'er beheld a cottage but her own;
Sour Parsimony's words he seldom weigh'd,
His heart's warm impulse was the guide alone,
When suffering friendship sigh'd, or weeping wretch did moan.
Dear, dear to him, affection's ardent glow;
Alas! from all he lov'd, for ever torn,
E'en now, as Memory's sad reflections flow,
Deep grief o'erwhelms him, and he weeps forlorn.
By hopeless thought, by wasting sorrow worn,
Around on Nature's scenes he turns his eye,
Charm'd with her peaceful eve, her fragrant morn,
Her green magnificence, her gloomiest sky,
That fill th'exulting soul with admiration high.
One charming nymph, with transport he adores,
Fair Science, crown'd with many a figur'd sign;
Her smiles, her sweet society implores,
And mixes jocund with the encircling Nine;
While Mathematics solve his dark design,
Sweet Music soothes him with her syren strains;
Seraphic Poetry, with warmth divine,
Exalts him far above terrestrial plains,
And Painting's fairy hand his mimic pencil trains.
Adown each side of his sequester'd cot,
Two bubbling streamlets wind their rocky way,
And mingling, as they leave this rural spot,
Down thro' a woody vale, meand'ring stray;
Round many a moss-grown rock they dimpling play,
Where laurel thickets clothe the steeps around,
And oaks, thick towering, quite shut out the day,
And spread a venerable gloom profound,
Made still more sweetly solemn by the riv'let's sound.

177

Where down smooth glistering rocks it rambling pours,
Till in a pool its silent waters sleep;
A dark brown cliff, o'ertopt with fern and flowers,
Hangs grimly frowning o'er the glassy deep;
Above, thro' ev'ry chink, the woodbines creep,
And smooth-bark'd beeches spread their arms around,
Whose roots cling, twisted, round the rocky steep.
A more sequester'd scene is nowhere found,
For contemplation deep, and silent thought profound.
Here many a tour the lonely Tutor takes,
Long known to Solitude, his partner dear;
For rustling woods, his empty School forsakes,
At morn, still noon, and silent evening clear.
Wild Nature's scenes amuse his wand'rings here;
The old grey rocks that overhang the stream,
The nodding flow'rs that on their peaks appear,
Plants, birds, and insects, are a feast to him,
Howe'er obscure, deform'd, minute, or huge they seem.
Sweet rural scenes! unknown to poet's song,
Where Nature's charms in rich profusion lie;
Birds, fruits, and flowers, an ever-pleasing throng,
Deny'd to Britain's bleak and northern sky.
Here Freedom smiles serene with dauntless eye,
And leads the exil'd stranger thro' her groves;
Assists to sweep the forest from on high,
And gives to man the fruitful field he loves,
Where proud imperious lord, or tyrant, never roves.
In these green solitudes one favourite spot
Still draws his lone slow wand'rings that way;
A mossy cliff, beside a little grot,
Where two clear springs burst out upon the day;
There, overhead, the beechen branches play,

178

And from the rock, the cluster'd columbine;
While, deep below, the brook is seen to stray,
O'erhung with alders, briar, and mantling vine,
While on th'adjacent banks the glossy laurels shine.
Here Milton's heav'nly themes delight his soul,
Or Goldsmith's simple heart-bewitching lays;
Now drives with look around the frozen pole,
Or follows Bruce, with marvel and amaze.
Perhaps Rome's splendour sadly he surveys,
Or Britain's scenes of cruelty and kings;
Thro' Georgia's groves with gentle Bartram strays,
Or mounts with Newton on archangels' wings;
With manly Smollet laughs, and jovial Dibdin sings.
The air serene, and breathing odours sweet,
The sound of falling streams and humming bees;
Wild choirs of songsters round his rural seat,
To souls like his have ev'ry pow'r to please.
The shades of night with rising sigh he sees
Obscure the sweet and leafy scene around;
And, homeward bending, thro' the moonlight trees,
The owl salutes him with her trem'lous sound,
And many a fluttering bat pursues its mazy round.
Thus, peaceful pass his lonely hours away,
Thus, in retirement from his school affairs
He tastes a bliss unknown to worldings gay,
A soothing antidote to all his cares.
Adoring Nature's God, he joyous shares,
With happy millions, Freedom's fairest scene;
His e'ening hymn, some plaintive Scottish airs,
Breathed from the flute, or melting violin,
With life-inspiring airs, and wanton jigs between.

179

THE AMERICAN BLUE-BIRD.

[_]

“Such are the mild and pleasing manners of the Blue-bird, and so universally is he esteemed, that I have often regretted that no pastoral Muse has yet risen, in this western woody world, to do justice to his name, and endear him to us still more, by the tenderness of verse, as has been done to his representative in Britain, the Robin Redbreast. A small acknowledgment of this kind I have to offer, which the reader I hope will excuse as a tribute to rural innocence.”

When Winter's cold tempests and snows are no more,
Green meadows, and brown furrow'd fields reappearing;
The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,
And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering;
When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,
When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasin';
O then comes the Blue-bird, the herald of Spring,
And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.
Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring,
Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather;
The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,
And spicewood and sassafras budding together;
O then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair,
Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;
The Blue-bird will chant from his box such an air,
That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure.
He flits thro' the orchard, he visits each tree,
The red flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms;
He snaps up destroyers wherever they be,
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;

180

He draws the vile grub from the corn it devours,
The worms from their webs where they riot and welter;
His song and his services freely are ours,
And all that he asks, is, in Summer a shelter.
The ploughman is pleas'd when he gleans in his train,
Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him;
The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain,
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him;
The slow-ling'ring schoolboys forget they'll be chid,
While gazing intent as he warbles before 'em,
In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,
That each little loiterer seems to adore him.
When all the gay scenes of the Summer are o'er,
And Autumn slow enters so silent and sallow;
And millions of warblers, that charm'd us before,
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow;
The Blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home,
Still lingers, and looks for a milder to-morrow;
Till forc'd by the horrors of Winter to roam,
He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.
While Spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,
The green face of Earth and the pure blue of heaven;
Or Love's native music have influence to charm,
Or Sympathy's glow to our feelings are given—
Still dear to each bosom the Blue-bird shall be;
His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure;
For, thro' bleakest storms, if a calm he but see,
He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure.

181

THE HUMMING-BIRD.

[_]

“The Humming Bird is one of the few that are universally beloved; and, amid the sweet dewy serenity of a Summer's morning, his appearance among the arbours of honey-suckle and beds of flowers, is truly interesting.”

When morning dawns, and the blest sun again
Lifts his red glories from the eastern main;
Then thro' our woodbines, wet with glittering dews,
The flower-fed Humming-Bird his round pursues;
Sips with inserted tube the honeyed blooms,
And chirps his gratitude as round he roams;
While richest roses, tho' in crimson drest,
Shrink from the splendour of his gorgeous breast;
What heav'nly tints in mingling radiance fly!
Each rapid movement gives a different dye;
Like scales of burnish'd gold they dazzling show,
Now sink to shade, now like a furnace glow.

THE BALTIMORE BIRD.

[_]

“The Baltimore inhabits North America, from Canada to Mexico, and is even found as far south as Brazil. Since the streets of our cities have been planted with that beautiful and stately tree, the Lombardy poplar, these birds are our constant visitors during the early part of Summer; and, amid the noise and tumult of coaches, drays, wheelbarrows, and the din of the multitude, they are heard chanting ‘their native wood-notes wild;’ sometimes too within a few yards of an oysterman, who stands bellowing with the lungs of a Stentor, under the shade of the same tree; so much will habit reconcile


182

even birds to the roar of the city and to sounds and noises, that in other circumstances, would put a whole grove of them to flight.”

High on yon poplar, clad in glossiest green,
The orange, black-capp'd Baltimore is seen;
The broad-extended boughs still please him best,
Beneath their bending skirts he hangs his nest;
There his sweet mate, secure from every harm,
Broods o'er her spotted store, and wraps them warm;
Lists to the noon-tide hum of busy bees,
Her partner's mellow song, the brook, the breeze;
These day by day the lonely hours deceive,
From dewy morn, to slow-descending eve.
Two weeks elaps'd, behold a helpless crew!
Claim all her care, and her affection too;
On wings of love th'assiduous nurses fly,
Flowers, leaves, and boughs, abundant food supply;
Glad chants their guardian, as abroad he goes,
And waving breezes rock them to repose.

THE FISH-HAWK, OR OSPREY.

[_]

“The regular arrival of this noted bird at the vernal equinox, when the busy season of fishing commences, adds peculiar interest to its first appearance, and procures it many a benediction from the fishermen. With the following lines, illustrative of these circumstances, I shall conclude its history”:—

Soon as the sun, great ruler of the year,
Bends to our northern clime his bright career,
And from the caves of ocean calls from sleep
The finny shoals and myriads of the deep;
When freezing tempests back to Greenland ride,

183

And day and night the equal hours divide;
True to the season, o'er our sea-beat shore,
The sailing osprey high is seen to soar,
With broad unmoving wing, and circling slow,
Marks each loose straggler in the deep below;
Sweeps down like lightning! plunges with a roar!
And bears his struggling victim to the shore.
The long-housed fisherman beholds with joy,
The well known signals of his rough employ;
And as he bears his nets and oars along,
Thus hails the welcome season with a song:

The Fisherman's Hymn.

The osprey sails above the Sound,
The geese are gone, the gulls are flying;
The herring shoals swarm thick around,
The nets are launched, the boats are plying.
Yo ho, my hearts! let's seek the deep,
Raise high the song and cheerly wish her;
Still as the bending net we sweep,
‘God bless the fish-hawk and the fisher!’
She brings us fish—she brings us Spring,
Good times, fair weather, warmth and plenty;
Fine store of shad, trout, herring, ling,
Sheeps-head and drum, and old wives' dainty.
Yo ho, my hearts! let's seek the deep,
Ply every oar, and cheerly wish her,
Still as the bending net we sweep,
‘God bless the fish-hawk and the fisher!’
She rears her young on yonder tree,
She leaves her faithful mate to mind 'em;
Like us, for fish she sails the sea,
And, plunging, shows us where to find 'em.

184

Yo ho, my hearts! let's seek the deep,
Ply every oar, and cheerly wish her,
While slow the bending net we sweep,
‘God bless the fish-hawk and the fisher!’

THE TYRANT FLY-CATCHER, OR KING BIRD.

[_]

“Great prejudices are entertained against this little bird; I, however, honour him for his extreme affection for his young; for his contempt of danger, and unexampled intrepidity; for his meekness of behaviour when there are no calls upon his courage; but, above all, for the millions of ruinous vermin of which he rids us! . .

As a friend to this persecuted bird, and an enemy to prejudices of every description, will the reader allow me to set this matter in a somewhat clearer and stronger light, by presenting him with a short poetical epitome of the King-bird's history.”

Far in the south, where vast Maragnon flows,
And boundless forests unknown wilds enclose,
Vine-tangled shores and suffocating woods,
Parched up with heat, or drown'd with pouring floods;
Where each extreme alternately prevails,
And nature, sad, the ravages bewails;
Lo! high in air, above those trackless wastes.
With Spring's return, the King-bird hither hastes,
Coasts the famed Gulf, and from his height explores
Its thousand streams, its long indented shores,
Its plains immense, wide op'ning on the day,
Its lakes and isles where feathered millions play.
All tempt not him; till, gazing from on high,
Columbia's regions wide below him lie;
There end his wanderings and his wish to roam,
There lie his native woods, his fields, his home;
Down, circling, he descends from azure heights,
And on a full blown sassafras alights.

185

Fatigued and silent, for a while he views
His old frequented haunts, and shades recluse,
Sees brothers, comrades, every hour arrive,
Hears humming round the tenants of the hive;
Love fires his breast, he wooes, and soon is blest,
And in the blooming orchard builds his nest.
Come now, ye cowards! ye whom Heaven disdains,
Who boast the happiest home, the richest plains;
On whom, perchance, a wife, an infant's eye,
Hang as their hope, and on your arm rely,
Yet, when the hour of danger and dismay
Comes on that country, sneak in holes away,
Shrink from the perils ye were bound to face,
And leave these babes and country to disgrace;
Come here, (if such we have) ye dastard herd!
And kneel in dust before this noble bird.
When the specked eggs within his nest appear,
Then glows affection, ardent and sincere;
No discord sours him when his mate he meets,
But each warm heart with mutual kindness beats;
For her repast he bears along the lea
The bloated gad-fly and the balmy bee;
For her repose scours o'er th'adjacent farm,
Whence hawks might dart, or lurking foes alarm,—
For now abroad a band of ruffians prey,
The crow, the cuckoo, and th'insiduous jay;
These, in the owner's absence, all destroy,
And murder every hope, and every joy.
Soft sits his brooding mate, her guardian he,
Perched on the top of some tall neighb'ring tree;
Thence, from the thicket to the concave skies,
His watchful eye around unceasing flies.
Wrens, thrushes, warblers, startled at his note,
Fly in affright the consecrated spot;
He drives the plundering jay, with honest scorn
Back to the woods—the mocker to his thorn;

186

Sweeps round the cuckoo, as the thief retreats,
Attacks the crow, the diving hawk defeats,
Darts on the eagle downwards from afar,
And 'midst the clouds, prolongs the whirling war.
All danger o'er, he hastens back elate,
To guard his post, and feed his faithful mate.
Behold him now, his little family flown,
Meek, unassuming, silent, and alone,
Lured by the well-known hum of favourite bees,
As slow he hovers o'er the garden trees;
(For all have failings, passions, whims, that lead
Some favourite wish, some appetite to feed:)
Straight he alights, and from the pear-tree spies
The circling stream of humming insects rise;
Selects his prey, darts on the busy brood,
And shrilly twitters o'er his savoury food.
Ah, ill-timed triumph! direful note to thee,
That guides thy murderer to the fatal tree;
See where he skulks, and takes his gloomy stand,
The deep-charged musket hanging in his hand,
And, gaunt for blood, he leans it on a rest,
Prepared and pointed at thy snow-white breast.
Ah! friend, good friend, forbear that barb'rous deed,
Against it, valour, goodness, pity plead;
If ere a family's griefs, a widow's woe
Have reached thy soul, in mercy let him go!
Yet should the tear of pity nought avail;
Let interest speak, let gratitude prevail;
Kill not thy friend, who thy whole harvest shields,
And sweeps ten thousand vermin from thy fields.
Think how this dauntless bird, thy poultry's guard,
Drove ev'ry hawk and eagle from thy yard;
Watch'd round thy cattle as they fed, and slew
The hungry, black'ning swarms that round them flew;

187

Some small return, some little right resign,
And spare his life whose services are thine!
—I plead in vain! amid the bursting roar
The poor, lost King-bird, welters in his gore.

POETICAL LETTER TO WILLIAM DUNCAN, HIS NEPHEW,

SENECA COUNTY, NEW YORK STATE.

Here, left o'er books and figur'd slates to pore,
While you the wilds of Northern woods explore;
How wide remov'd from social converse sweet!
How parted! haply never more to meet.
Yet, though detain'd by Fate's superior will,
My faithful following heart attends you still;
And borne on Fancy's wings to Northern Lakes,
In all your toils, and all your joys partakes.
I saw, when full equipt with knapsack load,
You and your fellow-pilgrim took the road;
A road immense—yet promised joys so dear,
That toils, and doubts, and danger disappear.
I saw you then, hope sparkling in your eye,
Pierce the deep wood, and scale the mountain high;
Pass where the Lelu rolls her silver tide,
Cross nameless brooks, and streams, and rivers wide;
Now down through dismal swamps pursue your way,
Where pine and hemlocks thick obscure the day;—
Whose mingled tops an hundred feet in air,
The clustering nest of swarming pigeons bear;
Thence climb the rugged mountain's barren side,
Where snorting bears through rustling forests glide;
Where Wilkesbarre's fertile plains extend in view,
And far in front the Allegany blue,

188

Immensely stretch'd; while in the vale below
The painted cots and colour'd meadows glow.
Beyond this little town, 'midst fields of grass,
With thoughtful hearts the fatal field you pass,
Where Indian force prevail'd, by murder fir'd,
And warriors brave, by savage hordes expir'd.
Advancing still, the river's course you keep,
And pass the rugged, narrow, dangerous steep;
Thence vales and mountains rude promiscuous lie,
And wretched huts disgust the passing eye;
Sure sign of sloth within, that will not toil,
But starves in rags upon the richest soil.
Through Wilhalvossing now your steps you bend,
Where numerous herbs and pastures rich extend;
But hens and sheep, here lucklessly decay,
To wolves and foxes sly, a nightly prey.
High on the steep that near Tioga soars,
Where deep below the parted river roars,
With cautious steps and throbbing hearts you go,
And eye the gulph profound that yawns below;
Or from the height sublime, around descry
One waste of woods encircling earth and sky:
Now sunk in hoary woods you scour along,
Rousing the echoes with your jovial song;
Through scenes where late the skulking Indian trod,
Adorn'd with scalps and smear'd with infants' blood.
See Nature's rudest scenes around you rise,
Observe some ancient trees stupendous size,
Gaze while the startled deer shoots bounding by,
And wish the deadly rifle at your eye;
Or stop some settler's fertile fields to see,
And say, so our own fields shall shortly be.
Ten days of tedious toil and marching past,
The long-expected scenes appear at last;
The Lake thro' chequering trees, extended blue:—
Huzza! huzza! Old Seneca's in view;

189

With flying hat you hail the glorious spot,
And every toil and every care's forgot.
So when of late we ploughed the Atlantic waves,
And left a land of despots and their slaves;
With hearts o'erjoy'd Columbia's shores we spy'd,
And gave our cares and sorrows to the tide.
Still with success may all your toils be blest,
And this new enterprise crown all the rest;
Soon may your glittering axe with strength applied,
The circling bark from mossy trunks divide.
Or, wheel'd in air, while the deep woods resound,
Bring crashing forests, thundering to the ground.
Soon may your fires in flaming piles ascend,
And girdled trees their wintry limbs extend;
Soon may your oxen clear the root away,
And give the deep black surface to the day;
While fields of richest grain and pasture good,
Shall wave where Indians stray'd and forests stood;
And as you sweat the rustling sheaves among,
Th'adjoining woods shall echo to your song.
These are the scenes of purest joy below,
From these, health, peace, and independence flow;
Blest with the purest air and richest soil,
What generous harvests recompence your toil;
Here no proud lordling lifts his haughty crest,
No scoundrel landlord tramples the opprest,
No thief in black demands his tenth in sheaves,
But man from God abundantly receives.
In rustic dress you cheerful range the woods,
Health makes you gay, and simple manners good;
Society's whole joys your bosoms know,
And Plenty's smiling bliss, without its woe.
Farewell, dear Bill, thy hardy toils pursue;
Keep independence constantly in view;
Fear not success.—If one attempt should fail,
Fate yields when strength and constancy assail.

190

Store up thy harvests, sow thy winter grain,
Prepare thy troughs the maple's juice to drain.
Then, when the wintry North outrageous blows,
And nought is seen but one wide waste of snows;
Ascend the fleeting height, and, like the wind,
Sweep o'er the snows and leave the woods behind;
Along the rugged swamp and mountain high,
'Mid rocks and narrows, make thy horses fly;
Shoot o'er the Susquehanna's frozen face,
And bleak Wyoming's lofty hills retrace;
Nor let the hunter's hut, or ven'sons stale,
Or his lov'd bottle, or his wondrous tale
Of bears and deers, thy lingering steps detain,
But swift descend and seek the southern plain.
Here where the clouds of Philadelphia rise,
And little Milestown's scattered village lies;
Where o'er the road the pointed eagle waves,
And Ralph's good grog the shivering sinner saves,
Here shall thy faithful friend, with choicest store
Of wine and roast-beef, welcome thee once more,
And friendship's social joys shall crown the whole,
‘The feast of reason, and the flow of soul.’

EPISTLE TO C. ORR.

From Milestown's fertile fields and meadows clear,
I hail my worthy friend with heart sincere,
And welcome, nay, most pressingly implore,
One friendly visit to my cot once more.
The fairest scenes that ever bless'd the year,
Now o'er our lawns, and woods, and meads appear;
The richest harvests choke each loaded field,
The fairest fruits our growing orchards yield.
In green and gold, and purple plumes array'd,
The sweetest songsters chant from every shade.

191

Such boundless plenty, such luxurious stores,
The rosy hand of Nature round us pours.
That every living tribe their powers employ
From morn to eve to testify their joy;
And pour from meadow, field, and air above,
One general song of gratitude and love.
Come then, dear Orr, the noisy town forsake,
With me a while these rural joys partake;
Forget your books, your pens, your studious cares,
Come, see the gifts that God for man prepares.
Here, as with me, at morn you range the wood,
Or headlong plunge amid the sparkling flood;
More vig'rous life your firmer limbs shall brace,
A ruddier glow shall wanton o'er your face;
A brighter glance re-animate your eye,
Each anxious thought, each fretting care shall fly.
For here, thro' glades, and ev'ry rustling grove,
Sweet peace and rosy health for ever rove!
For you my vines their clustering fruits suspend,
My pinks and roses blow but for my friend;
For him who joins with elegance and art,
The brightest talents to the warmest heart.
Come then, O come, your burning streets forego,
Your lanes and warfs, where winds infectious blow;
For deep majestic woods and opening glades,
And shining pools and awe-inspiring shades;
Where fragrant flowers perfume the air around,
And bending orchards kiss the flowery ground;
And luscious berries spread a feast for Jove,
And golden cherries stud the boughs above.
Amidst these various sweets, thy rustic friend
Shall to each woodland haunt, thy steps attend;
His noontide walks, his vine-entwisted bowers,
The old associates of his lonely hours;

192

While friendship's converse, generous and sincere,
That mingles joy with joy, and tear with tear;
Shall fill each heart, and give to mem'ry's eye
Those native shores where fond relations sigh;
Where War accursed, and haggard Famine howl,
And R[oyal] D[ukes] o'er prostrate millions growl;
While we, alas! these mournful scenes retrace,
In climes of plenty, liberty, and peace;
A mingled flood of joy and grief shall flow,
For this so free, and that so full of woe.
Thus, in celestial bowers, the heavenly train
Escap'd from earth's dark ills and all its pain;
Talk o'er our scenes of suffering here below,
And drop a tear of pity for our woe.

LOCHWINNOCH.—A DESCRIPTIVE POEM.

[_]

IN A LETTER TO A FRIEND.

When in the western main our orb of light,
Sinks slowly down from the advancing night;
Mute sadness hangs o'er all the lonely earth,
Old gloomy Night leads all her horrors forth;
Wild howls the dreary waste, where furies roam,
Harsh hated shrieks start from the ruin'd dome;
Dread Darkness reigns in melancholy state,
And pensive Nature seems to mourn her fate.
Such was the gloom, dear sir, that wrapt my soul,
Such were the thoughts, and such the sighs that stole
From this poor bosom, when, with tearful view,
I bade Edina, and my friend, adieu;
Bade him adieu, whose kind, engaging art,
Unbounded goodness, and inspiring heart,
Has cheer'd my Muse, and bid her joyous soar,
While Want and Ruin thunder'd at the door.

193

Long was the way, the weary way to tread,
Stern Fortune frown'd, and ev'ry hope had fled;
How rush'd reflection on my tortur'd mind,
As slow I went, and sighing gaz'd behind!
Our rural walks, while the gray eastern morn,
Yet faintly breaking, deck'd the dewy thorn;
Or when link'd arm in arm, we peaceful stray'd
The Meadows round: beneath yon leafy shade
There oft the Muse pursu'd her soaring flight,
While day was sunk, and reign'd the starry night.
Farewell, I cry'd; a long farewell to you;
Fate, cruel urges, happy scenes adieu!
But, blest be Heav'n! when two sad days were past,
I reach'd my peaceful native plains at last;
Sweet smil'd the Muse to hear the rustics sing,
And fond to rise, she stretch'd her ample wing.
On ev'ry side the blooming landscape glow'd,
Here shepherds whistled, there the cascade flow'd.
Heav'ns! had I known what gay, delightful scenes,
Of woods, and groves, adorn'd these happy plains;
Edina's crowds and sooty turrets high,
Should ne'er have cost me one regretting sigh.
Though fair sweet Fortha's banks, tho' rich her plains,
Far nobler prospects claim the Muse's strains.
Fate now has led me to green-waving groves,
Blest scenes of innocence and rural loves;
Where cloudy smoke ne'er darkens up the sky,
Nor glaring buildings tire the sick'ning eye;
But spreading meadows wave with flow'ry hay,
And, drown'd in grass, the milky mothers stray;
While down each vale descends the glitt'ring rill,
And bleating flocks swarm o'er each smiling hill;
And woody vales, where deep retir'd from sight,
Lone rivers brawl o'er many a horrid height.
If scenes like these can please your roving mind,
Or lend one rapture to my dearest friend;

194

All hail! ye sacred Nine, assist my flight,
To spread their beauties open to his sight.
Low, at the foot of huge extended hills,
Whose cloudy tops pour down unnumber'd rills,
And where loud Calder, rushing from the steep,
Roars to the Lake with hoarse resistless sweep,
Lochwinnoch stands, stretch'd on a rising groun';
In bulk, a Village, but in worth a Town.
Here lies your friend, amid as cheerful swains
As e'er trod o'er the fam'd Arcadian plains;
Far from the world retir'd, our only care
In silken gauze to form the flow'rets fair;
To bid beneath our hands, gay blossoms rise,
In all the colours of the changing skies.
Despatch'd to foreign climes, our beauteous toil
Adorn the fair of many a distant isle;
Shield from the scorching heat, or shiv'ring storm,
And fairer deck out Nature's fairest form.
Such our sweet toils, when Peace, with glad'ning smile,
Wraps in her wings our little busy Isle;
But when, loud bellowing, furious from afar,
Is heard the uproar of approaching War,
Britannia rousing, when aspiring foes
Call forth her vengeance and provoke her blows;
Then all the hero in their bosom burns,
Their country calls, and Rage dull Pleasure spurns;
Beneath the throng of many a glitt'ring spear,
In marshall'd lines the fearless youths appear;
The drum resounds—they leave their native shore,
On distant coasts to swell the battle's roar:
There quell the furious foe, or see their homes no more.
But these are harsh extremes; rough labour now
Bathes each firm youth, and hoary parent's brow;
Nought shews, but brisk activity around,
The plough-boy's song, the tradesman's hamm'ring sound.

195

See! from yon vale, in huge enormous height,
Glitt'ring with windows on the admiring sight,
The fabric swells

a large cotton mill lately erected there:

—within, ten thousand ways

Ingenious Burns his wondrous art displays:
Wheels turning wheels in mystic throngs appear,
To twist the thread or tortur'd cotton tear,
While toiling wenches' songs delight the list'ning ear.
At little distance, bord'ring on the Lake,
Where blooming shrubs from golden branches, shake
Ambrosial sweets, 'midst shelt'ring coverts high,
Fair Castle Semple

the elegant country seat of the Hon. William M'Dowall, Member of Parliament for Aryshire:

glitters on the eye:

As when bright Phœbus, bursts some gloomy shroud,
And glorious issues from the darksome cloud;
Superbly enters on the empyrean blue,
And shines, reveal'd, to the enraptur'd view;
So, from the trees, the beauteous structure opes,
Shelter'd with hills, and many a deep'ning copse.
The wond'ring stranger stops t'admire the scene,
The dazzling mansion and the shaven green;
The fir-top Mount, where brouse the bounding deer,
The Lake adjoining, stretching smooth and clear;
The long glass hot-house, basking in the rays,
Where nameless blossoms swell beneath the blaze;
Where India's clime in full perfection glows,
And fruits and flowers o'ercharge the bending boughs.
These, and unnumber'd beauties charm his sight,
And oft he turns, and gazes with delight.
Ye lonely walks, now sinking from the sight,
Now rising easy to the distant height,
Where o'er my head the bending branches close,
And hang a solemn gloom—sedate repose!
Now gen'rous opening, welcomes in the day,
While o'er the road the shadowy branches play.
Hail! happy spots of quiet and of peace,
Dear fav'rite scenes, where all my sorrows cease!

196

Where calm Retirement reigns in sober mood,
Lull'd by the songsters of the neighb'ring wood.
Here oft beneath the shade, I lonely stray,
When Morning opes, or Evening shuts the day;
Or when, more black than night, Fate stern appears,
With all his train of pale despairing fears.
The winding walks, the solitary wood,
The uncouth grotto, melancholy rude;
My refuge these, th'attending Muse to call,
Or in Pope's lofty page to lose them all.
But what, my friend, would all these scenes avail,
The walks meand'ring, or the stretching dale,
The wood-clad mountain, or the sounding streams,
The harvest waving in the glowing beams;
What all the pomp of Nature or of Art,
If Heaven had harden'd the proud owner's heart?
And is it so ye ask? Ah, no, my friend:
Far other motives swell his generous mind;
He lives, he reigns, belov'd in every soul,
Our wants and hardships through his bosom roll.
Those he alleviates with a parent's care,
And these, by him spread forth, disperse in air.
When late pale Trade, wrapt up in yellow weeds,
With languid looks, seem'd to forsake our meads;
When, for her sons, stern Paisley sole confin'd
The web to finish, or the woof to wind;
Thro' all the village desolation reign'd
And deep distress each cheek with sorrow stain'd:
Oh! may these eyes ne'er gaze on such a scene,
Ne'er may I listen to such woes again:
Here mourn'd a father for his labour gone,
Survey'd his babes and heav'd a bitter groan;
The weeping maid, tho' blest with blooming charms,
Saw now her lover forced to quit her arms;
While silence hung, and melancholy gloom,
Thro' each lone shop, and o'er each useless loom.

197

Our mis'ries reached his ear; his manly breast
Felt for our woes, nor e'en the tear supprest;
He bade us hope, nor were our hopes in vain;
Soon welcome news surpris'd each grateful swain.
Hope smil'd propitious, ev'ry shop resum'd,
New heart and soul, tho' late to ruin doom'd;
The sounding shuttle sweeps from side to side,
Swift o'er the beam the finish'd flow'rings glide;
Songs soothe our toil, and pour the grateful flame,
And ev'ry tongue reveres the patriot's name.
From scenes like these, let Pride disdainful turn,
And Malice hiss, and squinting Envy burn;
But, when entomb'd, the worthy patriot lies,
And his rapt soul has gain'd her native skies,
Such deeds as these shall aggrandize his name,
While they lie buried in eternal shame.
From Clyde's fair river to the western shore,
Where smoky Saltcoats braves the surges' roar;
A range of hills extend, from whose each side,
Unnumber'd streams in headlong fury ride;
Aloft in air their big blue backs are lost,
Their distant shadows black'ning all the coast;
High o'er their proudest peaks, oft hid in show'rs,
The imperious Misty-Law

a high mountain of that name, situated within a few miles of Lochwinnoch, commanding a beautiful and extensive view of the surrounding country:

superior tow'rs;

Spiry at top, o'erclad with purpling heath,
Wide he looks round o'er Scotia's plains beneath.
The Atlantic main that opens on the west,
Spotted with isles, that crowd its liquid breast;
Hills heapt on hills support the northern sky,
Far to the east the Ochills hugely lie.
How vast around the boundless prospect spreads,
Blue rivers rolling through their winding beds:
Black waving woods, fields glowing on the eye,
And hills, whose summits hide them in the sky.
Still farther would I gaze with rapture blest,
But bending clouds hang down and hide the rest.

198

Descending from the hill's o'erhanging head,
Bare moors below uncomfortably spread.
Here stray the hardy sheep, in scatter'd flocks,
Nibbling thro' furze, and grim projecting rocks;
Strangers to shelter from bleak Winter's form,
His loudest blasts they brave, and bitterest storm;
By human hands untouch'd save when the swain
Drives to the crowded hut the bleating train;
Shears off the matted fleece with gleeful haste,
And sends them naked to the lonely waste.
Here, as the shepherd ranges o'er the heath,
The speckled adder sweeps across his path,
Or lies collected in the sun's bright beams,
Or wriggles forward to the distant streams;
But sudden caught, in vain the felon flies,
He feels the scourging crook, and stretch'd and gaping dies.
Near the bleak border of these lonely moors,
Where o'er the brook the mossy margin low'rs,
'Midst clust'ring trees and sweet surrounding dells,
In rural cot a rustic poet dwells;
Unknown to him the dull elab'rate rules,
And mazy doctrines of pedantic Schools:
Yet genius warms his breast with noble fire,
And the rapt Muse seems eager to inspire.
High on the herby hill, while morning smiles,
And shoots her beams along the distant isles,
Cheerful he sits, and gazing o'er the plain,
In native language, pours his jocund strain;
“How bonny morning speels the eastlin lift,
An' waukens lads an' lassies to their thrift;
Gars lavrocks sing and canty lamies loup,
And me mysel' croon cheary on my doup;”
Or oft, rejoic'd he sings how best to rear
Big swelling roots, the peasant's homely chear,
When drown'd with milk, amid the pot they're prest,
Or mealy, bursting fill his brawny fist;

199

How the deep bog or wat'ry marsh to drain,
And bid bare hillocks groan with bending grain.
These are the themes that oft engage his Muse,
Swell his full breast and stretch his wid'ning views;
While wond'ring shepherds, as they round him throng,
Survey the hoary bard, and bless th'instructing song.
When harvest's o'er, his last, his sweetest toil,
And ev'ry barn contains the rustling spoil;
When Winter growls along the frozen lakes,
And whit'ning snows descend in silent flakes;
When all without is drear, and keen-blown frost
Has each hard foot-step on the road embost;
Led by the pale-faced moon o'er drifted plains,
From many a cottage trudge the neighb'ring swains,
To hear his tale, and round his glowing hearth
To pass the night in innocence and mirth.
Retired from towns, from scenes of guilt and strife,
How blessed, poor shepherds, your untroubled life!
No deep black schemes employ your jocund hour,
Like birds of prey, each other to devour.
The milky flocks throng nibbling o'er the steep,
The tinkling brooks, that sweetly lull to sleep;
The warbling bank, the dewy morn's pale light,
While mists rise slowly from each neighb'ring height,
The lark's shrill song, the blackbird's wilder airs,
These are your pleasures, these your happy cares.
Down from this spreading moor with gath'ring force,
Impetuous Calder leaves his marshy source:
Through deep sunk vales and rude resisting rocks,
His furious current raves, and thundering smokes;
While swift he pours along in foamy pride,
Huge massive bulwarks rise on either side;
Rocks grimly low'ring o'er the darkened stream,
Hollow'd with caves where ne'er peept Phœbus' beam.
Here, in red clusters, hang the juicy rown,

200

There sun-burnt nuts depress the hazel down;
High on yon rock the luscious berries swarm,
Yet mock the efforts of the straining arm:
So when some poet wand'ring through the street,
If chance a sav'ry smell his nostrils meet,
Sudden he stops—looks round on some cook's stall,
And eager gazes—but a look's his all.
Wild scenes, my friend, now rush upon my sight,
Of woods hung branching from the impending height;
Of rude romantic clifs, where high in air,
The fleet-wing'd hawk protects her clam'rous care;
Of Calder, winding through the deep-sunk vale,
'Midst trees embosom'd from the ruffling gale;
Impatient now thro' op'ning banks to roam,
Now rushing o'er the rock a stream of foam;
Now stealing deep, where stretch'd from side to side,
The bellying arch

erecting for raising the water to the Cotton Mill:

reclin'd arrests the tide,

While down the dizzy brink resistless fleet,
The river rolls in one wide glitt'ring sheet.
Adjoining this, midst bord'ring reeds and fens,
The lengthen'd Lake its glossy flood extends;
Slow stealing on with lazy silent pace,
The Peel

the ruins of an old fortress.

lone rising from its wat'ry face.

Here stalks the heron, gazing in the lake,
The snowy swan and party-colour'd drake;
The bittern lone, that shakes the solid ground,
While thro' still midnight groans the hollow sound;
The noisy goose, the teal, in black'ning trains,
And long-bill'd snipe that knows approaching rains;
Wild fowl unnumber'd, here continual rove,
Explore the deep or sail the waves above.
When Harvest loads the fields with shocks of grain,
And heaps of hay bestud the marshy plain,
Then have I seen the clouds tumultuous rise,
Huge from the south, grim dark'ning all the skies.

201

Then howl'd the blust'ring wind, the lashing rain
In streaming torrents, pour'd along the plain;
Down from the steep, swell'd brown from shore to shore,
O'er rocks enormous with rethund'ring roar
Hoarse Calder dash'd—the Lake a sea appears,
And down, at once, the bord'ring harvest bears;
Wheat, hay, and oats, float o'er the boiling tide,
And, lost for ever, down the current ride.
Plung'd to the middle in the swelling waves,
See swains, half-drown'd, drag out the dripping sheaves;
While on the brink the farmer stands forlorn,
And takes his last sad look of the departing corn.
But hark! fierce Boreas blows, keen from the hills,
The frost severe enchains the trickling rills;
Wide o'er the Lake a glossy pavement spreads,
Snow robes the fields, and heaps the mountain's heads;
Scarce o'er yon southern hill the sun appears,
Feeble his rays, far from our sight he wears.
How chill the air! how vehement the storm!
Bleak Winter growls and shakes his hoary form.
Seasons like these, ne'er damp the glowing veins
Of rugged Scotia's hardy native swains;
Forth to the ice our little village pours,
In healthy sports to pass the shiv'ring hours.
On fleeting skates some skim its glitt'ring face,
In swift excursion or meand'ring chase;
While in black crowds the curlers throng around,
Men, stones, and besoms, thund'ring up the sound.
Nor is our pleasure less when Spring appears,
And Sol again the changing landscape chears:
With pausing step to trace the murm'ring brook,
And o'er the stream display the purling hook;
While from each bush the feather'd warblers rove,
And soothe the soul to sacred peace and love.

202

Or as at sober silent eve we walk
With the sweet fair, engag'd in harmless talk,
The raptur'd heart enjoys a conscious glow,
Which care can't damp or gaudy wealth bestow.
Farewell my friend! for me no more repine;
Peaceful I live, ah! were my bliss but thine!
Through these wild banks together could we stray,
Or range the wood, to shun the sultry day;
Nor care nor pain could then my peace destroy,
And thy dear Muse would double ev'ry joy:
But since we're doomed far sever'd to remain,
Since murm'ring swells, but never soothes our pain;
Hence! ye vain wishes—Friendship, heav'nly glow,
Best, choicest bliss bestow'd on man below,
Shall reign united, with triumphant pride,
Tho' kingdoms, seas, and half the world divide.

MORNING. SCENE.—A BARN.

My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot of all the world my own,
Goldsmith.

Hail! ye drear shadows, willing I approach
Once more to join you, from my humble couch;
Welcome, ye friendly shades, ye kindred glooms!
More do I love you than the wealthy's rooms.
The dark, damp walls—the roof scarce cover'd o'er,
The wind wild whistling thro' the cold barn-door:
Those, like myself, are hung in ragged state,
And this seems shrilly to deplore my fate.
Far from a home, Fate has my lot design'd,
A lot inglorious, and a lot unkind;

203

No friend at hand to bless my list'ning ear,
No kind companion to dispel my care;
No coin to level round the flowing bowl,
And in dark shades, to wrap the welt'ring soul;
If that is bliss, 'twas what I never miss'd,
And were it all, I'd rather be unbless'd.
But, come, thou cheerer of my frowning hours,
Native of heav'n, adorn'd with blooming flow'rs;
Thou, who oft deigns the shepherd's breast to warm,
As on the steep he feeds his fleecy swarm;
Sublimes his soul, thro' Nature vast to soar,
Her works to view, to wonder and adore.
Tho' Fortune frown, and writhing Envy hiss,
Be thou, O Poetry, my pride, my bliss;
My source of health—Misfortune's adverse spear,
My joy hereafter, and my pleasure here.
While yet sad Night sits empress of the sky,
And o'er the world dark shades confus'dly lie;
Forth let me stray along the dew-wet plains,
While all air echoes with the lark's loud strains.
With lonely step I'll seek the gloomy shade
Of yon wide oak, half bending o'er the glade;
Here let me rest, unseen by human eye,
And sing the beauties of the dawning sky.
How still is all around! far on yon height
The new-wak'd hind has struck a glimm'ring light;
Hush'd is the breeze, while high the clouds among
The early lark pours out her thrilling song;
Springs from the grassy lea, or rustling corn,
Tow'rs thro' dull night and wakes the coming morn.
And see! sweet Morning comes, far in the East,
Pale lustre shedding o'er the mountain's breast;
Slow is her progress, unobserv'd her pace,
She comes increasing, and she comes with grace;

204

The dewy landscape opens to the eye:
Far to the West the gloomy vapours fly,
Instant awake, the feather'd tribes arise,
Sport thro' the grove, or warble in the skies;
Blithe and exulting with refreshen'd glee,
From ev'ry bush and ev'ry dropping tree.
In sullen silence to her ancient home,
Where close shut up she doses all day long,
The hermit owl, slow takes her gloomy way,
And frets and grudges at th'approach of day.
The bat, the busiest of the midnight train
That wing the air, or sulky tread the plain,
Sees Morning open on each field and bow'r,
And ends her mazes in yon ruined tow'r.
Now is the time, while joy and song prevail,
To spurn dull sleep and brush the flow'ry dale;
To climb the height of some hill's airy brow,
Where woods shoot branching from the cliffs below;
Where some clear brook winds in the vale profound,
And rich the landscape spreads immense around;
While, under foot, gay crimson'd daisies peep,
And shepherd's clubs

a wild flower.

hang nodding o'er the steep;

There, on the downy turf, at ease reclin'd,
Invite the Muse to aid your teeming mind;
Then shall grim Care, with all his furies fly,
As sulky Night speeds from the dawning sky,
And your calm breast enjoy a rapt'ring glow,
Which wealth or indolence can ne'er bestow.
Let boist'rous drunkards at th'approach of day,
In stagg'ring herds forth from the tavern stray;
Stand, belching oaths, and nauseous streams of wine,
Less men resembling, than the grov'lling swine.
The cit, with pride and sordid meanness bred,
His be the privilege to snore in bed;

205

No knowledge gaining from the changing skies,
But just his bed-time and his time to rise.
Mine be the bliss to hail the purpling dawn,
To mark the dew-drops glitt'ring o'er the lawn:
Thrice happy period, when amid the throng
Of warbling birds, I join the grateful song;
Or wand'ring, thoughtful, near the bubbling stream,
Or wrapt in fancy by the early beam;
Each gives a joy, an inward, reigning bliss,
Pen can't describe, nor lab'ring tongue express.
O thou dread Pow'r! Thou Architect divine!
Who bids these seasons roll, those myriads shine;
Whose smile decks Nature in her loveliest robe,
Whose frown shakes terror o'er th'astonish'd globe,
To Thee I kneel; still deign to be a friend,
Accept my praise, and pardon where I've sinn'd;
Inspire my thoughts, make them unsullied flow,
To see Thy goodness in Thy works below;
That whether Morning gilds the sky serene,
Or golden Day beams o'er the blooming plain,
Or dewy Ev'ning chears, while Philo sings,
Or ancient Night out-spreads her raven wings;
Whether soft breezes curl along the flood,
Or madd'ning tempests bend the roaring wood;
Rejoic'd, adoring, I may view the change,
And, while on Fancy's airy plumes I range,
Collect calm Reason; awe-struck eye their ways,
And join the chorus, since they sound Thy praise.

EVENING.

—AN ODE.

Now day departing in the West,
With gaudy splendor lures the eye;
The sun, declining, sinks to rest,
And Evening overshades the sky.

206

And is the green extended lawn,
The waving grove, the flow'ry mead,
The charms of hill and dale withdrawn,
And all their blooming beauties hid?
They are—but lift aloft thine eye,
Where all these sparkling glories roll;
Those mighty wonders of the sky,
That glad and elevate the soul.
Day's undisguis'd effulgent blaze
Adorns the mead, or mountain blue;
But night amid her train, displays
Whole worlds revolving to the view.
Lone Contemplation, musing deep,
This vast, stupendous vault explores,
These rolling orbs, the roads they keep;
And Night's great Architect adores.
Nor mourns the absent glare of day,
The glitt'ring mead, or warbler's song;
For what are birds, or meadows gay,
To all that dazzling, starry throng.
So when the saint's calm eve draws nigh,
With joy the voice of Death he hears;
Heav'n opes upon his wond'ring eye,
And Earth's poor vision disappears.

207

THE RETURN OF SPRING: A SONG.

[_]

Tune,—“Happy Clown.”

Come, join with me, ye rural swains,
And wake the reed to cheerful strains;
Since Winter now has fled our plains,
With all his rueful store:
No more the frowning, blust'ring sky,
From Greenland's dreary mountains high,
(Where worlds of ice tumultuous lie,)
Extends the mighty roar.
With dark'ning rage o'er yon rude Forth,
No more the chill, bleak-breathing North;
Grim throws the fleecy tempest forth,
Thick thro' the black'ning sky;
Till o'er each hill and sullen vale,
An universal white prevail;
And deep beneath the snowy veil,
The sad creation lie.
The hoary tyrant now has fled,
Young blooming Spring our fields o'erspread;
Hope, wealth, and joy, are by her led,—
An all-enliv'ning train.
Along yon dale, or daisied mead,
Soon as young Morn uplifts her head;
The hind yokes in the willing steed,
Blithe whistling o'er the lawn.
The stately grove and thick'ning Wood,
That Winter's frowning blasts withstood;
Unfold the verdant leafy brood,
High-waving in the air.

208

While o'er the mountain's grassy steep,
Are heard the tender bleating sheep;
Around the wanton lambkins leap,
At once their joy and care.
Amid the bow'r, with woodbines wove,
Throughout the flower-enamell'd grove,
The humming bees unwearied rove,
Gay blooming sweets among;
The chearful birds of varied hue,
Their sweet meand'ring notes pursue;
High soars the lark, and lost to view,
Pours forth his grateful song.
The wand'ring brook, the glitt'ring rill,
The cuckoo's note heard from the hill,
The warbling thrush and blackbird shrill;
Inspire with rapt'rous glee.
Then join the choir, each nymph and swain,
Thro' ev'ry grove, and flow'ry plain;
Till hills resound the joyful strain,
Harmonious to each tree.

LINES WRITTEN ON A SUMMER EVENING.

Now Day's bright orb has left our lonely sphere,
No more the flocks, no more the flowers appear;
But still and slow descend the balmy dew,
And Earth's dark surface with their moisture strew.
Night comes apace, faint gleams the western day,
Hoarse screams th'corn-craik from the dewy hay;

209

Crawl'd from yon ruins, where she shuns the light,
The flutt'ring bat begins her mazy flight.
All æther's hush'd, no other sound I hear,
Save some lone stream slow-murm'ring on my ear.
But, see, the moon, deep-flush'd, with paler light,
Of clouds disrob'd, dispels the pitchy night;
With rising splendor brightens to the view,
Gay, rolling onward through th'Olympian blue;
The stars surrounding, sparkle on the eye,
And Night in solemn pomp o'erspreads the sky;
My heart exults at such a scene as this,
And feels emotions words can ne'er express.

THUNDER-STORM.

Hot Summer reign'd, and the bright orb of day
High overhead roll'd on his cloudless way;
No rains appear'd to cheer the parchèd earth,
Nor dewy evenings swell'd the oaten birth;
Nor cooling breezes, curl'd along the streams,
Where youths repair'd, to shun the scorching beams;
Ten thousand insects swarm the sultry air,
Crowd in each room, and haunt us ev'rywhere;
While, mute, the warblers to the groves retreat,
And seek the shade, to shun the burning heat.
Two sick'ning months had thus roll'd joyless by,
While Heat reign'd tyrant from the vaulted sky;
Again the sun rose in the flaming East,
And pour'd his rays o'er earth and ocean's breast;
But ere yon high meridian he had gain'd,
Surrounding clouds his dark'ning visage stain'd;
Clouds pil'd on clouds, in dismal, huge array,
Swell from the south, and blot the face of day.

210

O'er the bleak sky a threat'ning horror spreads,
The brooks brawl hoarser from their distant beds:
The coming storm, the woodland natives view,
Stalk to the caves, or seek the sheltering yew;
There, pensive droop, and eye the streaming rain,
While light'ning sweeps, and thunder shakes the plain.
Dire is the fate of the old wand'ring swain,
Who sees the storm, and hurries o'er the plain;
The plain, far waste, unknown to human tread,
The gloom, fast mingling, dismal o'er his head;
No cottage near, to shield his hoary age,
All earth denies him refuge from its rage.
'Tis black around; swift from the threat'ning skies,
A sudden flash darts on his startl'd eyes;
Trembling he stops, but how aghast his soul,
When bursting, harsh, rebounding thunders roll!
The loud'ning roar confounds his tortur'd ear,
His distant friends call forth the briny tear;
Till (hapless swain!) the fiery bolt of death,
Extends him lifeless o'er the with'ring heath.
The low-hung clouds, broke by this mighty sound
Pour down a deluge, o'er the gaping ground;
Each slate, each tile, teems with a streaming rill;
Thick falls the clattering torrent, thicker still,
While thro' the wat'ry element, the flash
Of vivid light'ning, blazes on the sash;
While follows, slow, the loud tremendous roar,
As heav'n itself was in dread fragments tore.
Down hurls the boiling brook, hush'd is the breeze,
Brooks rise to rivers, rivers swell to seas—
Smooth-gliding Cart, theme of my infant song,
Swell'd, broad and brown, resistless pours along,
In winding majesty, where Damon's dome,
Half launch'd, detains big whit'ning hills of foam;
Then raves, loud thund'ring o'er the ragged rocks,
Sweeps headlong down tumult'ous planks and blocks,
While crowds of millers gaze and tear their dusty locks.

211

Thus foaming Cartha swells from shore to shore,
While distant counties listen to her roar.
Lone, on her banks, the rain-soak'd fisher strays,
Intent and mindless of th'involvèd rays;
Tho' the bleak heav'ns emit their wat'ry store
With rapid force, and lash the foamy shore;
Calm and undaunted, 'mongst his lines he works,
And thro' red light'ning eyes the floating corks.
Slow pass'd the day, till dreadful night o'erspread
A dismal darkness o'er each mortal's head;
No moon appear'd, no star beam'd to the eye,
Uproar rav'd monarch thro' the affrighted sky;
Stern thunder storm'd imperious from his throne,
Hail furious flew, and sweepy light'ning shone.
Shrunk to the close recesses of the room,
Assembled neighbours sat, in solemn gloom;
All eye, to catch the frequent startling flash,
All ear, when roar'd the awe-impressing crash;
Fear sat on ev'ry brow, and Guilt, distrest,
Believed each bolt directed to his breast.
Kind is that Pow'r Whose dread commanding voice,
Lulls the loud tempest's wild discordant noise.
With us He bids best blessings long delay,
While harsh disasters post in speed away.
Soon as young Morn gain'd on the sulky Night,
A beauteous prospect met th'enraptur'd sight:
The pearly dew-drops twinkl'd on the spray,
And larks, ascending, welcom'd in the day;
Bright Phœbus, ush'ring from his wat'ry bed,
Superbly rose and cheer'd the drooping mead;
Fleet fled the shades of night, wak'd from the grove,
Glad chant the birds, soft coos the hermit dove;
High from the blue expanse his glory pours,
Boundless abroad, and dyes the glitt'ring flow'rs;
Lambs dance, and brooks melodious, murm'ring run,
Creation smiles, and hails the glorious sun.

212

THE TEARS OF BRITAIN.

Princes and Peers may flourish or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath hath made;
But a bold peasantry, their Country's pride,
When once destroy'd can never be suppli'd.
Deserted Village.

Aloft on the verge of the wide stormy flood,
The genius of Britain disconsolate stood;
Fast heav'd her sad heart, while she gaz'd down beneath,
On armies, and navies, and victims of death;
Her best sons departing beneath ev'ry sail,
And War's loud'ning shrieks rising fast on the gale;
Joy chear'd not her bosom, Hope soothed her no more,
And thus in deep grief she was heard to deplore,
‘Far fled from my country, where woes never cease,
Far fled are the comforts and presence of Peace!
Slow, mournfully-rising, with tears in her eye,
I saw the sweet goddess ascending on high;
Hope, Commerce, and Wealth, followed sad in her train,
And Pity, that soothes the deep sorrows of Pain;
All fled from the heart-sinking battle's loud roar,
And lost, amid horrors, I saw them no more.
‘O why from my shores were they forc'd to depart?
What arm can the scourge of Destruction avert?
'Midst famine, and slaughter, must Britons still mourn?
Will Peace, precious Peace, to our isle ne'er return?
Alas! when the madness of Party is past,
When we with our country lie murder'd and waste,
She then, when the dread devastation is o'er,
May come—but will smile on the prospect no more.
‘Blest Peace! best companion of mortals below,
Fair daughter of Heav'n! sweet soother of woe!
Thou kind nurse of Science! Art's glory and boast,
O how art thou banish'd, neglected, and lost!

213

No ray left of hope to point out thy return,
No comfort, but long thy departure to mourn;
While Want is wild heard round each dwelling to growl,
And dark hopeless Mis'ry sinks deep o'er each soul.
‘What eye without tears can the ruin survey,
That wide o'er my country fast urges its way!
The huge domes of industry, rear'd in such haste,
Unfinish'd and useless, lie dreary and waste;
Sore harass'd, and worn with despondence and care,
The poor Manufacturer yields to despair;
Discharges his workmen, in mis'ry to wail,
And sinks 'mid the comfortless glooms of a jail.
‘Down yonder rough beach, where the vessels attend,
I see the sad emigrants slowly descend;
Compell'd by the weight of oppression and woe,
Their kindred, and native, and friends to forego.
In these drooping crowds that depart every day,
I see the true strength of the State glide away;
While countries, that hail the glad strangers to shore,
Shall flourish when Britain's proud pomp is no more.
‘Her towns are unpeopl'd, her commerce decay'd,
And shut up are all her resources of trade:
The starving mechanic, bereav'd of each hope,
Steals pensively home from his desolate shop;
Surveys with an anguish words ne'er can express,
The pale sighing partner of all his distress;
While round them, imploring, their little ones meet,
And crave from their mama a morsel to eat.
‘From weeping relations, regardlessly torn,
Her unthinking youths to the battle are borne;
There, train'd amid slaughter and ruin to wade,
They toil in the heart-steeling, barbarous trade.
What crowds, hurried on by the terrible call,
Pale, ghastly, and blood-covered carcases fall!
Earth heaves with the heaps, still resigning their breath,
And friends, foes, and kindred, lie wallowing in death.

214

‘Ah were they but doom'd to one misery to yield!
But nameless, alas, are the deaths of the field;
Grim hollow-ey'd Famine bereaves them of bread,
And scarce can the living deposite their dead,
By hardships, disease, and an inclement sky,
In thousands they sicken, and languish, and die;
Unpitied, and cast amid heaps of the brave,
With scarce one companion to sigh o'er their grave.
‘Old ocean, that bore home her treasures from far,
Now growls with the thunder and horrors of War;
There Plunderers, licens'd to murder and prey,
Bear half of our riches, unquestion'd, away;
While tow'ring in terrible pomp o'er the main,
The bulwarks of Britain are roaving in vain,
In search of acquirements that (justly to rate)
But serve to depress and embarass the State.
‘From Indian's wide-spreading, remote, sultry shore,
The long-absent seaman steers homeward once more;
Encounters, unwearied, the waves and the gale,
His dear smiling wife, and his children to hail.
But never, alas, shall the poor friendless train
Behold their belov'd benefactor again;
In sight of his country he's dragged forth anew,
And England for ever recedes from his view.
‘These woes, horrid War! thou unmerciful fiend!
These woes are the shades that thy footsteps attend.
Arous'd by the call of Ambition and Pride,
Thou wakes, and the earth with destruction is dy'd.
The red blazing city enlight'ning the air,
The shrieks of distraction, the groans of despair,
Remorseless as hell thou behold'st with delight,
While Pity, far distant, turns pale at the sight.
‘Shall then such a monster, a fiend so accurs'd,
By Britons be welcom'd, embosom'd, and nurs'd?
Shall they, on whose prudence and mercy we rest,
Be deaf to the cries of a nation distrest?

215

Yes!—scorn'd for a while my poor children may mourn,
Contemn'd and neglected, depress'd and forlorn;
Till bursting the bands of oppression, they soar
Aloft from the dust, to be trampled no more.
‘High o'er Valenciennes, engulphed amid flame,
(The glory of Gallia, of despots the shame)
The wide-waving flag of Germania may flow,
And Tyranny shout o'er the horrors below;
But Liberty, radiant, immortal, looks down
On millions of heroes whose hearts are her own;
Who, sworn her defenders, will stand to their trust,
When towns yet unconquer'd are sunk in the dust.
‘When rights are insulted, and justice deni'd,
When his country is threaten'd, his courage defied;
When tyrants denounce, and each vassal prepares,
'Tis then that the soul of the Briton appears:
Appears in the stern resolution reveal'd,
To rescue his country or sink in the field;
Indignant he burns the proud foe to pursue,
And conquest or death are the objects in view.
‘Were these then the causes that rous'd us to wrath,
To fury and madness, to uproar and death?
Was Britain insulted, was justice refus'd,
Her honour, her quiet, or interest abus'd?
Thou Being Supreme! Who, in spite of each art,
Canst mark undisguis'd ev'ry thought of the heart,
Thou know'st the dark motives that urg'd them full well,
Thou know'st, and the ghosts of the murder'd will tell.
‘O scheme most accurs'd! pale Want and Distress
Call'd up, the resources of truth to repress!
A country laid prostrate, starv'd, butcher'd each day,
That vultures, unscar'd, on its vitals may prey!
Heaven frowns on such madness, that rising divine,
Aloft the great sun of fair Freedom may shine,
Bright, blazing, and boundless; till loud every shore
Resound, that the reign of Corruption is o'er.

216

‘Soon, soon will the tempest that thunders around,
This unshielded bosom most fatally wound;
And soon may the mighty promoters of woe
Desist, in the dust of submission laid low:
But, ah! what submission, repentance, or pain?
What treaties can call up the souls of the slain?
Can comfort Affliction, or soothe the sad cares
Of parents, and widows, and orphans in tears?
‘These shouts that I hear from yon wide western plains,
Where distant Hibernia lies panting in chains;
Those pale bleeding corpses, thick strew'd o'er the ground,
Those law-sanctioned heroes triumphing around;
These speak in the voice of the loud-roaring flood,
And write this stern lesson in letters of blood:
Oppression may prosecute, Force bend the knee,
But free is that nation that wills to be free.
‘Ye then who imperiously hold it at will,
The blood and the treasures of Britons to spill;
While Mis'ry implores, while such dangers impend,
While all is at stake, oh! in mercy attend!
Let War, the sad source of these sorrows, soon cease,
And bless a poor Land with the comforts of Peace:
Her commerce and credit to heal and restore,
Or Britain will fade, to reflourish no more.’
She ceas'd; the sad tribute of tears follow'd fast,
While bleak low'r'd the heavens, and loud rose the blast;
Ascending in flashes the steep eastern sky,
The deep-rolling horrors of battle drew nigh;
A thick gloomy darkness, of mis'ry and dread,
Fell dismal, and Britain's lone regions o'erspread;
And nought could be seen but the lightning's pale glow,
Or heard, but the shrieks and the wailings of woe.

217

EPISTLE TO MR. DAVID BRODIE.

WRITTEN ON THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR.

Stain'd with the guilt of man's continued crimes,
The parting Year prepares to wing its way;
To join the concourse of departed times,
And wait the summons of the final Day.
Its sad egress no crimson'd clouds bewail,
Nor tuneful bird its parting moment cheers;
But silent, wrapt in Winter's gloomiest veil,
It leaves us trembling at the load it bears.
Far distant, in an inn's third flat uprear'd,
The sheet, beneath a glim'ring taper spread;
While o'er the shadowy walls no sound is heard,
Save Time's slow, constant, momentary tread,
Here, lone I sit—and will you, Sir, excuse,
My midnight strain, while, feebly as she can,
Inspiring Silence bids the serious Muse
Survey the transient bliss pursu'd by man?
Deluded man! for him Spring paints the fields,
For him warm Summer rears the rip'ning grain;
He grasps the bounty that rich Autumn yields,
And counts those trifles as essential gain.
For him, indeed, those lesser blessings flow,
Yet why so fleeting, why so short their stay?
To teach poor mortals, what they first should know,
That all is transient as the passing day.
Short is the period since green smil'd the wood,
And flow'rs ambrosial bath'd my morning path;
Sweet was the murm'ring of the glitt'ring flood,
Glad roam'd the flocks along th'empurpled heath.

218

With conscious joy I hail'd the rosy scene,
And join'd in concert with the woodland throng;
Stretch'd by the hazel bank, or sunny plain,
Where answ'ring echo warbl'd out the song.
Delightful times, but ah! how short their stay!
Stript was the foliage from each flow'r and tree;
Grim growling Winter veil'd the joyless day,
And roar'd imperious o'er the hail-beat lea.
Where now the fragrance of the howling wood?
Or what the pleasures we from morn can taste?
The snow-clad banks, the big brown roaring flood,
The bleak wind whistling o'er the drifted waste.
'Tis thus, dear sir, in Life's delusive dream,
We fondly sport till Youth's wild act is o'er;
Till Age, till Death, steals on, in sullen stream,
And wordly bubbles charm the soul no more.
But, hark! the sullen midnight tempest roars;
Loud o'er my sireless dome it wildly howls;
Th'adjoining ocean, thro' her rocky shores,
Majestic groans, and swells the mingled growls.
The shiv'ring Muse has fled my frozen frame,
And shouts of riot strike my list'ning ear;
In sinking, mounting, sad inconstant flame,
My candle's ending with the ending year.
Adieu, my friend! may success, health, and peace
Crown your each year, and ev'ry labour too;
And sure, if virtuous worth claims human praise,
Fate still in keeping holds a wreath for you.
Fraught with fresh blessings be this coming year;
And should some fav'ring period of its reign
Admit my steps, rejoic'd I'll homeward steer,
And hail your mansion, and my friend again.

219

ADDRESS TO CALDER BANKS.

Ye hoary rocks, ye woody cliffs that rise
Unwieldy, jutting o'er the brawling brook;
Ye louring steeps, where hid the adder lies,
Where sleeps the owl, and screams the sable rook.
Ye rev'rend trunks, that spread your leafy arms
To shield the gloom, that dark'ning swells below;
Ye nameless flow'rs, ye busy-wingèd swarms;
Ye birds that warble, and ye streams that flow.
Say, ye blest scenes of solitude and peace,
Strayed e'er a bard along this hermit shore?
Did e'er his pencil your perfection trace?
Or did his Muse to sing your beauties soar?
Has oft at early morn and silent eve,
Responsive echo stole athwart the trees?
While easy-laid beside the glitt'ring wave,
The shepherd sung, his list'ning Fair to please.
Alas! methinks the weeping rocks around,
And the lone stream, that murmurs far below;
And trees and caves, with solemn hollow sound,
Breathe out one mournful, melancholy ‘No.’

THE SHEPHERDESS' DREAM.

FOUNDED ON A FACT.

Where Lorn's wild hills, in lonely grandeur rise
From th'Atlantic shore, till lost amid the skies;
Immensely throwing,—while young Morning smiles,—
Their dark'ning shadows o'er the distant isles;
Here, near the border of a ragged wood,
The young Maria's rural cottage stood.

220

Soon as the night to western skies was borne,
And early cock proclaim'd the op'ning morn;
Forth stray'd the blooming maid, with all her train
Of bleaters, nibbling o'er th'empurpl'd plain.
High on the summit's brow, or braky glen,
Or heathy dale, or near the grassy fen,
Or on the hill, they fed where blue bells hung
Their nodding heads; high thron'd the sweet lark sung,
While rocks around, with lows and bleatings rung.
Here stray'd the shepherdess, while blazing day
Awoke the warbling choir and flow'rets gay.
Deep in the shade she shunn'd the sultry air,
Or kept from startling sweep her milky care;
Till in the sea bright Phœbus' chariot roll'd,
Then, singing, wore them homewards to the fold.
Near her lone cottage rose the rugged shore,
Where foaming billows rav'd with ceaseless roar;
High, grim, and dreadful, hung the gloomy steep,
And tower'd black-threat'ning o'er the low-sunk deep.
And now 'twas night,—the maid in bed reclin'd;
The following prospect open'd to her mind.
She dream'd, that careless in the noontide ray,
Stretch'd on a flow'ry bank, she sleeping lay;
When some kind voice, soft whisper'd in her ear,
‘Maria, rise, thy flock hath left thee here’—
Sudden she started, found herself alone,
Around all silent, and her bleaters gone.
She snatch'd her crook, flew o'er the lonely dale,
Plung'd thro' the brook, and gaz'd adown the vale;
But nought appeared. Again she sought the heath,
Each creek, each hollow view'd with panting breath;
Till, toil'd and faint, the airy steep she gains,
And views enraptur'd, views them on the plains:
Cows, sheep, and goats, at once burst on her eye,
Some crop the herbs, while others peaceful lie:
Her little heart expands in an exulting cry,
Yet still she thought, between her and the flock,

221

Arose a shelvy, black, impervious rock;
Which oft she strove to pass, but strove in vain,
Some pow'r unseen still pull'd her back again.
With toil fatigu'd she view'd them as they fed,
And on the rock reclin'd her heavy head.
Thus dream'd the maid, and waking midst the night,
Beheld, good gods! beheld a horrid sight.
High on a rock's dread verge, hung o'er the main,
Whose far-sunk surge wheel'd round her giddy brain;
Amaz'd she found herself, half-clad, alone,
Her hand laid leaning on a jutting stone:
Dark was the night, save where the shrouded moon,
'Midst dusky clouds, shone on the waste aroun',
And show'd the horrid steep, a dreadful sight,
Cliff hung o'er cliff, in grim stupendous height.
Back from the threat'ning scene she headlong fled,
Lest the whole mass might yield beneath her tread:
Then raised the maid to heav'n her streaming eyes,
And pour'd her grateful soul in fervent sighs
To that kind Pow'r, who feeble mortals keeps,
Whose eye all-seeing, slumbers not nor sleeps;
To whom each being owes all that he hath,
Each pulse's throb, and each returning breath;
Implor'd His presence still to guard her path,
Then, rising, sought her cot along the lonely heath.

THOUGHTS IN A CHURCHYARD.

Earth's highest station ends in, ‘Here he lies’;
And, ‘dust to dust,’ concludes her noblest song.
Young.

Again, O Sadness! soft'ning pow'r, again
I woo thee, thoughtful, from this letter'd stone;
And hail, thou comes! to view the dreary scene,
Where ghastly Death has fixt his awful throne.

222

How lone, how solemn seems each view around,
I see, at distance, oh! distracting sight!
I see the tomb—the humble grassy mound,
Where he now lies, once all my soul's delight!
A youth more gen'rous, more humanely kind,
A friend more loving, or a heart more brave;
Ne'er breath'd a being from th'eternal mind,
Nor fell a victim to the cruel grave.
But cease, ye tears, nor thus incessant flow,
And still these tumults, oh! thou bleeding heart;
Methinks his Shade soft whispers, ‘Wait the blow,
And soon we'll meet, ne'er, ne'er again to part.’
Here stands the artist's tomb, in splendour rear'd,
And all the pomp surviving Art can give;
But will hoar Time the pillar'd dome regard,
And shall its pride to endless ages live?
No—though the marble seems to start to life,
Tho' firm as rock the structure rears its head;
Time's cank'ring jaws will end the daring strife,
And lay it level with th'unhonour'd dead.
Ye lonely heaps, ye bones, ye grim sculls, say,
Must I be stretch'd cold, lifeless in the dust;
Must this poor head be wrapt in putrid clay,
And glare like you?—Ye murmur back—‘It must.’
Then what avail thy fleeting joys, O Time?
Thy bliss uncertain, when such truths are sure;
May these scenes teach me to condemn this clime,
And seek that bliss, those joys that shall endure.
These are thy spoils, thou grisly monarch, Death!
Grim pleas'd thou stalks above the low-laid train;
Each sculptur'd stone, each poor, low grassy wreath,
Thou eyes as trophies of thy dreadful fame.

223

But now, proud lord, thy reign shall have an end,
Tho' nought on earth can now resist its force;
Yet, shalt thou fall beneath a mightier hand,
And yield thy weapons, and thy meagre horse.
In that dread day, when from the bellowing clouds,
The trump's lone sound shall shake th'affrighted earth,
When these, and millions struggling from their shrouds,
Shall wake to mis'ry or to endless mirth:
When Time shall cease in scanty stream to flow,
And earth and stars in endless ruin sink;
Then heaven's high King, with one triumphant blow,
Shall dash thee headlong from existence' brink.
But, see! sad Ev'ning spreads her sable veil,
The chilly breeze bleak ruffles o'er the lawn;
For once, adieu; ye silent heaps, farewell,
Perhaps I join you ere to-morrow's dawn.
Oft let me stray where these lone captives lie,
And, sad and thoughtful, o'er the deep grave bend;
This is the place, Truth tells us with a sigh,
Where all our sorrows or our singings end.

VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF AN ENGAGING YOUTH,

UNCOMMONLY ATTACHED TO LEARNING.

Here, stranger! pause, and sadly o'er this stone,
A moment ponder on the deeds of Fate:
Snatch'd hence in blooming youth, here moulders one,
Whose life seem'd worthy of a longer date.
Mild was his temper, and his soul serene;
Truth warm'd his breast, and dwelt upon his tongue;
Oft would he wander from the noisy scene,
To list, while Virgil or bold Homer sung.

224

With such a son, what was his parents' joy?
No thought can reach it, nor no tongue can tell;
Nor paint their anguish when the lovely boy,
By death assaulted, pale and lifeless fell.
Yet they submit to Heav'n's wise-acting pow'r,
And think, O reader! as thou tread'st this sod;
He once like thee, enjoy'd Life's glitt'ring hour,
Thou soon like him must pass Death's gloomy road.

TO THE FAMISHING BARD.

FROM A BROTHER SKELETON.

Is there no patron to protect the Muse,
And hedge for her Parnassus' barren soil?
Thomson.

Aloft to high Parnassus' hill,
I heard thy pray'r ascending swift;
And are the Nine propitious still
To grant thy wish, and send the gift?
Has kind Apollo made a shift,
To roll down from his kitchen high
A sirloin huge—a smoking lift,—
To feed thy keen devouring eye!
If so, O much respected swain!
Thou'rt surely Phœbus' fav'rite bard;
Thy glitt'ring blade in fatness stain,
No more complain thy lot is hard;
And while the juice besmears thy beard,
And plumps thy meagre corse again;
Think what's their case who ne'er have shar'd
Such bliss, but pray and yawn in vain.

225

Yet, if regardless of thy strains,
The strumpets scorn to lend an ear—
Bestow upon thy caput brains,
But stern refuse thy belly, chear;
If through thy hollow trunk thou hear,
Oft as the steam of dinner soars,
Remurm'ring sounds of croaking fear,
And melancholy quer'lous roars.
If oft on cheerless Winter's morn,
Thou spends, with thought, the shiv'ring hour,
In solitary state forlorn,
Like Cruickston or the Stanely Tow'r;
While from thy half-clad sides the show'r
Of lashing rain, or hail rebound;
And free, thy issuing toes explore
Each miry creek, and kiss the ground—
If ills like these, for these are mine,
Attend thee like thy shadow close;
Know, Eben, that the nymphs divine,
From whom our song continual flows;
We call them blushing as the rose,
Endearing sweet, enrapt'ring fair;
They scorn, for nought, to take the dose,
So pay us back in sterling air.
If thou must eat, ferocious bard,
Elsewhere importune for a dinner;
Long thou may pray here, nor be heard,
And praying makes thee but the thinner.
Do like the lank, lean, ghostly sinner,
That here presumes to give advice;
Ne'er court the Muse for meat—to win her,
E'en starve, and glory in the price.

226

Apollo knows that three long weeks,—
And pale the prospect yet appears;
On crusts of hard brown bread and leeks,
I've liv'd, and may for rolling years;
Yet still the Muse most kindly chears
Each craving day, and yawning night;
Soft whisp'ring ever in my ears,
‘Be Fame thy belly's chief delight.’
Through future ages then thy name,
Th'immortal goddess shall preserve;
Be this thy dear, thy envy'd claim,
For this extend thy ev'ry nerve;
And should that world thou strains to serve,
A ling'ring carcase, food refuse;
Contemn their baseness, boldly starve,
And die a martyr for the Muse.
More consolation I might pour,
But, hark! the tempest, how it blows!
Th'inconstant blast, with thund'ring roar
O'er chimney-tops more furious grows.
The wintry drop, prone from my nose,
Hangs glist'ring in the candle's beam;
And Want and Sleep's uniting throes,
Here force me to forsake my theme.

227

THE GROUP.

A SONG.

[_]

Tune,—“Poor Laurie.”

Come fill up the bowl, my brave boys!
And round let us circle the treasure;
Huzza! my good fellows, rejoice!
For here is a fountain of pleasure.
And while the big bumper doth pass,
Old Bacchus shall never confound me;
I'll drink, and, between every glass,
Loud roar of the wits that surround me,
And bring their each talent to view.
Imprimis. Here sits by my side,
A hum'rous young son of the Muses;
Who lord o'er our passions can ride,
And wind them wherever he chooses.
The terrible frown he can form,
Look dismally holy thereafter;
Then screw up his face to a storm,
That nigh bursts the beholder with laughter,
And makes ev'ry mortal his friend.
That little stout fellow in green,
Observe how accomplish'd and tight he's;
Good humour sits full in his mien,
And mirth his eternal delight is.
When through the wild hornpipe he sweeps,
We stare as we never had seen him;
So nimbly he capers and leaps,
You wou'd swear that some devil was in him,
To flourish his heels so expert.

228

See! handing the glass to his friend,
Young Jamie, polite and endearing;
To please he is very inclin'd,
Tho' sometimes harassingly jeering.
So sweetly a sonnet he sings,
He chats to the ladies so clever,
That Cupid should sure give him wings,
And make him his archer for ever,
To level the beauties and belles.
And there sits the genius of song,
Whose music so nobly can warm us;
The fife now arousingly strong,
Now waking the viol to charm us:
Yet sometimes he's mournfully mute,
And tho' we implore while we're able,
He frowning refuses the flute,
And pensively leans on the table,
As if he were lull'd in a trance.
With golden locks loose to the wind,
Here sits a swain, kind and free hearted;
To ev'ry one science inclin'd,
By every amusement diverted.
Philosophy, painting, and song,
Alternately gain his affection;
But his bliss is to store up a throng,
Of insects and worms for dissection,
Of numberless sizes and kinds.
Here Wilson, and Poverty sits,
Perpetually boxing together;
Till beat by good liquor she flits,
And leaves him as light as a feather.

229

From two most unfortunate views,
Proceeds his inconstant condition;
His joys are the smiles of the Muse,
And his mis'ry the want of ambition,
To climb to the notice of fools.
But round with the liquor, my boys!
'Tis folly to languish repining;
To swell up the tide of our joys,
This brimmer was sent us so shining.
Since blockheads and asses grow rich,
And modesty murders the wearer;
If merit must cow'r in the ditch,
May she still have a bumper to chear her,
And raise her poor head to the skies.

EPISTLE TO MR. JAMES KENNEDY.

As when, by play retarded, past his hour,
The scampering school-boy ventures to the door;
With throbbing breast lists to the busy noise,
And starts to hear the master's awful voice;
Oft sighs and looks, now offers to burst in,
Now backwards shrinks, and dreads a smarting skin;
Till desp'rate grown, by fear detain'd more late,
He lifts the latch, and boldly meets his fate:
So I, dear sir, have oft snatch'd up the quill
To hail your ear, yet have been silent still;
Aw'd by superior worth, my pen forgot
Its wonted pow'r, and trembled out a blot;
The Muse sat mute and hung her languid head,
And fancy crawl'd with diffidence and dread;
Till forc'd at last, I spurn the phantom Fear,
And dare to face your dread tribunal here.

230

No flow'ry sweets I bring, tho' Summer reigns,
And flocks delighted rove thro' painted plains;
Tho' glitt'ring brooks flow, smooth, meand'ring by,
And larks soar, warbling thro' the azure sky;
And meads and groves rejoice—to me unblest;
For oh! bleak Winter raves within my breast;
Here whirls a storm, tho' hid from human sight,
Fiercer than winds that howl thro' gloomy night.
As griefs reveal'd are robb'd of half their sting,
And seeming doubts, when told, oft take to wing;
Permit me here some mis'ries to unnest,
That long have harbour'd in my labo'ring breast.
Oft pale-ey'd Poverty, in sullen state,
Stalks round, and threatens to deform my fate;
Points to the future times, and grinning says,
‘Old age and I shall curse thy ev'ning days:
His shaking hand shall change thy locks to grey,
Thy head to baldness, and thy strength to clay;
Make thy sad hor'zon with dark tempests roll,
And lead me forward to complete the whole;
To count thy groans, to hear thee hopeless mourn.
And wave these trophies o'er thy closing urn.’
Then mad ambition revels thro' my brain,
And restless bids me spurn life's grov'lling plain;
Awake the Muse and soft enrapturing lyre,
To G---'s praise, our villa's friendly sire;
In glowing colours paint his rural seat,
Where songsters warble and where lambkins bleat;
Where groves and plains in sweet disorder lie,
Hills rough with woods, that tow'ring cleave the sky;
And darksome woody vales, where hid from sight,
Lone Calder brawls o'er many a rocky height;
Tell in soft strains how rich our plains appear,
What plenty crowns them each revolving year;
Till smiles approving, bless my task, and Fame
Enrol the patriot and the poet's name.

231

But when (sad theme!) I view my feeble rhyme,
And weigh my worth for such a flight sublime;
With tearful eye survey the fate of those,
Whose pow'rful learning shielded not from foes;
Damp'd at the thought, Fear clogs the Muse's wing,
And grief and hope by turns inspire or sting.
While such sad thoughts, such grim reflections roll
In dark succession o'er my gloomy soul;
One ray from you to chase the chearless gloom,
And, bid fair Fancy's fields their sweets resume;
Wou'd lift my heart, light as the sweepy wind,
And deeper bind me your indebted friend.
When darkness reigns, or ev'ning silence deep,
Some moments rescue from the jaws of sleep;
Bid your sweet Muse unfold her downy wings,
And teach a youth to touch the trembling strings;
Dispel his doubts, arouse his hovering flame,
And point the road that leads to bliss and fame.

EPISTLE TO MR. T. WOTHERSPOON.

From Fife's rugged shore, where old ocean loud bellows,
And lofty Wemys' Castle looks down o'er the main;
From midst an old hut, of some poor fisher fellows,
Accept of these lines from the Pedlar again.
For never again shall he chant through the bushes
That wave over Calder or Cartha's pure stream;
Despair and distraction have murder'd his wishes,
And all his fond hopes are dispers'd to a dream.
In vain o'er old Scotia, a stranger he travels,
The huge smoky city or hamlet's the same;
Here Ignorance dozes, or proud Grandeur revels,
And poets may starve, and be damn'd now, for them.

232

So, dear Tom, farewell! and each cheerful companion,
With sorrow, I bid you a long sad adieu;
Some far distant country, for life, I'll remain on,
Where Mem'ry will weep while she hovers o'er you.
So kind you have been to the fortuneless poet,
Through all the harsh stages of life he's been in;
That gratitude throbs in his bosom to show it,
Yet where shall the Muse to relate them, begin?
When gloomy-brow'd Want, to attack my poor dwelling,
With fury advancèd and merciless glare;
Your goodness dispatch'd the fiend loudly yelling,
And snatch'd me to peace from the jaws of Despair.
When Fortune propitiously seem'd to assist me,
You leapt at the prospect and shar'd in my bliss;
When all these evanish'd and horror distress'd me,
You lull'd every passion and sooth'd me to peace.
And shall I forget you? No, rave on thou tempest!
Misfortune! here pour all thy rage on my head;
Though foaming with fury, around thou encampest,
'Tis friendship alone that shall force me to bleed.
Though joy from thy talk I will ne'er again borrow,
Though fond, on thy face I shall never gaze more;
Yet heaven, one day, will relieve us from sorrow,
And join us again on a happier shore.
Then, farewell, my friend, and my dearest companion,
With tears I now bid you a final adieu;
Some far distant country, for life, I'll remain on,
Where Mem'ry shall weep while she hovers o'er you.

‘The beautiful seat of William Wemyss, Esq.; Member of Parliament for the County of Fife.


233

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF W. WOTHERSPOON,

A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR.

Sunk was the sun 'midst clouds of gold,
Lone Night reign'd from her starry dome;
When slow I left the bleating fold,
And weary sought my little home.
There, sad and cheerless, near the fire,
I gloomy sat, to grief resign'd;
And while down stole the silent tear,
These thoughts slow wand'red o'er my mind.
Alas!—my distant friend, I fear—
Why these woe-bodings at my heart?
What sound still tinkles in my ear,
Which mirth nor pleasure can divert?
I spoke, I sigh'd, and rais'd my head—
I sigh'd, I groan'd, yet knew not why;
When, strange, a voice soft breathed out ‘dead!’
I heard, and changed to palest clay.
Prostrate I fell, lull'd in a faint,
Till by degrees life on me broke;
I wak'd to mis'ry—rose pale, spent,
And thus in deep distraction spoke.
‘And art thou gone, oh, hapless youth!
And shall these eyes ne'er view thee more?
Thou, in whose glowing breast dwelt truth,
Art thou for ever from me tore?
Ye dreary walls, list to my doom,
Bear witness to my heart-felt wail;
And wrap you with a darker gloom,
While I relate the mournful tale.

234

For oh! insatiate cruel Death,
Hath torn from me my dearest friend;
Then farewell world, and hated breath,
I shall not long delay behind.
Ah, see! the breathless cor'se there lies,
White stretch'd along—distracting sight!
How chang'd that face! how sunk those eyes!
For ever sunk in endless night!
Pale is the face that wont to smile,
Adorn'd with charms of native red;
Cold, cold that breast, where envious Guile
Ne'er found a shelter for her head.
Oh! barb'rous Death,—relentless pow'r,
How hast thou made my bosom bleed!
In one tremendous, awful hour,
Thou'st made me wretched—poor indeed.
Ye once delightful scenes, adieu!
Where first I drew my infant breath;
Since the sole friend this breast e'er knew,
Clos'd are his eyes, and sunk in death.
Farewell, ye banks with willows tipt,
Where oft beneath the summer beam,
'Midst flowery grass we've fondly stript,
And plung'd beneath the opening stream.
No more, while Winter rules the sky,
And firms pure Cartha's icy face;
Shall he on skates, swift-bounding fly,
While I pursue the mazy chace.
No more, alas! we'll nightly walk
Beneath the silent, silver moon;
Or pass the rapt'ring hours in talk,
In yonder bow'r retired from noon.

235

How will that beauteous maid bewail,
Whose charms first caught his youthful heart!
Who often heard his tender tale,
And blushing, eas'd his wounding smart.
No more with thee he'll spend the night,
Where Cynthia gleams athwart the grove;
Nor seize thy hand in dear delight,
And tell enchanting tales of love.
Alas! he's bid a long adieu;
In vain we weep, in vain repine;
Ne'er shalt thou meet a swain so true,
And ne'er shall I a friend so kind.
How long we've been companions dear,
How lov'd—nor tongue nor words can tell;
But hark!—alas! methinks I hear
Some solemn, dreary, warning knell.
Yes—I will come—thou beck'ning ghost,
I hear thy kind, thy awful call;
One green-grass sod shall wrap our dust,
And some sweet Muse weep o'er our fall.

THE FLY AND LEECH.

A FABLE.

Content's the choicest bliss we can
E'er reach to in this mortal span:
'Tis not in grandeur, pow'r, or state,
The lordly dome, or cottage neat,
Still to be found—but chief she dwells
In that calm breast that care repels;
With dauntless heart braves frowning Fate,
Nor e'er concludes that Hope's too late;

236

Aspires no higher than his sphere,
Nor harbours discontentment there.
Pale Discontent! the baneful sting,
From whence unnumber'd mis'ries spring;
Ambition gazing to the skies,
And ever planning schemes to rise,
Till to Pow'r's dizzy peak up-whirl'd,
Fate shakes the base and down he's hurl'd.
Heart-wringing cares that still torment,
All flow from murm'ring Discontent.
Some forward look at coming ills,
And die long ere they thwart their wills;
Others in real mis'ry groan,
And think Heav'n frowns on them alone;
While many a one,—mean, pining elves!
Raise airy horrors to themselves.
Happy the man whose views ne'er stretch
To things beyond his honest reach;
Who, whether doom'd to hall or cot,
Ne'er curses Fate, or mourns his lot;
If rich—despises not the poor,
Nor drives them harshly from his door;
If low in fortune—ne'er envies
The wealthy's pomp that meets his eyes;
For oft within their bosom reigns
A raving group of nameless pains,
That ceaseless torture, growl, and fret,
And when they fall, the ruin's great;
Sinking, they eye the humble clown,
Grasp at a spade, and spurn a crown.
One sunny evening, calm and fair,
A Fly that wing'd the fragrant air,
In wheeling past a village-lane,
By chance popt thro' a broken pane;
A scene that ne'er had met his sight,
He now surveys with doubtful flight;

237

Around the room, with airy drone,
His curious search had circling gone.
He views its bounds, and yet more bold,
Pries o'er the walls, damp, moulded, cold:
Then, pertly sneering, thus began:
‘How wretched are th'abodes of man!
How rank the smell—whoe'er comes near it,
May guess the owner's taste and spirit.’
This said, and roving round, he spies
An object that engag'd his eyes.
Within a glass a moving being,
Sluggish and black; which Bizzon seeing,
Perch'd on the bottle, gaz'd with mock,
And thus the foppish flutterer spoke:
‘And what art thou, poor grov'lling creature,
Of such detested hue and feature;
That sunk amid that putrid fluid,
So closely cramm'd, so irksome bowèd,
Scarce seems to move thro' scanty water?
An ugly hulk of lifeless matter;
Shame thus to loll, while summer hours,
Invite thee forth, thro' blooming flow'rs,
Enrapt to rove; or, where the field
Of blossom'd beans their fragrance yield;
Or wanton in the noontide beam,
Or skim along the glitt'ring stream
With boundless sweep.—But thou, lone wretch!
Must here remain, till Death shall fetch
Thee from this hold, with furious ire,
And tread thy carcase in the mire:
A life like this what beast could dree,
'Twere death and worse to aught but thee.’
Thus Bizzon spoke, when from her font
The Leech uprear'd her dark-brown front,
And thus reply'd in solemn mood:
‘Know, vainest of thy useless brood!

238

Thou hast my scorn; I too might rail,
But listen to my humble tale:
‘Ne'er make, by outward signs, thy guess,
Nor think, tho' poor, my peace is less;
Compos'd I live, and from my bow'r
Survey the bustling world, secure;
Or when some stubborn, rank disease
Calls for my aid, to give men ease,
I glad obey, and suck the ill,
In my own breast, to save them still;
Who call me blest, while kindly filling,
From the clear brook my freshen'd dwelling;
And in my lonely mansion here,
Nor fatal bird, nor snare I fear,
That constant lurk to fix thy doom,
Ev'n while thou rambles thro' this room;
As thou may feel yet ere thou leave it,
And when 'twill be too late, believe it.’
‘Poor Wretch,’ quoth Bizzon, ‘mind thy distance,
Disgrace of all e'er dragged existence!
I scorn thy speech and slav'ry both,
Mean ugly lump of bondag'd sloth;
Now, what thou art, I plainly spy,
Blest be the power made me a Fly.’
He said—and up, exulting, springs,
To gain the fields with sounding wings;
But miss'd his mark, and ere aware,
Dash'd full into a spider's snare.
He buzz'd and tugged—the foe alarm'd,
Rush'd gloomy forth; with vengeance arm'd,
Fixes his fangs, with furious stride,
And darts the poison thro' his side.
Poor Bizzon groan'd, with quiv'ring sten,
And as Grips dragg'd him to his den,

239

Thus faintly cry'd, ‘Ye flies beware,
And shun ambition's deadly snare;
Oh! save my life!—I vain beseech;
I faint—I die—oh! happy Leech.’!

THE MONKEY AND BEE.

A FABLE.

TO A YOUNG AUTHOR.

The bard who'd wish to merit bays,
Should shut his ears when asses praise;
And from the real judge alone,
Expect a halter or a throne.
A Monkey who, in leisure hours,
Was wondrous fond of herbs and flow'rs,
(For once he'd worn a gard'ner's chain,
But wander'd to his woods again,)
Travers'd the banks; the mountain's brow,
The lonely wilds, the valley low;
Collecting, as along he hies,
Flow'rs of unnumber'd tint and size,
Till hid beneath the lovely spoil,
He onward stalk'd with cheerful toil,
Thus chatting; ‘Now, I'll shine alone,
I'll have a garden of my own.’
A spot he plans, to show his parts,
Scratches the soil, the blooms inserts;
Here stuck a rose, there plac'd a pink,
With various flowers stuffs ev'ry chink;
Torn branches form his spreading shrubs,
O'ertopt with stately shepherds clubs;
Long ragged stones roll'd on the border,
All placed sans root, or taste, or order,

240

Around him throng'd the mimic crew,
Amaz'd at the appearance new;
Survey'd the shrubs, the nodding flow'rs,
And, struck with wonder at his pow'rs,
Pronounced him, with applauding gape,
A most expert, ingenious Ape!
‘Knew man the genius you inherit,
Unbounded fame would crown your merit.’
He proudly bow'd, approv'd their taste,
And for the town prepares in haste;
When now, amid the ragged ranks,
A Bee appear'd, with searching shanks;
From bloom to bloom she rov'd alone,
With hurrying flight, and solemn drone;
Pug saw; and proud of such a guest,
Exclaim'd, ‘Say friend, did such a feast
E'er bless thy search? Here welcome stray;
Fresh sweets shall load thee ev'ry day;
'Twas I that rear'd them—all is mine;
I bore the toil, the bliss be thine.’
‘Conceited fool! the Bee reply'd,
Those pilfer'd, rootless blooms I've try'd;
Nor bliss, nor sweets, repaid my pains,
Of these as void as thou'rt of brains.’
She spoke; the scorching noontide came,
The garden with'ring, sunk his fame.

THE WASP'S REVENGE.

A FABLE.

Beside a warbling, flow'ry grove,
By contemplation led, or love;
Lone in the Summer noon-tide ray,
Young beauteous Jeanie basking lay.

241

Her cheeks outvy'd the rose's bloom;
Her lips the cherry, breath, perfume;
In silk apparel, loose array'd,
She beauty's ev'ry charm display'd.
As thus the sultry hour she spent,
With Phœbus' beams unnerv'd and faint,
Dull Morpheus silently did creep,
And ere she knew lull'd her asleep.
A roving wasp,—pert, gaudy squire,—
Struck with the fragrance of the air,
In raptur'd hurry, on her lip
The fancy'd rose-bud dew to sip,
Soft perch'd—and, ah! what bliss he drew,
Ne'er wasp suck'd such mellifluous dew;
With joy his little bag he stor'd,
And ev'ry glittering creek explor'd:
But, cruel fate! the waking maid,
Unknowing, snapt his hapless head
With deadly crash—“Revenge,” he cry'd,
Then deeply stung, and quiv'ring, dy'd.
Alarm'd, she started, with a bound,
And shook her robes—but, ah! the wound
Deep rooted, gall'd with aching smart,
And pining, pierc'd her to the heart.
She trembl'd, wept, but wept in vain:
Huge rose her lip—extreme the pain;
Till o'er her chin, with venom stung,
A monstrous sight it glist'ring hung.
'Twas then, gay, beauteous Jean, no more;
Unfit to speak, she shriek'd, she tore
Her fluttering dress, and inward vow'd,
If e'er her lip could be renew'd,
No careless hour should see her laid,
Inglorious in the sun, or shade.
Ye flustering beaus, and every rake
That read or list around,
By this wasp's fate example take,

242

Nor lag on unknown ground:
Else you may come to mourn too late,
And stretch your mouths, and roar;
And curse your bitter, pining fate
When ye can sting no more.

GROANS FROM THE LOOM.

A SONG, IN IMITATION OF COLIN'S COMPLAINT.

Deploring beside an old loom,
A weaver perplexèd was laid;
And, while a bad web was his theme,
The breast-beam supported his head;
The walls, that for ages had stood,
In sympathy, wept for his pain;
And the roof, though of old rotten wood,
Remurmur'd his groans back again.
‘Alas! simple fool that I was!’
(These words he roar'd out with a grin,)
‘When I saw thee, I sure was an ass,
Else I'd dy'd ere I handl'd the pin.
Thou glanc'd, and transported I seem'd;
When I held thee, how panted my breast!
In raptures I gaz'd while thou beam'd,
And exclaim'd, ‘Was e'er mortal so blest!’
What a blockhead was I to aver,
It would work thro' a mounting so fine;
Or, that such phantom of hair,
Would in a gay hankerchief shine?
Good gods! shall a mortal with legs,
So slow, uncomplaining, be brought!
Go, hung, like a scarecrow in rags,
And live o'er a seat-tree—on nought!

243

What though I had patience to tie,
Till their numbers my temples o'erspread;
Whene'er the smooth tread I apply,
My shopmates deplore how I've sped.
Ah! Sandy, thy hopes are in vain;
Thy web and thy mounting resign;
Perhaps they may fall to a swain,
Whose patience is greater than thine.
And you my proud masters so stern,
Who smile o'er the wretch ye torment;
Forbear to import us such yarn,
Or, by Jove, you'll have cause to repent.
Though through the wide warehouse ye foam,
In vain shall ye threaten or mourn;
'Twas yours to distress my poor dome,
Now 'tis mine, and triumphant I'll burn.
If, while the poor trash I pull down,
They expect to regain my esteem;
Let them come with the crouds of the town,
And see how it flames from the beam.
And then the last boon I'll implore,
Is to bless us with China so tight;
And when the pure piece you look o'er,
You will own my petition was right.
Then to London nymphs let it go,
And deck them in dazzling array;
Be fairest at ev'ry fine show,
And bring us the heart-cheering pay;
Then Nova's dead bell we will toll,
No more to be heard of or seen,
Unless, when beside a full bowl,
We laugh at how wretched we've been.’

244

CHARACTER DRAWN FROM LIFE,

AND ADDRESSED TO ITS OWNER.

Great son of Bacchus! and of drowsy Sloth!
Thou human maggot, thou insipid moth!
Whose whole ambition is in bed to snore,
Whose life is liquor, and whose soul's a roar.
Through thy dark skull ne'er peept a ray of light,
'Tis black as chaos, and eternal night;
Confusion's dizzy seat, the pregnant source,
Where nonsense issues with resounding force;
Where floods on floods from morn to ev'ning pours,
Wrapt up in laughs and loud unchristian roars.
When Sunday summons grave religious fools,
To pore o'er books, or drink the pulpit rules;
From vulgar bounds thou bravely dares to tread,
And spends thy Sunday gloriously in bed.
There thinks, perhaps, or dreams of sin and death,
This maxim holding as a point of faith;
‘To heaven there's many ways, and 'tis confest,
Who finds the smoothest, surely finds the best.’
On God, or temple, no respect thou puts;
An inn's thy temple, and thy God's thy guts.
A father's precepts, or a mother's tears,
His plain example, or her meddling fears,
Shall thou regard? No, 'twere past utt'rance low,
Such fools, as mothers or old sires, to know;
When at thy honour they advance their horns,
Thou damns her nonsense,—all his maxims scorns;
Comes home mad drunk, and, O immortal Brown!
Kicks up a dust, and knocks thy mother down!

245

A CHARACTER.

[_]
And the sad burden of some merry song.

Pope.

Austerio, an insipid senseless old wretch,
Who all the whole morn in his bed lies a-snoring;
By cheating and lying has made himself rich,
And spends the whole night o'er his papers a-poring.
He tosses, he tumbles, and rolls in his bed,
Like a swine in her stye, or a door on its hinges;
When his landlady calls him he lifts up his head,
Damns her haste, rubs his eyes, and most lazily whinges.
Then groans out, ‘Bring here my warm'd breeches and shirts,
And launches one dirty bare leg from the sheeting;
Cleans his jaws from a deluge of ugly brown squirts,
Draws a chair, and prepares, gracious heaven! for eating.
All day with a fist in each pocket he walks,
With the air of a goose, from one shop to another;
Of caption and horning eternally talks,
For he'd damn to a jail and starvation his brother.
Some folk, ere they swear to the value or price,
Consult with their conscience, lest they prove uncivil;
But ------, when he sells, (for he ne'er was too nice)
Confers with his rev'rend old partner—the devil,
If Horns, with a grin, whisper into his ear,
‘My boy, raise thy arm, or by Jove, they'll us cozen;
By the heav'ns, or earth, or by anything swear’—
He'll swear oath for oath for a sixpence a dozen.

246

EUSEBUS,

A REAL CHARACTER.

I hate the man who builds his fame
On ruins of another's name.
Gay.

Eusebus, fond a patriot to commence,
With self-conceit supplies his want of sense.
In power an ideot, striving still to rise,
Though void of wisdom, arrogantly wise.
A slander fond from whispering lips to steal,
And fonder still those whispers to reveal.
Amid a group of tattling matrons set,
How flows his eloquence! how beams his wit!
With dark suspicion struck, he shakes his head,
Just hints what some folk were, what some folk did;
For nought delights him more than others' woe,
To see them fall, or strive to lay them low.
In wide extremes his judgment loves to dwell,
If not in heav'n you'll find it squat in hell;
Though long each station seldom he can keep,
Yet when he shifts he does it at a leap.
If Spring, more mild than usual, sweet appear,
To wake the herbs and bless the op'ning year,
With words like these our ears eternal ring,
‘Did ever mortal see so blest a Spring!’
But when rude frost, or cheerless rains descend,
When light'nings flash and roaring thunders rend;
He hears the storm, and pale with boding fear,
Declares that great, tremendous period near,
For storms like these no soul did ever hear.
Thrice blest are they who gain him as their friend,
Their matchless fame shall far and near extend,
They're saintly, they're angels; but his friendship o'er,
They're poor, curst, vile, a villain, or a whore.

247

A MORNING ADVENTURE.

To hail sweet Morn, and trace the woody shore,
Where foaming Calder pours his rapid stream;
His high-hung banks, and tott'ring cliffs t'explore,
And gloomy caves, unknown to Sol's fair beam:
Three youthful swains the adjoining village left,
Ere from a chimney roll'd the lazy smoke;
Ere the lone street, of silence was bereft,
Or pale-ey'd morning to the view had broke.
Along a winding path they kept their way,
Where trees, embracing, hung a solemn shade;
Pass'd the old mill, o'ergrown with shaggy hay,
And gain'd the summit of a rising glade.
Now, from the east, the faintly-dawning morn,
With op'ning smile, adorn'd the dewy mead;
The blackbird whistled from the blooming thorn,
And early shepherd tun'd his rural reed.
Gray mists were hov'ring round the mountain's brow,
Thro' the still air murmur'd the riv'let near;
The fields were glitt'ring in the morning's glow,
And sweetest music thrill'd the ravish'd ear.
Smit with the charms of song, Philander stood,
To hear his art by each small throat outdone;
While Damon view'd the stream, grim rocks and wood,
And snatch'd the pencil to make all his own.
Beneath a rev'rend oak Alexis hung,
His drooping head half on his hand reclin'd;
Borne on the Muses' wing, his soul had sprung,
And left the languid, listless form behind.

248

Where now was Care, that gloomy, glaring fiend,
The wealthy's horror, and the poor man's pain?
Who bids fierce passions tear the trembling mind,
And wakes his gnawing, his infernal train.
Fled was the spectre to some statesman's breast,
Some raving lover, or some miser's cell;
Nought now appear'd but made them inly blest,
And all around conspir'd their joys to swell.
Hail, happy swains! involv'd in rapt'rous thought,
Oh! could I leave you thus, and truly say,
That here, in peace, fair Nature's charms you sought,
And thus, enrapt, you pass'd the morn away.
But truth compels, nor dare I hide your fate,
My trembling hand she guides to tell your doom;
How oft, alas! on mirth does mis'ry wait!
How oft is sunshine sunk in deepest gloom!
As on the airy steep they silent lay,
The murm'ring river foaming far below;
Young Damon's dog, as round he rang'd for prey,
By some stern bull insulted, seiz'd the foe.
As when in dead of night, on the dark main,
Two en'mies meet, and awful silence keep;
Sparkles the match! then peals and cries of pain,
Arouse the night, and growl along the deep.
So burst loud roarings thro' the affrighted sky,
Firm Roger hung, fix'd by his nostrils deep;
Loud swell'd the war, till, from the margin high,
Both whirl'd down headlong o'er th'enormous steep.

249

How look'd our youths! they heard the thund'ring sound,
Dash'd in the vale they saw the heroes laid;
Whole crowds of rustics rudely gath'ring round,
Alarm'd they saw and thro' the bushes fled.

TO MR. ---

WITH A SATIRICAL POEM.

When curst Oppression rears his brazen crest,
Withholds one half, and strains to seize the rest;
When those in pow'r disdaining shame or dread,
Half starve those wretches they pretend to feed;
Then should the Muse, with honest zeal inspir'd,
With hate of guilt and vile injustice fir'd;
Disclose their crimes, and to the world display
The gloomy catalogue in deep array;
Till Vice confounded, hides her haggard head,
And lovely Virtue rises in her stead.
Receive th'enclosed, nor blame the daring strains,
Since truth confirms each period it contains;
And poor Experience, from the list'ning throng,
Sad shakes her head, and owns the honest song.
Hard is their fate who must on knaves depend,
From whose base grip no laws can e'er defend;
Plead we for justice, then their friendships o'er,
And, as we're honest, we're employed no more.
Ah! were we blest now with a noble few,
As just, kind, generous, and humane as you;
Our trade might then maintain its former blaze,
And Envy's self be dumb, or whisper praise.
Sweet is the joy, the bliss that toils afford,
When love unites the servant and his lord;
One common interest then the task appears,
And smiles and looks, the longest labour cheers.

250

Cheats may deceive and growling tyrants swear,
Those claim our scorn and these provoke our fear;
But they who rise superior to such arts,
Possess like you our friendship and our hearts.

EPISTLE TO MR. ANDREW CLARK.

‘A small town in Fifeshire, where our Scots Kings used sometimes to reside.’ On line 49th, ‘Lowmon' Hill,’ he has the following:—A huge mountain that rises near Falkland.

Faulkland, October—
From that same spot where once a palace stood,—
Now hanging drear, in tott'ring fragments rude;
While thro' the roofless walls the weather howls,
The haunt of pigeons and of lonely owls,—
These lines receive—for hark! the lashing rain,
In streaming torrents pours along the plain:
Yet, snugly here I sit, with quiet blest,
While my poor pack sits perching on a chest.
To him whose soul on Fancy's heights ne'er soar'd,
How painful solitude, and how abhorr'd!
Time tardy steals; we curse the lazy sage,
And ling'ring moments lengthen to an age.
Not so with him on whom the Muses smile;
Each hour they sweeten, and each care beguile;
Yet scorn to visit, or ev'n once be kind,
While bustling bus'ness jostles through the mind;
But, when retir'd from noise, he lonely roves,
Through flow'ry banks or solitary groves;
Leans on the velvet turf, explores a book,
Or eyes the bubbling of the ceaseless brook;
The Muse descends, and swells his throbbing breast,
To joys, to raptures, ne'er to be exprest.
Curst is the wretch whom cruel fate removes
Far from his native, and the few he loves;
Who, ever-pensive, ponders on the past,
And shrinks and trembles at Misfortune's blast;

251

His is the fate that ev'n infernals share:
Pain, without hope, and mis'ry and despair.
There was a time (no distant date I own)
When such my fate was, and my ev'ry groan:
When struggling hard for base unlasting pelf,
I stabb'd, I tortur'd, and I rack'd myself.
And what, I pray, did all these sighs avail,
For ever hapless, and for ever pale?
Inglorious period! Heavens, it fires my soul,
When such reflections through my bosom roll;
To hang the head with sorrow and remorse,
From one poor evil raising thousands worse.
That grief involves us in unnumbered ills,
That with our courage, all our success fails,
That Heaven abhors and show'rs with fury dread
Tormenting ills on the repiner's head,
You'll freely own;—but list while I relate
A short adventure of a wretch's fate:
A wretch whom Fortune long has held in pain,
And, whose each hour some black misfortunes stain.
'Twas when the fields were swept of autumn's store,
And growling winds the fading foliage tore,
Behind the Lowmon' hill, the short-liv'd light,
Descending slowly, usher'd in the night:
When from the noisy town, with mournful look,
His lonely way a meagre pedlar took.
Deep were his frequent sighs, careless his pace,
And oft the tear stole down his cheerless face;
Beneath a load of silks and sorrows bent,
Nor knew, nor wish'd to know, the road he went;
Nor car'd the coming night, or stormy air,
For all his soul was welt'ring in despair.
Dark fell the night, a grim, increasing gloom,
Dark as the horrors of his fancied doom;
And nought was seen, and nought was heard around,
But lightning's gleams and thunder's roar profound;

252

Swell'd by the wind that howl'd along the plain,
Fierce rattling hail and unrelenting rain;—
While from dark thickets issued as he past,
Wild groans of branches bending from the blast.—
Deep sunk his steps beneath the pressing load,
As down the rough declivity he trod,
And gain'd the unknown vale; there, all distrest,
Prone on the road himself he cursing cast.
And while the north in ceaseless rigour blew,
And lightning mingling with the tempest flew,
Amid the dismal gloom he raging spurn'd
His miry load, and thus his mis'ry mourn'd:
‘O mighty Heavens! and am I forced to bear
The scourge of fate, eternally severe?
On me alone shall all thy fury roar?
Shall this determin'd vengeance ne'er be o'er?
Wretch that I am! while ev'ry village hind,
Sits in soft peace or downy sleep reclin'd,
Here, hopeless here, in grim despair I lie,
Lash'd by the fierce, the growling midnight sky;
Far from the reach of any human aid,
Here, sunk in clay, my shivering limbs are laid;
And here my cares for ever will I close,
This night shall finish my long train of woes;
And some lone trav'ller, struck with dread remorse,
Start at the sight of my pale stiffen'd cor'se.’
So said, he stretch'd him in the plashy clay,
Clos'd his fix'd eyes, and bade adieu to day.
‘And dy'd he?’ No! Fate curs'd him still with breath,
And ev'n withheld that gloomy blessing, death.
He groan'd, and thrice, in agonizing strife,
Unlock'd his eyes, but found he still had life.
Meantime along the road, in swift approach,
Sudden advanc'd a furious rattling coach:
The neighing steeds before the lashing whip,
Loud clattering, flew adown the rapid steep:

253

Our hero heard, and starting all aghast,
Aside, himself and trailing budget cast,
While harsh, the huge machine shot loud re-thundering past.
Then raising up his load, in sullen state,
Resolved no more to curse resisting Fate;
A distant light appear'd from some lone cot,
And thither joy'd, his way he plodding sought;
Was kindly welcom'd to their lonely fare,
Hung o'er the hearth, and talk'd away his care.
From this, my friend, one maxim you may glean,
Ne'er of misfortunes grudgingly complain;
Boldly to struggle, shows a courage bright,
For none but cowards sink beneath the weight;
And those who gain fame, fortune, or the fair,
Rise o'er despondence, and contemn despair.

INVOCATION.

Bright Phœbus had left his meridian height,
And downwards was stealing serene;
The meadows breath'd odour, and slowly the night
Was sadd'ning the midsummer scene;
When down from his garret, where many a long day
Hard poverty held the poor sinner;
A pale tatter'd poet pursu'd his lone way,
To lose thought of care—and of dinner.
The lark high in air warbling out her sweet notes,
The cuckoo was heard from the hill;
Each thicket re-echo'd with musical throats,
And gay glanc'd the murmuring rill.
Enrapt with the prospect, the bard gaz'd around,
Where Flora her treasures had wasted;
Thrice smote his full breast—rais'd his eyes from the ground,
And thus the great Apollo requested:

254

‘O thou who o'er Heaven's empyrean height,
Swift whirls on the chariot of day;
Thou father of music, thou fountain of light,
Propitiously hear while I pray.
Let no surly clouds, I beseech thee, let none
The mild, lucid hemisphere rise in;
Till down to the verge of old ocean thou'rt gone,
And Thetis receives thee rejoicing.
With bright'ning ideas my fancy inspire,
To wing the Parnassian mountain;
Ye thrice sacred Nine, your kind aid I require,
To taste of the ravishing fountain.
Breathe softer, kind zephyrs, oh! pity my clothes,
Nor rave so’—thus far flow'd his song,
For low'ring and dismal, the horizon rose,
And clouds roll'd tumultuous along.
The birds, all affrighted, shrunk mute from the spray,
Hoarse murm'rings were heard from the river;
A black horrid gloom overspread the sad day,
And made our poor poet to shiver.
Swift, full in his face, the dread flaming ball flash'd,
Down rush'd a fierce torrent of rain;
And loud o'er his head grumbling thunder-bolts crash'd
Re-bellowing from earth back amain.
Beneath an old hedging, for shelter he crawl'd,
And clung by a shooting of birch;
Crash went the weak branch, and the wretch, while he bawl'd,
At once tumbled squash in the ditch.
Half-drown'd with the deluge, and frozen with fear,
Apollo's mad vot'ry thus splutter'd;
‘Thou deaf, saucy scoundrel! why did'st thou not hear
The kind invocation I utter'd?

255

And you, ye curs'd Nine! I detest your each form,
Rank cheats ye're I know, nor shall hide it;
For those who won't shield a bare bard from the storm,
Can ne'er lend him wings to avoid it.’
So said—to the village he scamper'd along,
Poor wretch, with a petrified conscience;
His prayers unanswer'd—his appetite strong,
And all his attempts gone to nonsense.

HAPPINESS.—AN ODE.

Ah! dark and dreary low'rs the night,
The rocking blasts, the flashing light,
Unusual horrors form!
Unhappy he, who nightly braves
The fury of surrounding waves
Amid this dreadful storm.
And yet, though far remote from shore,
Though loud the threat'ning tempest roar,
And heave the yawning deep:
Hope cheers each breast, that future winds,
Shall waft them peaceful to their friends,
To comfort those that weep.
Not so with me! distrest, forlorn,
Still doom'd to weep from night to morn,
My life a chain of woes.
The past, regret—the present, care,
The future, black with grim despair,
Till earth shall o'er me close.
How happy they, who blest with health,
And all the gen'rous joys that wealth,
Unstain'd with sadness give;

256

Enjoy the bliss that hourly flows,
Nor hear their hapless groans and woes,
Who struggle hard to live!
O thou kind Pow'r, who hears my strain,
To whom I silently complain,
And lift my eyes in grief;
'Tis Thine to bid the tempest roll,
'Tis Thine to heal the struggling soul,
And bring the wretch relief.
Thus sung Alexis, lost to mirth,
While o'er the lonely, joyless hearth,
His mournful visage hung.
A silence reign'd—when soft and meek,
He, list'ning, heard these accents break
From an immortal tongue.
‘Why droops thy head, unhappy youth?
Be calm, and hear the words of Truth,
Nor righteous Heaven accuse;
To man impartial gifts are giv'n,
Themselves alone make them unev'n,
By what their pride abuse.
Thou strain'st at wealth—ah! blind to fate,
Thou seest not what distresses wait
On him who claims the prize;
A snake, it cankers in his breast,
Distorts his looks, devours his rest,
And lures him from the skies.
On wealth proportion'd cares attend,
Who much commands, hath much to spend;
Or, are his treasures great?
Intemp'rance o'er them raves aloud,
They vanish like a morning cloud,
And leave their lord to fate.

257

What though, by poverty deprest,
Thou seeks a friend to soothe thy breast,
But seeks, alas! in vain:
This bane becomes a bliss at last,
For wisdom from the miseries past,
Corrects the present pain.
Look closer, mark each seeming ill
That now with fear thy bosom fill,
And weigh each envy'd joy:
Health is a cheat, but sickness lights,
Through hopes and fears, to glorious heights,
Where saints their songs employ.
Health, rosy as the crimson dawn,
Firm treads along the dewy lawn,
O'er-wrapt with flow'ry joy:
No ills shake his Herculean breast,
No deep-fetched groans of pain distrest,
His pleasures e'er annoy.
While thus despising others' woe,
He courts each faithless shade below,
And laughs at threaten'd hell.
Pale Sickness lifts her languid eye
From earth, and fixes in the sky,
Where all her comforts dwell.
But view health gone, the wretch low laid,
By stern disease; past human aid,
Rack'd on the hopeless couch:
His heaving breast, with anguish tore,
His eyes deep sunk, his bloom no more,
And death in dread approach.
Where now the boasted joys of earth?
Will these his riches, rank or birth,
Calm the despairing soul?

258

Ah no, behold he groans, he cries:
Tears choke his mingled moans and sighs;
And terrors round him roll.
Then, favour'd youth, be thine the task,
For real happiness to ask,
From Nature's bounteous God;
Nor think on earth to grasp the prize,
She dwells aloft, beyond the skies,
Religion is the road.’

DESPONDENCE.—A PASTORAL ODE.

IN THE MANNER OF SHENSTONE.

Ah! where can the comfortless fly?
(Young Damon disconsolate said,
The tears starting fast from his eye,
As reclining he sat in the shade.)
Ah! where can the comfortless fly?
To whom shall the wretched repair?
Who hoping for happiness nigh,
Are met by approaching despair!
I hop'd, but alas! 'twas in vain,
When forward through fate I explor'd,
That Fame would take wing with my strain,
And Plenty still smile at my board:
And oh! how my bosom did glow
To see that my sorrows would end!
That Fate would its blessings bestow,
To gladden my fair one and friend!
O then, when the woods were all mute,
And groves by the evening embrown'd,
How I'd wake the slow mellow-ton'd flute,
While shepherds stood list'ning around;

259

They prais'd the soft ravishing air,
That warbl'd so pleasing and free;
But a smile or a look from my fair,
Was more than their praises to me.
Blest prospects! far hence ye have fled,
And left me all friendless and poor;
Stern Poverty stalks round my shed,
And Ruin glares grim at the door.
Ah! where can the comfortless fly?
To whom shall the wretched repair?
Who hoping for happiness nigh,
Are met by approaching despair!

THE SUICIDE.

------ Dreadful attempt!
Just reeking from self-slaughter in a rage
To rush into the presence of our Judge;
As if we challeng'd him to do His worst,
And matter'd not His wrath.
Blair.

I

Ye hapless sons of misr'y and of woe,
Whose days are spent with heart-distressing care;
Who seem the sport of ruthless Fate below,
Still lab'ring hard, and still, as Winter bare;
Tho' rough the path, tho' weighty be the share
Of nameless ills, that press you ever down;
Oh! never, never yield to dire despair,
Or think your griefs intolerable grown;
Each has his secret load, and each must feel his own.

II

Is pale Disease, is Poverty your lot?
Or, are you doom'd to some obscure employ?
Does mankind rate your merits by your coat?
Or burns your breast by Love's distracting boy?
Yet still reflect what blessings you enjoy;

260

Returning health again may flush your face,
Glad Plenty smile, your toils forget to cloy,
And Celia blush amid your chaste embrace;
Then men shall see you deck'd with every worth and grace.

III

Be wisely calm, and brave the adverse storm
Let Hope to happier times direct your sight;
Tho' mis'ries stare in many a threat'ning form,
Hope slacks their jaws and mitigates their bite;
And though the present scene be black as night,
Trust me, your hopes shall not be long in vain;
For oft, tho' Pain put Pleasure to the flight,
Yet Pleasure still dethrones the tyrant Pain,
And soothes the weary soul to peace and joy again.

IV

Unhappy they whose each returning morn
Is fill'd with sad complaints and curses dire;
Fate ever frowns, and still they are forlorn,
If each thing move not with their wild desire.
'Gainst righteous Heav'n, with furious looks of fire,
They rave, blaspheme, and roll in blackest sin;
Till driv'n by mad Despair and hopeless ire,
To poison, dagger, or th'engulphing lin,
Unworthy heav'n or earth, hell yawns to take them in.

V

Lone Night had lull'd the drowsy world asleep,
And cloudy darkness wrapt the midnight sky;
Scarce thro' the gloom the stars were seen to peep,
This moment bright, then muffled from the eye;
The distant bittern's solemn-sounding cry,
The breeze that sigh'd along the rustling grove,
The hasty brook that ceaseless murmur'd by;
Compos'd my thought as forth I went to rove,
To sing Matilda's charms and mourn my hopeless love.

261

VI

As near a thicket's shade I pensive stood,
The black trees waving solemnly around;
Sudden I heard a rushing thro' the wood,
And near me pass'd along the dew-wet ground,
A human form; its head with white was bound,
While loose its ruffled hair flew in the breeze;
A dagger fast it grasp'd; and, at each sound,
Would start, and stop, then glide among the trees,
While slow I trac'd its steps, tho' trembl'd both my knees.

VII

Deep thro' the turnings of a darksome vale,
Where blasted trunks hung from th'impending steep;
Where oft was heard the owl's wild dreary wail,
Its course I follow'd, wrapt in silence deep.
At length it paus'd; fear thro' my frame did creep,
While still I look'd, and softly stealing near,
Heard mournful groans, as if it seem'd to weep;
And intervening sighs, and moaning drear,
Till thro' the night's sad gloom these words broke on my ear:

VIII

‘Curst be the hour that to existence brought
Me, wretched me! to war with endless woe!
Curst be the wretch, and curst the barb'rous thought
That bade me stretch the bleeding beauty low!
Still from her breast the purple torrents flow,
Still, still I hear her loud for mercy crave;
See! hark; she groans, alas, some pity shew!
For love, for Heav'n, for mercy's sake! oh save!
No; see her mangled corse floats o'er the midnight wave.’

IX

‘O earth! O darkness! hide her from my sight:
Shall hell, shall furies rack me ere I die?
No, this shall sink me in eternal night,
To meet those torments that I ne'er can fly.

262

Ye yelling fiends that now around me hie,
Exult and triumph in th'accursed deed!
Soon in your flaming gulphs ye shall me spy:
Despair! attend, the gloomy way to lead,
For what I now endure no hell can e'er exceed.’

X

He said; and, gazing furiously around,
Plung'd in his heart, the dagger's deadly blade;
Deep, deep he groan'd, and, reeling to the ground,
(I rush'd to rescue thro' the entangling shade;)
Flat on the mossy sod I found him laid,
And oft I call'd, and wept, and trembl'd sore;
But life was fled, too late all human aid:
And while his grasp the shining dagger bore,
His lifeless head lay sunk in blood and clotted gore.

ALEXIS' COMPLAINT.

‘smooth Cartha,’—the river that passes through Paisley: ‘That dismal hour, &c.,’

Of joys departed, never to return,
How painful the remembrance!
Blair.
'Twas where smooth Cartha rolls in winding pride,
Where willows fringe young Damon's garden side,
And o'er the rocks the boiling current roars,
Murm'ring to leave these peaceful, flow'ry shores;
There, sad and pensive, near an aged thorn,
Sat lone Alexis, friendless and forlorn.
Pale was his visage, lost to joy his ear,
Involv'd in grief, he shed the ceaseless tear.
Poor hapless swain, alas! he mourn'd alone,
His dearest friend, his kind companion gone.
Each list'ning bush forgot in air to play,
Round gaz'd the flock, mute hung the people'd spray;
Sad Silence reign'd, while thus the youth distrest,
Pour'd forth the sorrows of his burden'd breast:

263

O'er all the plain the mournful strains pervade,
O'er all the plain a solemn sadness spread,
Nor wak'd an echo but to murmur ‘dead!”
Thus sung the hapless swain—‘Short is the span
Of fleeting time, allow'd to feeble man!
No sooner born, he fills the air with cries,
No sooner known, than pale he droops, and dies.
To-day he laughs the dancing hours away,
To-morrow lies extended, lifeless clay;
While o'er the silent corpse each weeping swain
In anguish sigh, but sigh or weep in vain.
Such was thy fate, Horatio! from this shore
Too sudden torn, ne'er to revisit more.
The rigid debt, alas! thou now hast paid,
Thee on the couch relentless Fever laid;
Thy heaving breast with dread disorder wrung,
And 'plaints, still trembling from thy feeble tongue;
And scarce a soul thy frequent wants to ease,
Or soothe each moan, or whisper to thee peace;
While I, far distant, on a foreign plain,
Exulting rov'd, unconscious of thy pain.
Oh! had I known the pangs that tore thy breast,
Had some kind pow'r but whisper'd, “he's distrest,”
Soon had I measur'd back my lonely way,
And sought the bed where poor Horatio lay;
Kiss'd from thy face the cold, damp, deadly dew,
And groan'd my last, distracted, long adieu.
‘That dismal hour ne'er from my thought shall go,
When black appear'd the messenger of woe;
O'er all my soul a gloomy horror came,
And instant trembling, shook my feeble frame.
Thy dying strains I read, still yet I hear
The solemn counsel sounding in my ear;
Words that shall tremble on my latest breath,
And only leave me when I sink in death.
Frantic with grief, twice fifty miles I sped
O'er sev'ring seas and gain'd his silent bed;

264

Each weeping friend confirm'd my gloomy fear,
That earth had clos'd on all I held most dear!
Yes, mute he lies beneath yon rising sod,
While his lone cot, of Peace the late abode,
Now grim and drear, to tott'ring ruin falls,
Loud blasts wild howling through the naked walls;
His flow'rs torn up, his garden bare and waste,
And I lone left, a solitary guest.
‘Sad change indeed, ye once lov'd scenes! where now
The growing bliss I felt at each fond view?
Where all that sweetness that perfum'd each flow'r,
That bless'd our walks and wing'd the passing hour?
For ever fled! fled with that pride of swains,
Whose presence grac'd these now forsaken plains!
When he appear'd each warbler rais'd his note,
Each flow'r blow'd fresher midst the peaceful spot;
Ev'n while sweet Cartha pass'd the smiling scene,
She smoother flow'd, and left the place with pain.
Thrice happy times! when hid from Phœbus' beam,
From that green shade we angl'd in her stream;
Or wanton, stript, and from the hanging shore,
Exulting, plung'd her pearly depths t'explore,
Tore from their rocky homes the pregnant dames,
And to the sun display'd the glob'lous gems.
‘But now no more amid the peaceful night,
Beneath pale Luna's azure-thronèd light,
We'll leave the noisy town and slowly stray
Where shadowy trees branch on the moon-light way;
There wake the flute, harmonious, soft and shrill,
While Echo warbles from the distant hill.
Gone are those times, for which, alas! I mourn,
Gone are those times, nor shall they e'er return;
Gone is my friend, and ev'n forgot his name,
And strangers rude, his little mansion claim.
New schemes shall tear those blooming shrubs away,
And that green sod turn down to rugged clay;
Where rich carnations burst the pond'rous pod,

265

Where pinks and daisies fring'd the pebbly road;
Where glowing roses hung the bended spray,
Where crimson'd tulips rose, neat rang'd and gay;
Where all these bloom'd beneath their guardian's eye,
Hogs shall inhabit, and foul dunghills lie.
Then, oh! adieu, ye now unfriendly shores,
Another swain now claims your flow'ry stores;
A surly swain, puff'd up with pride immense,
And see! he comes, stern to command me hence.
Thou hoary thorn, adieu! ere 'tis too late,
Yon lifted ax seems to announce thy fate.’
Thus spoke the youth; then rising, ceas'd his strain,
And, wrapt in anguish, wander'd o'er the plain.

DEATH—A POEM.

Thy gloomy walks, O Death! replete with fears,
With 'scutcheons hung, and wet with widows' tears;
The groans of anguish and of deep remorse,
The gloomy coffin and extended corse,
Be now my theme.—Hence, all ye idle dreams,
Of flow'ry meadows and meand'ring streams,
Of War's arousing roar—since none are brave
Save those bold few, who triumph o'er the grave.
O Thou, first Being! Thou, Almighty Pow'r!
Who metes out life, a cent'ry or an hour;
At Whose dread nod the Spectre wields his dart,
Uprears his arm and stabs the quiv'ring heart.
Assist my feeble pen (since I and all
Must soon before that grisly monarch fall)
To mark his frowns, but learn alone to dread
That awful stroke that tends to death indeed.
When God descended first to form our earth,
And gave each plant and ev'ry creature birth,

266

When trees arose at His supreme command,
In order rang'd, or scatter'd o'er the land;
Then the clear brook in murm'ring measure flow'd,
The zephyr whisper'd and the cattle low'd;
The voice of Music warbl'd through each grove,
From morn to morn, and ev'ry song was love.
The lamb and tyger wanton'd o'er the green,
The stag and lion join'd the mirthful scene;
The eagle thirsted not for streams of gore,
And the swift hawk had ne'er the warbler tore;
The meanest insect, starting from the ground,
At pleasure sallied to its mazy round,
Return'd at night to its abode, a flow'r,
Nor felt nor fear'd a mightier creature's power;
For all was peace, and harmony, and love,
Through the deep ocean and the tuneful grove.
Such was the world, ere man, its sovereign lord,
Or beauteous woman, paradise explor'd:
Ah! hapless pair! too soon they broke the bounds,
They sinn'd—they fell—and felt Sin's deadly wounds.
Then rush'd to being Death, and frowning dread
Stalk'd o'er the world, and heapt his way with dead.
The herbage wither'd, in the sun and shade,
Trees shook their leaves, and drooping flow'rs decay'd;
Each creature felt his power; and, while they pin'd,
Groan'd out their last to the loud howling wind;
Yet still a following race did those succeed,
And hoar Time glutted Death with piles of dead.
Thus, for five thousand years the world has roll'd,
Rocks now are mould'ring, ev'n the heav'ns grow old;
And soon that day shall come when Time shall cease,
And usher in eternal pain or peace.
Yet how important is that awful day,
That lays us breathless, pale, extended clay;
When from our lips the ruddy glow shall fade,
When the pulse ceases to emit its tide;
When, sadly pond'ring o'er our lifeless corse,

267

Our weeping friends regret Death's cruel force;
Then mounts the soul to God, and there receives
Its fixèd doom, and shouts for joy, or grieves
Through all eternity, prolongs the strain
Of endless joy; or yells in endless pain.
Death sometimes sends his cruel page, Disease,
To rob our nights of rest, our days of ease.
Unwelcome guest! and yet he proves no foe,
He weans our passions from the trash below;
Each pang of anguish urges to prepare,
Ere Death approach with stern relentless glare;
And, if unready, we are caught by Death,
He throws us howling to the gulph beneath.
With sudden steps sometimes the foe appears,
And calls to judgment in our shudd'ring ears.
We start alarm'd, survey our guilty past,
Bend down to pray, and, bending, breathe our last.
Then fix'd is fate, for as we fall we lie;
We live in death, or sinking, doubly die.
Should these sad scenes not rouse us to concern,
Our state to weigh, and danger to discern,
Ere that dread period, when we leave this shore,
And time and means are given us here no more.
Death's stare may startle ev'n the purest saint,
And at the change his soul perhaps may faint;
But in that hour these cheering words he hears,
And this sweet promise flows upon his ears:
‘I am thy friend, on me thy burden lay,
And through Death's vale I'll gently pave thy way.’
Thrice welcome words! rejoic'd, he spurns this earth,
Where nought but sorrow reigns, and foolish mirth;
To life saints usher, when on earth they die,
And when they leave us join the song on high.
On Cartha's banks, beside a sloping dale,
That gently open'd to the western gale;
In homely cot, of neat, inviting form,
Nigh where old Cruikston braves the howling storm,

268

Horatio liv'd—the gen'rous and the kind,
The villain's terror and the poor man's friend;
Each neighbour's joy he shar'd, and adverse growl,
For heav'n-born pity dwelt within his soul:
Well knew the poor his house; for from his door
None e'er return'd, but blest his bounteous store;
Their sad complaints he heard—sigh'd when they griev'd,
And scarce he heard them till his hand reliev'd;
Belov'd by all he liv'd, sedate, though gay;
Pray'r clos'd his night and usher'd in his day.
But nought exempts from death: pale he was laid,
His heaving breast by weeping friends survey'd.
Beside his couch I sat; he, sighing, took
My hand in his, then spoke with dying look;
His trembling hand methinks I feel, and spy
The drops that started in his swimming eye:
‘Farewell, my friend! for now the time is come,
That solemn points me to my silent tomb;
Oh! were my life to spend, each breath I'd prize,
For sins on sins now start before my eyes.
Yet, He who is my hope, His cheering voice,
Soft calls me hence, to share eternal joys—
Oh! seek His gen'rous aid.—Here fail'd his breath,
He sigh'd and slumber'd in the arms of Death.
Such was his end, and such the bliss of those
Who taste the stream that from Immanuel flows.
This cheers the gloomy path, and opes the gate
Where endless joys their glorious entrance wait,
Through boundless heav'ns, amid His beams to rove,
There swell the song of His redeeming love.
What though misfortunes in this life abound,
Though ills on ills and wants on wants surround;
Though all we hold most dear on earth are torn
Harsh from our grasp and to a distance borne;
Tho' friends forget us, tho' our en'mies growl,
And earth and hell affright the trembling soul:
Lift up your heads, ye poor! the time draws nigh

269

When all these mis'ries shall at distance fly;
When songs of praise shall be your blest employ,
Your highest glory, your eternal joy;
Triumphant treading an immortal shore.
Where sin and sorrow shall assault no more.

APOLLO AND THE PEDLAR.

A TALE.

Dark hangs the drowsy murm'ring moonless night,
Clouds wrap each twinkler from the useless sight;
Hous'd is each swain, worn with the day's long toil,
Wielding the flail or turning o'er the soil;
Lone now the fields, the banks, the meadows all,
Save where frogs croak, or noisome lizards crawl.
Seen from the hill, Edina's turrets glow
With beaming lamps, in many a glittering row,
That glad the sight; while slow-approaching near,
Mixt sounds and voices crowd upon the ear;
Hoarse pye-men bawl, and shake the ceaseless bell,
Boys sport, dogs bark, and oyster-wenches yell.
See! yon black form plac'd at the well-worn porch,
One arm sustains a tarry flaming torch;
With echoing voice and grim distorted looks,
He hoarsely roars, ‘An auction here of books.’
The trotting chairman and the thund'ring coach,
The blazing windows and sly whore's approach,
The jostling passengers that swarm each lane,
Form to a stranger a surprising scene.
'Twas at this time, with keen-tooth'd hunger pin'd,
Plain Ralph the pedlar wander'd in a wynd.
This Ralph,—'tis storied,—bore a curious pack,
With trinkets filled, and had a ready knack

270

At coining rhyme; o'er all the eastern plain
Well was he known to ev'ry village swain.
Where'er he lodg'd, on mountain, moor, or dale,
The cottage fill'd to hear his wondrous tale.
Oft, at the barn, they'd list, and here poor Ralph,
In uncouth phrases, talking to himself;
Or mark him wand'ring lone, 'twixt late and soon,
With mutt'ring voice, wild gazing to the moon.
Drawn by the sight of certain skinny food,
He sally'd down and often gazing stood;
And such blest visions here he did descry,
That Want sat gnawing in his restless eye.
Here tripe lay smoking on the loaded board,
Piled high and thick, a most delicious hoard;
The fragrant stream in wavy columns rose,
And fed incessant his enraptur'd nose.
No longer fit to bear the glorious sight,
He buys, then scampers with exulting flight;
Resolv'd that night to soar his rank above,
Gape o'er his spoil, and feast with nectar'd Jove.
Here let us leave him, while with soaring flight,
We gain Olympus and the plains of light:
There, for his sons, see great Apollo's care,
How low their station or how poor soe'er,—
Alike to him's the pedlar and the peer.
High on a throne of burnish'd gold, in state
And awful pomp, the mighty Thund'rer sat.
His flowing robe in dazzling glory shone,
Inferior gods hung hov'ring round his throne;
With rapt'rous songs the heav'ns resounding rung,
Sweet Echo warbling while the seraphs sung.
When, lo! approaching with green laurel'd brows,
Before the throne divine Apollo bows;
An anxious look his glorious face oppress'd,
While bending low, he thus the god address'd:
‘Almighty potentate! all-conquering Jove!
Who form'd these heav'ns that boundless spread above

271

Yon distant earth, and all the worlds that roll
In circling dance; whose nod sustains the whole,
Whose powerful arm swift hurls the tempest forth,
Whose frown strikes terror through th'astonish'd earth;
Bids yon vast sea in swelling mountains rise,
And uproar horrid, foaming to the skies,
Then smiles, and smooth the glassy surface lies.
‘Oft hast thou lent me a propitious ear,
And made my sons thy most peculiar care:
By thee inspir'd, they soar beyond the sun,
And sing the wonders that thy arm hath done.
Now stoop in pity to the dang'rous state
Of one poor bard, born to a hapless fate.
Thou knows his danger: see, how swift he flies,
Nor know'st the snare that for his ruin lies.
Soon will he reach his home; and, sad to tell,
Glut the vile tripe and revel o'er the smell;
But still there's time, still we may him retard,
Here stand I ready to obey thy word.’
Jove gave consent; when down the empyrean height,
The cheerful god directs his rapid flight;
Swift past the stars, heav'n's regions he forsook,
Light flew behind, and darkness he o'ertook.
The num'rous lamps Edina's streets that line,
He first espies in sparkling squadrons shine.
A moment, dubious o'er the scene he stops,
Then swift, unseen, in B---'s close he drops,
Assumes a porter's shape, conceals his wings,
And through the close in hurrying fury, springs;
Down hurls poor Ralph, crash went the shivered bowl,
And greasy streams along the pavement roll.
As when some tyger, to his haunt from day,
Returns, blood-foaming, with the slaughter'd prey,
Grim pleas'd that there, with undisturbèd roar,
He'll glut and revel o'er the reeking gore;
Glares in wild fury o'er the gloomy waste,
Now growls terrific o'er its mangled breast;

272

Now drags relentless, down the rugged vale,
And stains the forest with a bloody trail:
When, lo! a champion of the savage race,
The shaggy lion, rushes to the place,
With roar tremendous seizes on the prey;
Exasp'rate see! the tyger springs away,
Stops short, and maddens at the monarch's growl,
And through his eyes darts all his furious soul;
Half-will'd, yet half afraid to dare a bound,
He eyes his loss, and roars and tears the ground;
So looked stern Ralphus o'er the flowing coast,
To see his hopes, his tripe and labour lost;
In rage he kick'd the fragments, when, behold!
Forth from the tripe a monstrous worm unroll'd
Its lazy length, then snarling wild its crest,
In accents shrill the shudd'ring youth addrest,
‘I am disease; curs'd be the unknown he
Who mark'd my purpose of destroying thee:
Had it succeeded, hear this, trembling hear,
Next morn had seen thee floating on a bier.’
It spoke, and grinn'd, when Ralph, with vengeful speed,
A rock's huge fragment dash'd down on its head.
Deep groan'd the wretch in death, Ralph trembling stole
One backward glance, then fled th'accurs'd bowl.

MATTY, A SONG.

While Phœbus reposes in Thetis's bosom,
While, white thro' the branches the moonlight is seen;
Here, lonely, I rove, near the old hawthorn's blossom,
To meet with my Matty, and stray o'er the green.
Nor hardship, nor care, now my bosom harasses,
My moments, from fame, and its nonsense are free;
Ambition I leave to the folly of asses,
For Matty is fame and ambition to me.

273

The great may exclaim, and with fury enclose me,
But fools, or the rabble, shall growl now in vain;
Their madness, their malice, shall ne'er discompose me,
Since Matty commends, and delights in my strain.
And kind is the lovely, the charming young creature;
Sweet beauty and innocence smile in her cheek;
In raptures I wonder, and gaze o'er each feature,
My bosom unable its transports to speak.
When lock'd arm in arm we retire from the city,
To stray through the meadow or shadowy grove;
How oft do I wake her compassion and pity,
While telling some tale of unfortunate love.
Her innocent answers delight me to hear them,
For art or dissembling to her are unknown;
And false protestations she knows not to fear them,
But thinks that each heart is as kind as her own.
And lives there a villain, who born to dissemble,
Would dare an attempt to dishonour her fame;
May blackest confusion, surrounding, assemble
And bury the wretch in distraction and shame.
Ye Pow'rs! be my task to protect and behold her,
To wander delighted with her all the day;
When sadness dejects, in my arms to enfold her,
And kiss, in soft raptures, her sorrows away.
But, hush! who comes yonder? 'tis Matty my dearest,
The moon, how it brightens, while she treads the plain!
I'll welcome my beautiful nymph, by the nearest,
And pour my whole soul in her bosom again.

274

TO DELIA.

ON HER INSISTING TO KNOW WHO WAS THE SUBJECT OF A CERTAIN PANEGYRIC.

Beauteous maid! no more enquire on
Who thus warms my raptur'd strain;
Here I'll strive to paint the fair one,
Though, alas! I strive in vain.
Tall and graceful is her stature;
Loose and dazzling is her dress;
Cupids sport in every feature,
And in ev'ry jet-black tress.
Mild she's as the dewy morning,
When exulting warblers sing;
As the Summer beams adorning,
Modest as the blushing Spring.
She talks—my soul is held in capture,
When she smiles, 'tis matchless bliss;
She sings—and, oh! I'm all in rapture:
Gods! was ever joy like this?
Were my treasures high as heaven,
Vast as earth and deep as hell;
Richest gems from India riven—
All I'd give with her to dwell.
Would you wish to see this Venus,
This most sweet of all that's fair?
Ne'er with guesses rack your genius;
Look your glass—you'll see her there.

275

THE CRUELTY OF REVENGE.

A TALE.

What rising passions through my bosom range,
When beauteous Susan sings the ‘Moor's Revenge.’
Thus runs the tale—‘Far from the noisy court,
'Midst lonely woods, was wealthy Don's resort.
A worthy lady blest his gen'rous arms,
And two young boys, with all their winning charms.
Possessed of these, and of each other's hearts,
They scorn'd the world and all its cheating arts.
Domestic cares, her lord, her smiling boys,
Were all her pride, the source of all her joys;
His, thro' wild woods, to hunt the leopard fleet,
Bear home the spoils and lay them at her feet.
When morning rose, equipt, he cours'd the plain,
And sought the chase, a Moor his only train;
Him from dire chains his master's bounty freed,
Behind his lord to curb the stately steed.
Indulg'd in sloth, the gloomy villain grew
Each day more heedless, and more haughty too.
He now ev'n dares his orders to deride;
His lord rebuk'd him, and chastised his pride.
With madd'ning rage his sparkling eye-balls roll,
And black revenge employs his furious soul.
High on a rock, amid the gloomy wood,
Secure from foes their ancient castle stood;
A wide, deep moat, around the fabric soak'd,
And strong high walls the midnight robber mock'd;
One path alone led to its dizzy height,
By day a bridge, a bolted gate by night.
One morn, as forth they took their early road,
And, thro' dark vales and deep'ning forests trod,
Urg'd by revenge, the Moor back sudden springs,
Secures the gate, and forth the children brings;

276

His lord alarm'd, spurs swiftly o'er the plain,
Fast finds the gate, and views with shudd'ring pain
His beauteous babes, from their fond mother tore,
Dash'd down the rock, and reeking in their gore;
While his poor spouse, beneath a lifted knife,
In loud lamentings deep implor'd for life.
‘Thou fury, stop!’ the raving husband cries;
‘I scorn thy threats,’ th'infernal Moor replies;
‘A blow thou gave—now for thy rashness feel;’
Then in her breast he plung'd the deadly steel,
And bounding headlong down the impervious rock,
His mangled cor'se in bloody fragments broke.

LINES ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF ‘THE SAILOR AND LOUSE.’

Hail! thou whose great aspiring soul
Can range, no doubt, from pole to pole,
Creation's ample house;
Yet deigns to memorate the name,
And roll in the records of fame,
Thy bosom foe, a—Louse.
Transporting bard! how didst thou light
On such a tale to fire thy sight,
Such beauties to express?
How cou'dst thou to our raptured view,
Discover such a scene? so new!
Forgive me if I guess.
Perhaps in some dark, dirty den,
Long had'st thou pin'd and chew'd thy pen,
When (wond'rous inspiration!)
The grey inhabitants of hair,
That itch'd thee ceaseless here and there,
Claim'd all thy contemplation.

277

Impatient to be found in verse,
Around thy hulk, thick-throng'd and fierce,
The restless creatures hurry'd;
Till thou for want of nobler theme,
Was forced t'immortalize their name,
On pain of being worry'd.

VERSES, ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE SPANIEL, MALICIOUSLY POISONED.

How soon are blessings snatch'd away!
Our friends around us smile to-day,
But oft ere morning's early ray,
Salute the shore;
We see them stretch'd, pale, lifeless clay,
To please no more!
Poor Cupid!—fondest friend I knew;
To me, how kind! how matchless true!
Whose frolics oft my laughter drew,
Tho' grief deprest;—
By Death's envenomed steel pierc'd through,
Has breath'd his last.
But had the traitor, void of art,
Produc'd the death-denouncing dart,
And calmly aim'd it at his heart,
Still panting warm;
One piteous look had staid the smart,
And fix'd his arm.
Yet think not since his debt is paid,
I mourn the dear departed shade:
No—'neath yon apple tree he's laid,
To rise again;
Nor shall the youth or infant maid,
Escape his pain.

278

Each year when Spring her reign resumes,
Then Cupid from his bed of glooms,
Shall spread the scarlet-tinctur'd blooms,
In glorious view;
While bees amid the rich perfumes,
Rove murm'ring through.
When Autumn comes, serene and slow,
And ruddy berries clustering glow;
When with ripe fruit the loaden'd bough,
Bends to the swaird;
Then Cupid swells the lov'liest show,
In Johnny's yard.
And though in apples now he rise,
Yet swift and keen his arrow flies;
For soon as e'er your ravish'd eyes
Gaze on his growth,
The blushing cheek and wond'rous size,
Wou'd bless your mouth.

TO A SEALED LETTER.

Now little folded pregnant leaf,
On thee for once my joy, my grief,
My hopes and fears await;
Now shall Misfortune cease to growl,
Or black Despair assault my soul,
And fix my hapless fate.
Oh! may some angel, guardian aid!
In robes celestial, sweet array'd,
Unknown, unseen descend;
And while thou opens on his eyes,
Soft whisper the poor poet's sighs,
And bid him be a friend.

279

Then shall the Muse outstretch her wing,
And fir'd with joy, exulting sing
The bounty of the giver;
Yet if stern Fortune so ordain,
That all my flatt'ring hopes are vain,
Here, sorrow! dwell for ever.

ON A DEPARTED DRUNKARD.

Borio lies beneath this table,
Bacchus, view the sight and weep;
Spite of all thy art was able,
Porter's lulled him fast asleep.
Silent now the tongue of thunder,
Dormant lies the arm of brass;
Every sentence sunk our wonder,
Every action crown'd the ass.
Morpheus! curse on thy intruding,
Blest was he ere thou appear'd;
Snuff in vain 'gainst thy deluding,
All his fiery forces rear'd.
See! he wakes—his eye-lids glimmer—
He struggles, faltering, to get free;
Ah! he sinks—come, push the brimmer,
Jolly god! 'twixt thee and me.

TO DR. TAYLOR, PAISLEY.

WRITTEN WHEN SICK.

When dread Disease assaults our trembling breath,
Wrings every nerve and paves the way for death;
Raves through our vitals, merciless to save,
Boils in each vein, and points us to the grave;

280

Rack'd with the pain, despairing at the view,
We fly for help to pitying Heaven and you.
Oft have I thought, while health flow'd in my breast,
Ere sleepless nights my weary heart opprest;
That should pale sickness sternly me invade
I'd scorn her rage if Taylor lent his aid.
Rous'd at the name, lo! disappointed Death,
In vain wild-wrenching to dislodge the breath,
Starts from the lonely couch, grasps up his dart,
And sullen-shrinking owns thy healing art.
Amid those numbers that implore your care,
That hope, by you, sweet health again to share;
Here I unhappy stand, with sadness prest,
And pin'd by ills that bind my lab'ring breast;
But should these woes that now I'm forc'd to bear,
Fly from your touch, and with them ev'ry fear;
Should your blest skill expunge this threat'ning pain,
And I resume my former health again,
This grateful heart your goodness shall revere
Next that Almighty God, Whose hand you are.

EPISTLE TO MR. J--- B---.

WITH P. ---'S POEMS.

These Poems, well known in the literary world, were sent to the Author by a friend, with this sincere and warm recommendation, of being the most chaste and delicate productions he had ever met with. Some of the pieces, however, appearing scarce worthy of such a character, occasioned the above Epistle.

With wond'rous delight I've now por'd o'er the pages,
Your goodness was pleas'd to remit me a while;
Which, tho' they have seen near a couple of ages,
Still flow in a simple, smooth beauty of style.
Wit here and there flashes, the reader alarming,
And Humour oft bends the pleas'd face to smile;
How sweetly he sings of his Chloe so charming;
How lofty of William's dread conquests and spoil.

281

And, oh! how the heart with soft passion is moved,
While Emma pours out her fond bosom in song;
In tears I exclaim, Heav'ns! how the maid loved,
But ah! 'twas too cruel to try her so long.
But quickly young Laughter extirpates my mourning,
To hear the poor Doctor haranguing his wife;
Who stretch'd upon bed, lies tumultuously turning,
And pants to engage in sweet Venus's strife.
In short, my good friend, I esteem him a poet,
Whose mem'ry will live while the luscious can charm;
And Rochester sure had desisted to shew it,
If conscious that P---r so keenly could warm.
So nicely he paints it, he words it so modest,
So swiftly he varies his flight in each line;
Now soaring on high, in expressions the oddest,
Now sinking, and deigning to grovel with swine.
The Ladle, O raptures! what bard can exceed it?
‘His modesty, sir, I admire him for that’—
Hans Carvel most gloriously ends when you read it,
But Paulo Purganti—how flaming! how fat!
Ten thousand kind thanks I return for your bounty;
For troth I'm transported whenever I think
How Fame will proclaim me aloud through each county,
For singing like P---r of ladles and stink.

ODE.

‘Spring returns, but youth no more.’

Loud roaring Winter now is o'er,
And Spring returns with fragrance sweet;
The bee sips nectar from each flow'r,
And frisking lambs on hillocks bleat.

282

The little birds chant on each bough,
And warbling larks, ascending sing;
Chearful, amid the sun's bright glow,
They sweep around on sportive wing.
How pleasant, now, abroad to rove,
To view the fruit-trees as they bloom;
To pluck the flow'rs that deck each grove,
Or wander thro' the yellow broom.
Yet, 'midst the pleasures we enjoy,
What painful cares harass our breast;
Ah! were we freed from this annoy,
How peaceful calm our minds would rest.
The shady bow'rs, the waving woods,
With seeming joy we may explore,
Stand listening to the falling floods;
Yet still the weight increaseth more.
Oh! when will come that happy day,
When all-perplexing care will fly?
Ne'er till we pass the narrow way,
And dart triumphant thro' the sky.

ODE.

Now night her star-enamell'd robe,
O'er half the dreary, darken'd globe,
In solemn state has hung;
Lone now the distant, murm'ring flood,
And lone the thicket, grove and wood,
Where warblers lately sung.

283

The distant town, behind yon steep,
Now silent lies, and sunk in sleep,
Dark, solitary, sad;
No voice, no sound, can reach my ear,
Save shepherd's dogs, who haply hear
The midnight traveller's tread.
Amid this calm, this silence deep,
I wander here, to sigh, to weep,
And breathe my hopeless flame;
To rocks and woods I still complain,
To woods and rocks, alas! in vain
I sigh Matilda's name.
O Love! thou dear, distracting bliss,
Assist my bosom to express
Those pains, those joys I feel;
Joy, that enraptures while I gaze,
And pain, that tortures, while the blaze
Of love I must conceal.
Sweet is her form, her features meek,
And bright the crimson of her cheek
Beyond the rose's glow;
Her's is the heart, with softness blest,
And her's each worth that warms the breast
Of innocence below.
But ah! for ever we must part!
Forget her then, thou throbbing heart,
Nor idly thus complain.
Truth, prudence, reason, all can teach
That Happiness, which mocks our reach,
But aggravates our pain.

284

HARDYKNUTE; OR THE BATTLE OF LARGS.

The Battle of Largs was fought on the 1st of August, 1263, between Alexander the III., King of Scotland, and Haquin the V., King of Norway, in their contention for the Northern and Western Isles. Haquin had already reduced Bute and Arran; and making a descent with 20,000 men on the Continent, was encountered and defeated by the Scots army at Largs, in Ayrshie; upon which he retreated to his ships, and his fleet being dissipated, and in part destroyed by a tempest, he returned to the Orkneys, from whence he had made the descent, and there, after a few days' illness, expired.

[_]

A FRAGMENT—ATTEMPTED IN ENGLISH VERSE.

Along the front of his high-wall'd abode
Deep-wrapt in thought, the stately hero strode;
Thro' his bold breast revolving those alarms
That oft had rous'd and rush'd him on to arms;
That thro' long seventy years would scarce allow
Seven years of peace to calm his aged brow.
In times he liv'd, when Briton's breach of faith,
Fill'd Scotia's plains with tumult and with death:
Nor fail'd his sword, still to their cost to show,
He stood their deadly, their determin'd foe.
High on a hill's steep top his castle stood,
Hung round with rocks, that frown'd above the wood;
The spiry turrets tow'ring thro' the sky,
The glittering halls that caught the distant eye,
The wall's huge strength that war could ne'er annoy,
Foes view'd with terror, but each friend with joy;
For oft, when night her murky shades o'ercast,
And lash'd the rain, and roar'd the howling blast,
The wand'ring knight here found a welcome home,
Forgot his woes, and blest the friendly dome.
Bold was the chief,—brave Hardyknute his name,—
And kind and courteous his endearing dame:
Peerless she shone, for chastity and charms,
When favouring Fate first gave her to his arms
Round all our sea-beat coasts no Fair was seen,
To vie with her, save Emergard the queen.
Full thirteen sons their nuptial blessings crown'd,
All heroes stout, for strength of arm renown'd;
Rear'd to the field, how did their bosom glow,
Thro' War's loud uproar to pursue the foe;
Till arm'd with death, and raging o'er the plain,
Nine nobly sunk amid th'illustrious slain.
Four still remain; long may they fearless wield
The burnish'd sword, and shake the glitt'ring shield.

285

And since their names from shore to shore extend,
Since high their might and mighty their command,
Still may their courage prove their bright reward,
Their sov'reign's glory and their country's guard.
Tho' warlike deeds employ'd their youthful care,
Great was the love they bore to Fairly Fair.
Their sister she; all softness, all delight,
Mild as the morn and beautiful as light.
Her girdle, circling round her slender waist,
Reveal'd a shape with fair proportion blest;
Adown her breast the golden ringlets stray'd,
And every grace adorn'd the blooming maid.
But, ah! what griefs her fatal beauty bred!
What streams of tears have for these charms been shed!
To young and old, to ev'ry friend unbless'd,
And sad as hist'ry's page has e'er express'd.
Bright Summer now roll'd on in splendid blaze,
And o'er the fields diffus'd his genial rays,
When Norway's king, stern, insolent, and vain,
Proud of his pow'r, and haughty with disdain,
Reach'd Scotia's shores with many a hardy knight,
Resolv'd for war, and burning for the fight.
The rumour spreading wide on wings of fame,
Soon to our sov'reign's ear the tidings came;
As round the sumptuous board, in regal state
With noble chiefs, in brave array, he sat,
Circling in glitt'ring cups, the wines' deep red,
Red as the blood these heroes oft had shed:
‘To horse, to horse, my royal liege! to horse!
Your daring foes, led by th'insulting Norse,
Crowd all the strand; full twenty thousand strong,
Pointing their spears in many a warlike throng.’
‘Bring me my Mage, my dapple gray, in haste,’
Exclaim'd our king, while starting from the feast:
‘A steed more trusty, 'gainst attacks more steel'd,
Ne'er bore Scot's chief or monarch, to the field.’

286

And go, my page, tell Hardyknute our prop,
Whose castle crowns yon rugged mountain's top,
To draw his sword, that sword foes dread to see;
Call up his men, and haste and follow me.’
Swift flew the little page, fleet as the dart
Flung from an arm to pierce some warrior's heart;
Till reach'd the ancient dome's surrounding walls,
Loud from the gate thus to the chief he calls:
‘Come down, great Hardyknute! 'tis war I bring,
Come down, my lord, assist your injured king.’
Fierce rose the warrior's soul; a fiery glow
O'erspread his cheeks, and dy'd his dark brown brow;
And keen his looks, and stern his visage grew,
As still they wont in dangers great to do.
Loose from his side a grass-green horn he drew,
And five shrill sounds forth from its circle blew;
Wild shook the woods, the startled herds stood still,
And the loud echoes rang around each hill.
In manly sports his sons had spent the morn,
When in a vale, faint on the breezes borne,
They heard their father's war-arousing horn.
‘That horn,’ they solemn said, ‘ne'er sounds in peace.
Some nobler deeds demand our sports to cease.’
Then up the hill they sped, with hostile fire,
Rush'd through the gate, and join'd their warlike sire;
Who thus address'd, with majesty and grace:
‘Last night, my sons, I hop'd that free from strife,
In peace and rest I'd close my eve of life;
Well might my age this weary arm acquit
From martial feats, for years like yours more fit;
But now, since Norse, in haughty fury boasts
T'enslave our land, and dares t'insult our coasts;
Fame ne'er shall say, that Hardyknute, at call,
E'er feared to fight, or gloriously to fall.
‘Robin of Rothsay, bend thy trusty bow,
Unerring still thy whistling arrows go;

287

Full many a daring eye, and visage gay,
They've shut in death, and chang'd to palest clay.
Bold Thomas, take thy lance, no weapon more
Thy arm requires to swell the tide of gore.
If thro' the ranks its fury thou display,
As on that great, that memorable day,
When Westmoreland's fierce heir thy rage did feel,
And, trembling, own'd the terrors of thy steel.
Malcolm, despatch! thy path thou canst pursue,
Swift as the stag, that flies the forest through;
My fearless forces, summon to the field,
Three thousand men, well train'd to sword and shield;
Bring me my courser, harnessing, and blade:
(With dauntless look the agèd hero said)
Knew foes the hand that bears it to the fight,
Soon would the boldest seek inglorious flight.
Farewell, my dame! for peerless good thou art,
Farewell! he said, and prest her to his heart;
To me more fair, in age, you now appear
Than maids whose beauty oft hath reach'd my ear;
My youngest son shall with you here remain
To guard our tow'rs, and ease your anxious pain;
Each night to shut the silver bolts, that keep
Your painted rooms, and watch you while asleep.’
So spake the chief, and, mounting, seized the reins,
While his broad army mov'd along the plains.
O'erwhelmed with grief and sad foreboding woe,
Stood his fair spouse to see the warrior go;
The gushing tears,—a melancholy scene!—
Bedew'd her comely cheeks and bodice green,
Fast streaming down, uncheck'd and unconfined;
Her silken cords with glitt'ring silver twin'd,
And apron sew'd with curious diceings rare,
The beauteous work of her own Fairly Fair.
Meantime his march th'undaunted chief pursued,
O'er moors and hills, thro' vales and many a wood;

288

Till to a grove he came, where, near the way,
A wounded knight in lonely sorrow lay,
Stretched on the grass; forlorn he seem'd and faint,
And, moaning deep, thus pour'd his sad complaint;
‘Here must I lie, alas! here must I die
By cruel Treachery's false beguiling eye.
Fool that I was a woman to believe,
Whose faithless smiles were formed but to deceive.’
Him Hardyknute surveying, thus addrest,
(For pity still found shelter in his breast:)
‘Ah, hapless knight! were you my hall within,
On softer silk your weary head to lean,
My lady's care would sooth that piteous moan,
For deadly hate was still to her unknown;
With kind regard she'd watch you all the day,
Her maids thro' midnight would your grief allay,
And Fairly Fair with soft endearing art,
Delight your eye and chear your drooping heart.
Arise, young knight, and mount your stately steed,
The beauteous day beams bright o'er hill and mead;
Choose whom you please from midst my faithful train,
To guide your steps along the pathless plain.’
With languid look and cheeks in sorrow dy'd,
The wounded knight thus mournfully reply'd:
‘Kind, generous chieftain! your intent pursue,
Here must I stay, here bid the world adieu;
To me no future day, however bright,
Can e'er be sweet, or fair the mildest night;
But soon, beneath some tree's cold-dropping shade,
My cares in death for ever shall be laid.’
In vain he sought to soothe the stranger's wail,
With him nor tears, nor pleading cou'd prevail;
With fairest words brave Hardyknute to gain,
And reason strong strove courteously in vain.
Onward again he march'd his hostile band,
Far o'er Lord Chattan's wide-extended land;

289

When, fir'd by foes to draw his deadly sword,
Immortal deeds still mark'd that worthy lord.
Of Pictish race, by mother's side, he came,
A race long glorious in the lists of Fame;
When Picts ruled Caledon, and sought his aid,
Lord Chattan saved their crown and claimed the princely maid.
Now with his fierce and formidable train,
A hill he reach'd that overlook'd the plain,
Where wide encampèd on the dale, for fight,
Norse' glitt'ring army hugely lay in sight.
‘Yonder, my valiant sons! in haughty state,
Those raging robbers our arrival wait,
On Scotia's old, unconquer'd plains to try
With us their fate: be victors now or die!
Implore that mighty Pow'r with pious faith,
Who on the cross redeem'd our souls from death,
Then bravely shew, amid the war's fierce blood,
Your veins still glow with Caledonian blood.’
He said, and forth his shining broad-sword drew,
While thousands round unsheath'd in glorious view,
Blaz'd to the sun, a bright, refulgent throng,
While loud from wing to wing, war-horns resounding rung.
Adown the hill, in martial pomp array'd,
To meet his king, in haste his march he made. [OMITTED]

As the Author formerly proposed to publish this poem by itself, he only inserts part of it here as a specimen of the whole, which he hopes, in a short time, to present to the public.

OSSIAN'S LAMENT.

FROM MACPHERSON'S TRANSLATION.

This Poem is inserted at the repeated solicitations of several gentlemen, who, having favoured the Author with a volume of these beautiful pieces, requested him to attempt the versification of any one of them he thought most interesting. The following was therefore chosen by the Author, as it cannot fail to affect every feeling mind. Those who are acquainted with that immortal Bard's works will see that the original thoughts are strictly retained.

Hard by a rock that from the mountain rose,
Where aged trees hung o'er their withered boughs;
Low on the moss, long lost to joy and peace,
Old Ossian sat, the last of Fingal's race;
Sightless his aged eyes, his visage pale,
And white his beard flow'd in the waving gale;

290

Silent he list'ned to the northern breeze
That chearless whistled thro' the leafless trees;
Grief in his soul began afresh to bleed,
And thus he mourn'd in deepest woe the dead.
‘How, like the monarch of the waving wood,
Long beat by winds and lash'd by tempests rude;
How hast thou fall'n before the roaring gust,
With all thy branches round thee in the dust!
Where now is Fingal the renownèd king?
Where Oscar brave, my son, young, fresh as Spring?
Where all my race so fearless once and gay?
All, all alas! lie mouldering in the clay.
Here as I sit, to wail their hapless doom,
Around I grope and feel each warrior's tomb;
While, far below, the river's rushing sweep
Pours hoarsely roaring down each rocky steep.
‘Ah! while thy once-known currents past me roll,
What, O lone river! say'st thou to my soul?
Back to my mind, worn with Misfortune's blast,
Thou bring'st the sad remembrance of the past.
‘Rang'd on thy banks the race of Fingal stood,
Strong as the lofty, black, aspiring wood;
Keen glanc'd their steely spears with fiery rage,
And bold was he who durst that wrath engage;
Amid the chiefs great Fillan did appear,
And Oscar! thou my noble son was there;
There Fingal stood, unknown to trembling fears,
Strong in the white, the hoary locks of years;
Full rose his sinewy limbs, firm fell his tread,
And wide and fair his ample shoulders spread;
Soon as the terrors of his wrath arose,
Beneath his arm how sunk his dying foes!
‘Gaul, son of Morny, came forth from his place,
The tallest, hugest of the human race;
High as an oak upon the hill he stood,
His voice loud-roaring like the roaring flood;

291

“Why reigns (he cries in proud contempt) alone
The mighty Corval's feeble, tim'rous son?
Unfit is Fingal's slender arm to save,
He ne'er support to his poor people gave;
But here I stand enthron'd in terrors now,
Fierce as a whirlwind on the mountain's brow;
Strong as a storm that roars amid the sea,
Yield son of Corval, coward, yield to me!”
‘Forth Oscar stood, his breast with rage did glow,
(My son, my noble son would meet the foe!)
But Fingal came, high-moving thro' the host,
And smil'd to hear the haughty vaunter's boast;
Around each other hard their arms they threw,
And fierce the fight, and dread the combat grew;
Madly they struggled o'er the trembling ground,
And deep their heels plough'd up the earth around;
Loud crack'd their bones. As where white billows rave,
The boat leaps light from dashing wave to wave;
Long toil'd the chiefs the doubtful field to gain,
And fell, with night upon the sounding plain.
‘Thus two huge oaks before the tempest's sweep,
With mingled boughs, roll crashing down the steep;
Bound was the son of Morny, mute with shame;
The hoary, agèd hero overcame.
‘Fair, with her golden locks of glossy show,
Her polish'd neck and rising breasts of snow;
Fair, as the spirits of the hill appear
When from the cliffs they charm the list'ning ear;
Or when to view, light as the morning's breath,
At silent noon they glide along the heath;
Fair as the arch o'er heav'n's wide dome displayed,
So fair came Minvane the delightful maid.
“Fingal,” she softly said in accents sweet,
“Loose me my brother from his conqueror's feet.
Oh loose my Gaul,—my race's hope alone!
For all but Fingal tremble at his frown.”

292

“Shall I (reply'd the King) thy suit deny,
Thou lovely daughter of the mountain high?
No, free thy brother take, and welcome go.
Sweet Minvane! fairer than the northern snow.”
‘Such, Fingal, were thy words, sweet in my ear,
But now no more shall I these accents hear;
To wail my friends, and mourn their hapless doom,
Here sit I, sightless, by the dreary tomb;
Wild thro' the wood I hear the tempest roar,
But see my friends and hear their voice no more;
Ceas'd is the cry of hunters from afar,
And hush'd, for ever, the loud voice of War.’

A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE.

Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears
The sound of something purring at his heels.
Blair.

Man toils a pilgrim through this weary wild,
This land of serpents, this abode of cares;
And ah! what past, what future horrors dire,
In grim succession start upon his view!
Ills, that surveyed by Fancy's staring eye,
Swell to a size enormous, while the soul,
O'ercome and fainting at their dread approach,
Shrinks from herself; anticipates their pangs,
And sinks beneath imaginary woes.
Thrice happy he! beyond expression blest!
Who though by fate condemned to ceaseless toils,
Beneath hard Fortune's bleak inclement sky,
Feels but this moment's pain! and tho' he sees
Advancing clouds of ills, yet still enjoys
The present sunshine; hopeful that the storm,
Though hung in blackest frowns, may soon disperse,
Or roll unbroken o'er his peaceful head.

293

Late through a far-extended lonely moor,—
Whose gloomy sides and dark recesses, oft
Had prov'd the haunt of midnight ruffians fierce,—
Old Ralph, benighted, trod. A pedlar he,
Of honest fame; unlike those ragged swarms,
That ceaseless pouring from a neighb'ring isle,
On Scotia's shores intrude with baggage, base
And undeserving as the backs that bear them:
But sober he and grave, and large the load
That lay unwieldy on his shoulders wide,
And stoop'd him half to earth. A goat's rough skin
Inwrapt the costly stores. Scissors and combs,
And knives and laces long; sharp-pointed awls,
And pins arrang'd in many a glitt'ring row;
Strong Shetland-hose, and woollen night-caps warm;
Clasps, bonnets, razors, spectacles, and rings,
With nameless more, that here the Muse forbears
To crowd into her strain. But what avail'd
This world of wealth? That fail'd alas! to purchase
A bed of straw for its neglected owner.
From farm to farm, from cot to cot he strays,
Imploring shelter from th'approaching night,
And black-suspended storm. Full oft he vow'd to leave
Whole rows of pins, nor crave one scanty meal.
Vain were his vows, and sad he trudg'd, till night
Descending dreary o'er the dark'ning waste,
Conceal'd each human dwelling from his view,
Nor ought of sound assail'd his listening ear,
Save the wild shrieks of moor-cock from the hill,
Or breeze that whistled mournful o'er the heath.
The dreadful tales of robbers' bloody deeds,
That oft had swell'd his theme while nightly stretch'd
Beside the list'ning peasant's blazing hearth,
Now crowded on his mind in all their rage
Of pistols, purses, stand! deliver! death!
Trembling he stumbled on, and ever rolled
His jealous eyes around. Each waving shrub

294

Doubl'd his fears, till, horrible to thought!
The sound of hasty steps alarm'd his ear,
Fast hurrying up behind. Sudden he stopt,
And stooping, could discern, with terror struck,
Between him and the welkin's scanty light,
A black gigantic form of human shape,
And formidably arm'd. Ah! who can tell
The horrors dread that at this instant struck
Ralph's frozen frame. His few gray rev'rend hairs
Rose bristling up, and from his aged scalp,
Up-bore the affrighted bonnet. Down he dropt
Beneath th'oppressive load, but gath'ring soon
A little strength, in desperation crawl'd
To reach some neighb'ring shrubs' concealing shade.
So speeds the hurrying crab, when eager boys
Uprear th'incumbent stone, and bare expose
Himself and haunt unto the open day.
Approaching nearer to the bushes' gloom,
Along the heath, upon his breast, he stole,
With arms expanded, grasping for his hold:
As when to gain some herb's inviting leaf,
The weary snail, supporting her own shell,
And stretching forth her horns, with searching care
Moves cautious on. Meantime, scarce had he reach'd
The o'erhanging furze, when to his startled view
The stalking form advanc'd. Huge, huge it seem'd,
And in its brawny grasp held something black,—
A bloody sword, no doubt, of dreadful size;
Before the gloomy spot where Ralphus lay,
Frowning it stood; and look'd, and stood, and look'd;
And look'd, and stood!—
As if it sought but one directing glance
To thunder through his heart the deadly shot.
With horror petrify'd the pedlar lay
Squat on the heath, and shook through every nerve,
Till nature giving way, with one deep groan,
At once his senses sunk into a swoon.

295

Happy for Ralph, I ween, that at this time
The soul deserted her endanger'd clay,
Ere mighty cries for mercy had reveal'd
The spot he held, and forc'd him to resign
His purse, his budget, or his precious life.
How long he lay entranc'd, can ne'er be told
By human tongue; yet this we know, that life
Again revisited his wan, cold corpse,
And trembled on his lip. The purple tide
Resum'd its wonted course, and to the night
Again he op'd his weary, languid eyes,
While Recollection, settling on her throne,
Inform'd him where he was. Around he threw
His fearful look upon the dreary waste,
Where nought was seen to stir except the bent
That idly bended on the sighing blast;
While safe, and resting on his bruisèd back,
The bulky budget press'd him to the earth.
‘Good heav'n be praised!’ with lifted eyes he said,
‘That here my budget lies, and I am safe!’
So said, he rose, but with him also rose
Some doubts about his safety. O'er the heath,
With throbbing breast, he bent his pathless way,
And long he trod, and oft he gaz'd around
For some kind hut to shield him from the night.
At length, descending a rough, rocky steep,
A glimmering light from some lone cottage near,
Beam'd on his gladdened view. Soon to the door
His way he found, and entering, could perceive
A group assembled round the ruddy hearth.
Bent o'er the fire a hoary rustic hung,
Wrinkled with age, and seemed as if he'd been
The last survivor of the former age.
Upon the floor, engag'd in sportive play,
Three prattling infants sat; while, wrapt in peace,
Their frugal mother plyed the murm'ring wheel.
To her Ralph straight apply'd, and wishing peace,

296

Besought the shelter of their humble roof,
To rest till dawn of day his weary limbs;
For far, far distant from each friend he stray'd,
And cold and dreary was the gloomy night.
The jealous matron for a while survey'd
His decent form; then pointing to a chest,
While kind compassion melted in her eye—
‘Repose,’ she said, ‘your load, and freely share
That fare and shelter we ourselves enjoy.’
Scarce had poor Ralph obey'd, and scarce sat down,
To ponder pensive on the danger past,
When noise announc'd some wanderer at the door;
Soft rose the latch, and instant usher'd in
A feeble, shiv'ring, small, decrepid thing;
One drooping hand sustain'd the pond'rous goose,
Whose level, burning bases, oft, alas!
Unpitying, scorches the gray wand'ring brood
That, numerous, lurk amid th'enclosing seams;
A rod the other grasp'd, that serv'd to explore
His darksome path along the midnight mud,
Nor fail'd to act a useful part by day.
A sound of joy now through the cottage rose;
Each laughing infant ran to meet his sire
With shouts of joy. Aside the matron put
Her well-worn wheel, and anxiously enquir'd
From him the cause of his unusual stay.
A fear-begotten, wild, expressive look
He just return'd the partner of his cares,
When seated softly in his rev'rend chair,
With solemn voice and sighing thus began:
‘If ever Satan visited this earth,
This night, this dreadful night I have him seen.’
‘Heav'n be our guide!’ exclaim'd the trembling wife,
The children crowded nearer to the hearth,
And while the hoary swain star'd in his face,
The ghostly taylor thus his tale renew'd:—
‘Dark was the night ere thro' the rustling wood,

297

Groping my way, I gain'd the level moor;
There, as I trod along, methought I heard
Some rumbling noise before me on the heath,
As stones confin'd within a coffin make;
Approaching nearer, plainly I beheld
(If e'er these eyes were capable of sight)
A monstrous rolling bulk, three times as large
As any ox that ever graz'd the hill;
Within my view it kept, till vent'ring near,
And stopping short to guess what it might be,
With two deep groans it vanish'd from my sight.
‘Feeble as death I fled, and soon I reached
The cottage on the hill; but ere my tongue
Could tell the sad disaster, flat I fell
For dead upon the floor. With much kind care
They brought me back to life; these last two hours
There pale I sat, my vigour to regain.
But never, never, shall I e'er dispute
The dread existence of those wandering fiends;
This night these eyes have witnessèd such horrors,
As would have terrify'd and put to flight
The priest himself, and boldest man on earth.’
He ceas'd, and Ralph, with looks that sparkl'd joy,
Explain'd the mystery dread. A burst of mirth,
In laughter loud, convuls'd their ev'ry nerve;
Forth from his shaggy budget Ralphus drew,
In gleesome mood, his pipes; the swelling bag
Awoke the warlike yell and sounding drone;
The hoary swain sat smiling in his chair,
Up sprung the host and flung around the floor;
The wondering yonkers laugh'd to see their sire,
And mirth and music echoed thro' the cot.

298

SONG.

[_]

Tune.—‘Her sheep are all in clusters.’

Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep,
Ye breezes that sigh o'er the main;
Here shelter me under your cliffs, while I weep,
And cease, while ye hear me complain;
For distant, alas! from my native dear shores,
And far from each friend now I be;
And wide is the merciless ocean, that roars
Between my Matilda and me.
How blest are the times when together we stray'd,
While Phœbe shone silent above;
Or lean'd by the border of Cartha's green side,
And talk'd the whole evening of love;
Around us all nature lay wrapt up in peace,
No noise could our pleasures annoy;
Save Cartha's hoarse brawling, convey'd by the breeze,
That sooth'd us to love and to joy.
If haply some youth had his passion exprest,
And prais'd the bright charms of her face;
What horrors, unceasing, revolv'd thro' my breast,
While sighing I stole from the place.
For where is the eye that could view her alone,
The ear that could list to her strain;
Nor wish the adorable nymph for his own,
Nor double the pangs I sustain?
Thou moon! that now brightens those regions above,
How oft hast thou witness'd my bliss!
While breathing my tender expressions of love,
I seal'd each kind vow with a kiss.

299

Ah! then, how I joy'd, while I gaz'd on her charms!
What transports flew swift through my heart!
I press'd the dear beautiful maid in my arms,
Nor dream'd that we ever would part.
But now from the dear, from the tenderest maid,
By Fortune unfeelingly torn;
'Midst strangers, who wonder to see me so sad,
In secret I wander forlorn;
And oft when drear midnight assembles her shades,
And Silence pours sleep from her throne;
Pale, lonely, and pensive, I steal thro' the glades,
And sigh 'midst the darkness my moan.
In vain to the town I retreat for relief,
In vain to the groves I complain;
Belles, coxcombs, and uproar, can ne'er soothe my grief,
And solitude nurses my pain.
Still absent from her whom my bosom loves best,
I languish in mis'ry and care;
Her presence could banish each woe from my breast,
But her absence, alas! is despair.
Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep;
Ye breezes that sigh o'er the main;
Oh, shelter me under your cliffs, while I weep,
And cease, while ye hear me complain.
For distant, alas! from my native dear shores,
And far from each friend now I be;
And wide is the merciless ocean, that roars
Between my Matilda and me.

300

ELEGY.

Lean not on Earth, 'twill pierce thee to the heart,
A broken reed at best, but oft a spear,
On its sharp point Peace bleeds and Hope expires.
Young.

Beneath a range of elms, whose branches throw
A gloomy shade upon the path below;
There, scarcely shelter'd from the evening wind,
A youth, slow-wandering, pensively reclin'd;
Sunk were his eyes, his visage deadly wan,
Deep, deep, he groan'd, and thus in grief began:
Blest were those times that now, alas! are fled,
When health and plenty wanton'd round my head;
When all my griefs were sunk in downy rest,
And peace and pleasure dwelt within my breast;
Then smiling swains assembled in my train,
Hung on my arm, delighted with my strain;
Prest, when I spoke, with eager warmth my hand,
And begg'd the blessing but to be my friend,
Extoll'd my worth and pointed to a store
Of wealth and joy when all my toils were o'er;
My verse, they said, would cease not to inspire
While time remain'd, or mortals to admire.
Dear, dear to me were Friendship's clasping arms,
But dearer far the young Lavinia's charms.
Friendship, if real, our distress may share,
But Love can soothe, can sweeten every care.
Sweet were the hours that fann'd our mutual flame,
And soft the strain that breath'd her charming name.
Her face, her form as Beauty's self were fair,
For every grace and every charm were there.
Our thoughts were guileless, pure our growing flame,
Our minds, our wishes, and our hearts the same.
No fears could damp, no foes our hopes destroy,
But each young moment brought an age of joy.
These were the times that promis'd bliss in store,
But these, alas! will visit me no more.

301

Ah, why should beings frail as bark can be,
Trust the smooth calm of Life's uncertain sea,
That, rising, roars around the helpless crew,
And whelms their hopes for ever from their view.
Death, whose dread frown can chill the boldest heart,
Spread his cold horrors o'er my dearest part;
Thrice pale Lavinia, panting by my side,
Moan'd out my name in accents faint, and dy'd!
O where shall anguish fit expression find
To paint the woes of my distracted mind,
When all I lov'd, and all I wish'd to have,
Sunk from my arms into the yawning grave.
Kind is the world and eager to befriend
While health and success on our steps attend;
But let the tempest of Misfortune roar,
We hear its offers and its vows no more.
'Twas now, while ruin growl'd around my head,
That all my worth and all my prospects fled;
Health, comfort, peace, and with them every friend,
Whose heart could soothe, or pity, or defend;
Ev'n hope itself, Fate calls me to forego,
And nought remains but a whole world of woe.
O Death! thou friend, thou sovereign cure indeed,
When wilt thou bid this bosom cease to bleed.
To thee I look, to thee distrest and wan,
To seal those sorrows that thy arm began;
Life wrings my soul with agonising care,
And earth can give no comfort but despair.
Here ceas'd he sad, and heav'd the deep-felt sigh,
While fast the tears stole down from either eye;
Bleak blew the wind, the darkness blacker grew,
And slow the youth with feeble pace withdrew.

302

ELEGY.

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.

Thou dearest object of my soul on earth,
Thou kind, young sharer of my joys and woe;
Forgive, while here I pour my sorrows forth,
E'er life's last current from its fountain flow.
The hour arrives with heaven's supreme behest,
Advancing death in awful pomp I see;
Disease slow writhes within my troubled breast,
And past are all the joys of life with me.
Farewell, ye pleasing scenes of fond delight,
Farewell ye hopes that promised once so well;
Ye charms that shot through my enraptur'd sight,
Ye days of peace, ye nights of joy, farewell.
No more with thee the drousy town I'll leave,
To tread the dews, and breathe the sweets of morn;
Nor fondly wish the dear return of eve,
To meet thee blushing near the lonely thorn.
The eyes that gaz'd unwearied on thy charms,
The heart that wont at sight of thee to leap;
A few sad hours will finish its alarms,
And seal their orbs in everlasting sleep.
When this weak pulse hath number'd out its date,
When all my hopes and all my fears are o'er;
When each young friend shall pensive tell my fate,
And death's black train stand mournful at my door.
Then, oh! Lavinia, while thou dost survey
The pale chang'd features once to thee well known;
The limbs that flew thy dictates to obey,
The arms that oft enclasp'd thee as their own.

303

Check not the tear that trembles in thine eye,
Nor stop the sigh that struggles from thy heart;
These are the rites for which I'd rather die,
Than all the pomp of marble and of art.
Lavinia, oh! thou dear, thou precious name!
That opes each wound, and tears my trembling heart;
Wilt thou vouchsafe one poor request I claim,
To breathe one wish, one prayer e'er we part?
O round thy head may heaven its blessings strew!
May angels waft each comfort to thy cell;
Pure be thy peace—thy tears, thy troubles few,
Thou kindest maid, thou dearest friend, farewell.

TO THE HON. WILLIAM M'DOWAL, OF GARTHLAND, ON HIS RETURN FROM PARLIAMENT, JULY, 1791.

Welcome once more, from scenes of pomp and noise,
To rural peace and undisturbèd joys;
Welcome! the blessings of the poor to share,
That smiles and tears of gratitude declare.
Smiles, from the soul that undissembled dart,
And tears, warm-streaming from th'o'erflowing heart.
Blest be the arm! when Famine from his den,
Led on by fools and deep-designing men,
Advanc'd, grim-threat'ning, to deform those plains,
Where wealth and peace and boundless commerce reigns;
Blest be the arm that scourg'd him from our shore,
And bade our hopes to blossom as before.
The warrior sheath'd in steel and drench'd in blood,
May scatter death where towns and hamlets stood;
May see around the flaming horrors rise,
And hear, well-pleased, expiring wretches' cries;

304

These to his savage bosom may convey
A short-liv'd joy that darkens with the day;
But he, whose gracious and assisting hand
Spreads wealth and pleasure o'er a smiling land;
Bids cities rise, internal troubles cease,
And pours the balm of liberty and peace;
To him the peasant, whistling o'er the soil;
The yellow fields, the reapers' rustling toil;
The noisy bustling town, the crowded port,
Where mingling nations with their stores resort;
These to his heart a tide of rapture roll,
That warms, sublimes, and dignifies the soul.
To you, M'Dowal, whose unbounded heart
Exults, to all those blessings to impart;
To you each bosom heaves with grateful sighs,
For you the warmest of our wishes rise;
That Heaven, indulgent, may for ever shed
Health, peace, and pleasure round your honor'd head,
Long, long, to rise amid your humble swains,
The hope, the guard, and glory of our plains.

EPIGRAM.

I ask'd a poor fav'rite of Phœbus t'other night,
Whom to see, I had toil'd seven proud stories' height;
If his wit could inform me what cause can be for it,
That poets incline so to live in a garret?
‘There are many,’ quoth he, ‘don't you know that sly reynard
When trac'd from the hen-roost, the fold or the vineyard,
How by turnings and doubling he endeavors to fleece
Each hound of its aim, then repose him in peace?
So we, (such you see are the terms of Apollo)
Still in dread of the Bailiff or Dun's horrid hollo;

305

Mount, winding and circling through a labyrinth of stairs,
To our own airy regions of hunger and cares.
‘Another, moreover, might likewise be given—
We're nearer Apollo, the Muses, and Heaven;
From whence, when the patch from its pane is unfurl'd,
We can spit with contempt on the rest of the world;
And, living on air, sure 'tis well understood,
That the higher the garret the purer the food.’

EPIGRAM.

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.

If cares can quench the poet's fire,
And damp each cheerful-rising thought;
Make Wilson drooping drop the lyre,
Ere he perhaps a theme has sought;
Sure if there liv'd a friendly swain,
Mild, merry, generous to the poet;
Inspiring joy, expelling pain,
To please inclin'd, and kind to show it.
Can words tell how my heart would leap,
How throb to meet a swain so true!
Exclaim you, with affection deep,
‘Lives such a swain’?—he lives in you.

306

THE RAKE: AN EPIGRAM.

Tho' Floris revell'd, subtile as a fox,
Thrice in six weeks poor Florio caught a pox;
The next six weeks brought weeping to his door,
Three pregnant wenches and a brimstone whore.
Mad at the sight, and tortur'd with the evil,
He drove the black assembly to the devil.
Well, here his griefs would end! Ah, piteous tale
Six following weeks beheld him in a jail;
The next six saw him, e'er that time flew by,
Roar, curse, blaspheme, pine, mortify and die.
Blest hadst thou been, O Florio! blest indeed!
Nor yet condemn'd among the common dead,
Had Fate withheld (to lengthen out thy days,)
Such fierce temptations from thy eager gaze,
And gracious given thee, to grasp the trick,
A longer patience, ------

TO THE CURIOUS.

AN ENIGMA.

What Samson embrac'd, when revenge for his eyes,
Provok'd the huge warrior to tumble down legions;
What oft, thro' the night, from some ruin'd church cries,
Harsh-voiced as a native of Pluto's pale regions;
The female whose folly all mankind impeach,
That e'er she was form'd to embitter enjoyment;
The little emphatical main-spring of speech,
Whose pleasure is toil, and whose ease is employment.
Pick out the initials of each of their names,
And his who destroy'd, and then bowed down to witches;
Which done, a known title your notice then claims,
Of a parcel of poor insignificant wretches.

307

PRAYER.

ADDRESSED TO JOVE, THE GOD OF THUNDER, DURING THE LATE HOT WEATHER.

God of thunders, clouds and rain!
Hear, nor let us pray in vain;
In this sultry hot September,
Jove, thy worms of earth remember;
See us panting, blowing, sweating,
Chok'd with dust, fatigu'd with fretting;
Roasted up, as brown's potatoes,
Stung by flies, and curst musquetoes;
Sleepless nights, for ever turning;
Drench'd in sweat from night to morning;
Drinking grog to quench the fire,
Still the more we drink, the drier.
See our meadows, fields, and pastures,
Bare and brown as blist'ring plaisters;
See our melons, pears, and peaches,
Shrivelled up like skins of witches;
Streams and ponds, and creeks a-drying,
Millers groaning, fishes dying;
Frogs extended stiff as pokers,—
Dead, alas! are all the croakers;
Tenor, treble, bass and chorus,
Blood and wounds himself no more is.
See the clouds of dust ascending
O'er the burning road contending;
There, the wet and foaming steed,
Panting, lashed to cruel speed;
Feels in ev'ry vein the fires,
Staggers, tumbles, and expires.
See these strangers faint and sweating,
Landed from the shores of Britain;
(Blessèd shores! where temp'rate gales,
Health and verdure never fails;
Round whose airy cliffs, sea-driven,

308

Sweeps the purest breath of Heaven:)
See them clad in coats of woollen,
Panting for some shade to cool in;
Looking round with restless gaze,
Through the sultry, sick'ning blaze:
On each parchèd field they meet,
With'ring in the torrid heat,
With a sigh—that fate should lead 'em
To such burning shores of freedom.
See our cits with tun-like bellies,
Melted down almost to jellies:
See our mowers, mason-tenders,
See our smiths, like salamanders;
See—but, gracious Pow'r, forgive us,
Thou see'st all, and can'st relieve us;
God of thunders, clouds, and rain,
Hear, nor let us pray in vain!
From the wat'ry western regions,
Call Thy clouds in gloomy legions:
Tow'ring, thick'ning, moving horrid,
O'er the day's affrighted forehead;
Swift athwart the low'ring deep,
Sudden let the lightning sweep;
Loud the bursting thunders roar,
Flashes blaze, and torrents pour;
Dark'ning, blazing, roaring, pouring—
Till this earth has got a scouring;
Till each stream, and creek, and current,
Swells and roars a raging torrent;
Till each freshen'd field, and every
Hill and dale, wear Nature's livery;
And cool buxom breezes winnow,
Bracing ev'ry nerve and sinew.
God of thunders, clouds, and rain!
Hear! nor let us pray in vain;
And till age has made us hoary,
Thine shall be the praise and glory.

309

HYMNS.

I.

[Where'er I turn my weary eyes]

Where'er I turn my weary eyes,
Surrounding sorrows wait;
For vain are all the passing joys,
And fairest smiles of Fate.
Full oft, thro' life's perplexing maze,
We chase some distant gain;
Death comes—we leave the mad pursuit,
And sigh—that all is vain.
And is all vanity below?—
Religion mild replies,
‘No other joys, save those I give,
Can make thee good or wise.’

II.

[Ye dazzling stars above]

Ye dazzling stars above,
That deck the midnight sky;
Say, whence the mighty pow'r that thus
Suspended you on high.
Wide o'er the vast expanse
Your glitt'ring numbers roll;
And thus, methinks, in solemn strains,
You whisper to the soul:
‘For thee, from age to age,
Here silently we shine;
To lift thy thoughts from things below,
And lead them to divine.’

310

III.

[Glad Morning now unfolds her wing]

Glad Morning now unfolds her wing,
And shakes the dews of night away;
The birds, from airy branches, sing,
To hail the near approach of day.
How sad to them when Sol retires!
How welcome his returning rays!
When love their every breast inspires,
To chant the great Creator's praise.
Come then, my soul! that Pow'r adore,
While light, and life, and time remain;
Soon will my day of life be o'er,
And death's descending darkness reign.

IV.

[Slow sinks the sun]

Slow sinks the sun
Amid the ruddy main;
While silence seals
Each closing eye to rest;
The weary bird
Steals softly to its nest;
While, from the town,
The sounds of labour cease
And all around
Is universal peace.
Now while the moon
Begins her nightly course;
While mild the air,
And silent sleeps the breeze;
And shadows stretch
Beneath the branching trees;
There, musing deep,
Let Contemplation stray;
Far from the noise
And discontents of day.

311

V.

[Why fails my courage now?]

Why fails my courage now?
Why tremble I at death?
Why sweats my throbbing brow,
To yield that trifle—breath?
Alas! some pow'r within
Incessant seems to say;
That I, in deepest sin,
Have trifled life away.
Oh! save me from the deep,
That life I may renew;
Suspend the blow, but keep
Death ever in my view.

VI.

[Again the fading fields]

Again the fading fields
Announce wild Winter nigh;
Each shed the harvest shields
From the inclement sky.
Low low'r the clouds
And o'er the plain,
Fast pours the rain
And swells the floods.
Loud o'er the lonely height
The lashing tempest howls;
And, through the tedious night
Wild scream the wailing owls;
While round the shores
Of Albion wide;
In foaming pride,
Old Ocean roars.

312

VII.

[To Him who bids the tempest roll]

To Him who bids the tempest roll,
Or lulls the noontide blaze;
In joyful anthems let your soul
Proclaim His boundless praise.
Where'er yon glorious orb of day
Dispels the dreary night;
Where'er his bright refulgent ray
Dispenses life and light:
In one triumphant chorus high,
Let all unite around;
Till loud along the vaulted sky,
The lofty song resound.

SONGS.

MY LANDLADY'S NOSE.

O'er the evils of life 'tis a folly to fret,
Despondence and grief never lessen'd them yet;
Then a fig for the world let it come as it goes,
I'll sing to the praise of my landlady's nose.
My landlady's nose is in noble condition,
For longitude, latitude, shape, and position;
'Tis as round as a horn, and as red as a rose,
Success to the hulk of my landlady's nose.
To jewellers' shops let your ladies repair,
For trinkets and nick-nacks to give them an air;
Here living curbuncles, a score of them glows
On the big massy sides of my landlady's nose.

313

Old Patrick M'Dougherty when on the fuddle,
Pulls out a segar, and looks up to her noddle;
For Dougherty swears, when he swigs a good dose,
By Marjory's firebrand, my landlady's nose.
Ye wishy-wash butter-milk drinkers so cold,
Come here, and the virtues of brandy behold;
Here's red burning Ætna; a mountain of snows,
Would roll down in streams from my landlady's nose.
Each cavern profound of this snuff-loving snout,
Is furnish'd within, sir, as well as without;
O'er the brown upper lip such a cordial flows—
O, the cordial brown drops of my landlady's nose.
But, gods! when this trunk with an uplifted arm,
She grasps in the dish-clout to blow an alarm,
Horns, trumpets, conches are but screaming of crows,
To the loud thund'ring twang of my landlady's nose.
My landlady's nose unto me is a treasure,
A care-killing nostrum, a fountain of pleasure;
If I want for a laugh to discard all my woes,
I only look up to my landlady's nose.

CONNEL AND FLORA.

Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main,
Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again;
Alas! morn returns to revisit our shore;
But Connel returns to his Flora no more!
For see, on yon mountain, the dark cloud of death
O'er Connel's lone cottage, lies low on the heath;
While bloody and pale, on a far distant shore,
He lies, to return to his Flora no more!

314

Ye light fleeting spirits that glide o'er yon steep,
O would ye but waft me across the wild deep,
There fearless I'd mix in the battle's loud roar,
I'd die with my Connel, and leave him no more!

WASHINGTON: DIRGE.

He's gone! for ever gone and lost
Our country's glory, pride, and boast;
In vain we weep—in vain deplore,
Our Washington is now no more.—
That guiding star, whose radiant form,
In triumph led us thro' the storm
While blackest clouds did round us roar,
Is set—to gild our sphere no more.
O'er regions far remote and nigh,
The fatal tidings swiftly fly;
Each startled bosom heaves with woe,
And tears of deepest sorrow flow.
The young, the aged, wise, and brave,
Approach in solemn grief his grave;
In silent anguish to bemoan,
Their hero, friend, and father gone.

JEFFERSON AND LIBERTY.

A PATRIOTIC SONG.

[_]

Air—‘Willie was a wanton wag.’

The gloomy night before us flies,
The reign of terror now is o'er;
Its gags, inquisitors, and spies,
Its herds of harpies are no more.

315

CHORUS.

Rejoice! Columbia's sons, rejoice,
To tyrants never bend the knee;
But join, with heart, and soul, and voice,
For Jefferson and Liberty.
Hail! long expected, glorious day;
Illustrious, memorable morn!
That freedom's fabric, from decay,
Rebuilds for millions yet unborn.
His country's glory, hope, and stay,
In virtue and in talents tried;
Now rises to assume the sway,
O'er this great temple to preside.
Within its hallowed walls immense,
No hireling bands shall e'er arise;
Arrayed in tyranny's defence,
To crush an injured people's cries.
No lordling here, with gorging jaws,
Shall wring from Industry her food;
No holy bigot's fiery laws
Lay waste our ruined fields in blood.
Here, strangers from a thousand shores,
Compelled by tyranny to roam;
Still find, amidst abundant stores,
A nobler, and a happier home.
Here Art shall lift her laurelled head,
Wealth, industry, and peace divine;
And, where unbounded forests spread,
Shall fields and lofty cities shine.
From Europe's wants and woes remote,
A friendly waste of waves between;

316

Here plenty cheers the humblest cot,
And smiles on every village green.
Here, free as air's expanded space,
To every soul and sect shall be,
That sacred privilege of our race,
The worship of the Deity.
These gifts, great Liberty, are thine
Ten thousand more we owe to thee;
Immortal may their memories shine,
Who fought and died for Liberty.
What heart but hails a scene so bright?
What soul but inspiration draws?
Who would not guard so dear a right,
Or die in such a glorious cause?
Let foes to freedom dread the name;
But should they touch this sacred tree,
Thrice fifty thousand swords shall flame,
For Jefferson and Liberty!
O'er vast Columbia's varied clime,
Her cities, forests, shores, and dales,
In rising majesty sublime,
Immortal liberty prevails.
From Georgia to Lake Champlain,
From seas to Mississippi's shore;
Ye sons of freedom loud proclaim,
The reign of terror is no more.
Rejoice Columbia's sons rejoice,
To tyrants never bend the knee;
But join, with heart, and soul, and voice,
For Jefferson and Liberty!