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Poems

On Several Occasions, By Michael Bruce. A New Edition

Bruce, Michael (1746-1767)

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VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE MOTHER OF MICHAEL BRUCE.

POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

THE EAGLE, CROW, AND SHEPHERD:

ALEXIS:

DAMON, MENALCAS, AND MELIBOEUS:

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xix

VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE MOTHER OF MICHAEL BRUCE.

By a Lady.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

In Life's fair-dawning, but deceitful morn,
By awful Heaven's inscrutable decree,
The tender scion from its parent torn,
Left to the storm the bending branchless tree.

Where then that heart which with devotion glow'd?
That fancy bright, by early genius fir'd?
Those candid virtues Heav'n's own hand bestow'd?
Ah! where the tow'ring hopes by these inspir'd?

Blasted they lay for many a dismal year;
Nought sooth'd thy grief, save memory of the past:

Now, virtue to reward, and age to cheer,
Thy bounteous Maker sends relief at last.

Though fourscore winters on thy blameless head,
With want, neglect, and hardship, in their train,
Relentless, have their baneful influence shed;
Yet consolation visits thee again.

Lo! sweet Benevolence a joy sincere
Shall with thy Son's reviving fame impart;
Again his praise shall charm thy languid ear,
And warm with honest pride thy withering heart.

Ev'n when in shades conceal'd, obscure of birth,
Fame spoke his merits with no partial breath;
And aided now by generous kindred worth,
His genius triumphs over Time and Death.

N. B. The profits which may arise from this edition are to be applied solely to the support of the Poet's Mother, now advanced to her 87th year, and living in indigence.

POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

THE EAGLE, CROW, AND SHEPHERD:

A FABLE.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Beneath the horror of a rock,
A shepherd careless fed his flock.
Souse from its top an eagle came,
And seiz'd upon a sporting lamb;
Its tender sides his talons tear,
And bear it bleating through the air.

This was discover'd by a crow,
Who hopp'd upon the plain below.
“Yon ram,” says he, “becomes my prey;”
And, mounting, hastens to the fray;
Lights on his back—when lo, ill-luck!
He in the fleece entangled stuck:
He spreads his wings, but can't get free,
Struggling in vain for liberty.

The shepherd soon the captive spies,
And soon he seizes on the prize.
His children curious croud around,
And ask what strange fowl he has found?
“My sons,” said he, “warn'd by this wretch,
“Attempt no deed above your reach:
“An eagle not an hour ago,
“He's now content to be a crow.”

ALEXIS:

A PASTORAL.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Upon a bank with cowslips cover'd o'er,
Where Leven's waters break against the shore;
What time the village sires in circles talk,
And youths and maidens take their evening walk;
Among the yellow broom Alexis lay,
And view'd the beauties of the setting day.

Full well you might observe some inward smart,
Some secret grief hung heavy at his heart.
While round the field his sportive lambkins play'd,
He rais'd his plaintive voice, and thus he said:

Begin, my pipe! a softly mournful strain.
The parting sun shines yellow on the plain;

The balmy west-wind breathes along the ground;
Their evening sweets the flow'rs dispense around;
The flocks stray bleating o'er the mountain's brow,
And from the plain the answ'ring cattle low;
Sweet chant the feather'd tribes on every tree,
And all things feel the joys of love—but me.

Begin, my pipe! begin the mournful strain.
Eumelia meets my kindness with disdain.
Oft have I try'd her stubborn heart to move,
And in her icy bosom kindle love:
But all in vain. Ere I my love declar'd,
With other youths her company I shar'd;
But now she shuns me, hopeless and forlorn,
And pays my constant passion with her scorn.

Begin, my pipe! the sadly-soothing strain,
And bring the days of innocence again.

Well I remember, in the sunny scene
We ran, we play'd together on the green.
Fair in our youth, and wanton in our play,
We toy'd, we sported the long summer's day.
For her I spoil'd the gardens of the Spring,
And taught the goldfinch on her hand to sing.
We sat and sung beneath the lovers tree;
One was her look, and it was fix'd on me.

Begin, my pipe! a melancholy strain.
A holiday was kept on yonder plain;
The feast was spread upon the flow'ry mead,
And skilful Thyrsis tun'd his vocal reed;
Each for the dance selects the nymph he loves,
And every nymph with smiles her swain approves:
The setting sun beheld their mirthful glee,
And left all happy in their love—but me.

Begin, my pipe! a softly-mournful strain.
O cruel nymph! O most unhappy swain!
To climb the steepy rock's tremendous height.
And crop its herbage, is the goat's delight;
The flow'ry thyme delights the humming bees,
And blooming wilds the bleating lambkins please;
Daphnis courts Chloe under every tree:
Eumelia! you alone have joys for me!

Now cease, my pipe! now cease the mournful strain.
Lo, yonder comes Eumelia o'er the plain!
Till she approach, I'll lurk behind the shade,
Then try with all my art the stubborn maid:
Though to her lover cruel and unkind,
Yet time may change the purpose of her mind.—
But vain these pleasing hopes! already, see,
She hath observ'd, and now she flies from me!

Then cease, my pipe! unavailing strain.
Apollo aids, the Nine inspire in vain:
You, cruel maid! refuse to lend an ear;
No more I sing, since you disdain to hear.
This pipe Amyntas gave, on which he play'd:
“Be thou its second lord,” the dying shepherd said.
No more I play—now silent let it be;
Nor pipe, nor song, can e'er give joy to me.

DAMON, MENALCAS, AND MELIBOEUS:

AN ECLOGUE.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

DAMON.
Mild from the show'r, the morning's rosy light
Unfolds the beauteous season to the sight:
The landscape rises verdant on the view;
The little hills uplift their heads in dew;
The sunny stream rejoices in the vale;
The woods with songs approaching Summer hail:
The boy comes forth among the flow'rs to play;
His fair hair glitters in the yellow ray.—
Shepherds, begin the song! while, o'er the mead,
Your flocks at will on dewy pastures feed.
Behold fair nature, and begin the song!
The songs of nature to the swain belong.

Who equals Cona's bard in silvan strains,
To him his harp an equal prize remains:
His harp, which sounds on all its sacred strings
The loves of hunters, and the wars of kings.

MENALCAS.

Now fleecy clouds in clearer skies are seen;
The air is genial, and the earth is green:
O'er hill and dale the flow'rs spontaneous spring;
And blackbirds signing now invite to sing.

MELIBOEUS.

Now milky show'rs rejoice the springing grain;
New-opening pea-blooms purple all the plain;
The hedges blossom white on every hand;
Already harvest seems to clothe the land.

MENALCAS.

White o'er the hill my snowy sheep appear,
Each with her lamb; their shepherds name they bear.
I love to lead them where the daisies spring,
And on the sunny hill to sit and sing.

MELIBOEUS.

My fields are green with clover and with corn;
My flocks the hills, and herds the vales adorn.
I teach the stream, I teach the vocal shore,
And woods, to echo that “I want no more.”

MENALCAS.

To me the bees their annual nectar yield;
Peace cheers my hut, and plenty clothes my field.
I fear no loss: I give to Ocean's wind
All care away;—a monarch in my mind.

MELIBOEUS.

My mind is cheerful as the linnet's lays;
Heav'n daily hears a shepherd's simple praise.
What time I shear my flock, I send a fleece
To aged Mopsa, and her orphan niece.

MENALCAS.

Lavinia, come! here primroses upspring;
Here choirs of linnets, here yourself may sing;
Here meadows worthy of thy foot appear:
O come, Lavinia! let us wander here!

MELIBOEUS.

Rosella, come! here flow'rs the heath adorn;
Here ruddy roses open on the thorn;
Here willows by the brook a shadow give:
O here, Rosella! let us love to live!

MENALCAS.

Lavinia's fairer than the flow'rs of May,
Or Autumn apples ruddy in the ray:
For her my flow'rs are in a garland wove;
And all my apples ripen for my love.

MELIBOEUS.

Prince of the wood, the oak majestic tow'rs;
The lily of the vale is queen of flow'rs:
Above the maids Rosella's charms prevail,
As oaks in woods, and lilies in the vale!

MENALCAS.

Resound, ye rocks! ye little hills, rejoice!
Assenting woods, to Heav'n uplift your voice!
Let Spring and Summer enter hand in hand!
Lavinia comes! the glory of our land!

MELIBOEUS.

Whene'er my love appears upon the plain,
To her the wond'ring shepherds tune the strain:
“Who comes in beauty like the vernal morn,
“When yellow robes of light all heav'n and earth adorn.”

MENALCAS.

Rosella's mine, by all the pow'rs above!
Each star in heav'n is witness to our love.
Among the lilies she abides all day;
Herself as lovely, and as sweet as they.

MELIBOEUS.

By Tweed Lavinia feeds her fleecy care,
And in the sun-shine combs her yellow hair.
Be thine the peace of Heav'n, unknown to kings!
And o'er thee angels spread their guardian wings!

MENALCAS.

I follow'd Nature, and was fond of praise;
Thrice noble Varo has approv'd my lays:
If he approves, superior to my peers,
I join th'immortal choir, and sing to other years.

MELIBOEUS.

My mistress is my muse: the banks of Tyne
Resound with Nature's music, and with mine.
Helen the fair, the beauty of our green,
To me adjudg'd the prize, when chosen queen.

DAMON.

Now cease your songs: the flocks to shelter fly,
And the high sun has gain'd the middle sky.
To both alike the poet's bays belong;
Chiefs of the choir, and masters of the song.

Thus let your pipes contend, with rival strife,
To sing the praises of the past'ral life:
Sing Nature's scenes, with Nature's beauties fir'd;
Where poets dream'd, where prophets lay inspir'd.
Even Caledonian queens have trod the meads,
And scepter'd kings assum'd the shepherds weeds:
Th'angelic choirs, that guard the throne of God,
Have sat with shepherds on the humble sod.
With us renew'd the golden times remain,
And long-lost innocence is found again.

PASTORAL SONG.

[_]

To the tune of The Yellow-Hair'd Laddie.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

I

In May when the gowans appear on the green,
And flow'rs in the field and the forest are seen;
Where lilies bloom'd bonny, and hawthorns upsprung,
The yellow-hair'd laddie oft whistled and sung.

II

But neither the shades, nor the sweets of the flow'rs,
Nor the blackbirds that warbled on blossoming bow'rs,
Could pleasure his eye, or his ear entertain;
For love was his pleasure, and love was his pain.

III

The shepherd thus sung; while his flocks all around
Drew nearer and nearer, and sigh'd to the sound:

Around, as in chains, lay the beasts of the wood,
With pity disarmed, with music subdu'd.

IV

Young Jessy is fair as the Spring's early flow'r,
And Mary sings sweet as the bird in the bow'r:
But Peggy is fairer and sweeter than they;
With looks like the morning, with smiles like the day.

V

In the flow'r of her youth, in the bloom of eighteen;
Of virtue the goddess, of beauty the queen:
One hour in her presence an æra excels
Amid courts, where ambition with misery dwells.

VI

Fair to the shepherd the new-springing flow'rs,
When May and when morning lead on the gay hours:
But Peggy is brighter and fairer than they;
She's fair as the morning, and lovely as May.

VII

Sweet to the shepherd the wild woodland sound,
When larks sing above him, and lambs bleat around:
But Peggy far sweeter can speak and can sing,
Than the notes of the warblers that welcome the Spring.

VIII

When in beauty she moves by the brook of the plain,
You would call her a Venus new sprung from the main:
When she sings, and the woods with their echoes reply,
You would think that an angel was warbling on high.

IX

Ye pow'rs that preside over mortal estate!
Whose nod ruleth nature, whose pleasure is fate!
O grant me, O grant me the heav'n of her charms!
May I live in her presence, and die in her arms!

DAPHNIS:

A MONODY.

To the memory of a young Boy of great parts.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

I.

No more of youthful joys or love's fond dreams,
No more of morning fair, or ev'ning mild,
While Daphnis lies among the silent dead
Unsung; tho' long ago he trode the path,
The dreary road of death—
Which soon or late each human foot must tread.
He trode the dark uncomfortable wild
By Faith's pure light, by Hope's heav'n-op'ning beams;
By Love, whose image gladdens mortal eyes,
And keeps the golden key that opens all the skies.

II.

Assist, ye Muses!—and ye will assist;
For Daphnis, whom I sing, to you was dear:
Ye lov'd the boy, and on his youthful head
Your kindest influence shed.—
So may I match his lays, who to the lyre
Wail'd his lost Lycidas by wood and rill:
So may the Muse my grov'ling mind inspire
To sing a farewell to thy ashes blest;
To bid fair peace be to thy gentle shade;
To scatter flow'rets, cropt by Fancy's hand,
In sad assemblage round thy tomb,
If water'd by the Muse, to latest time to bloom.

III.

Oft by the side of Leven's crystal lake,
Trembling beneath the closing lids of light,

With slow short-measur'd steps we took our walk:
Then he would talk
Of argument far, far above his years;
Then he would reason high,
Till from the east the silver queen of night
Her journey up heav'n's steep began to make,
And Silence reign'd attentive in the sky.

IV.

O happy days!—for ever, ever gone!
When o'er the flow'ry green we ran, we play'd
With blooms bedropt by youthful Summer's hand;
Or, in the willow-shade,
We mimic castles built among the sand,
Soon by the sounding surge to be beat down,
Or sweeping winds; when, by the sedgy marsh,
We heard the heron and the wild duck harsh,

And sweeter lark tune his melodious lay,
At highest noon of day.
Among the antic moss-grown stones we'd roam,
With antient hieroglyphic figures grac'd;
Wing'd hour-glasses, bones, and skulls, and spades,
And obsolete inscriptions by the hands
Of other ages. Ah! I little thought
That we then play'd o'er his untimely tomb!

V.

Where were ye, Muses! when the leaden hand
Of Death, remorseless, clos'd your Daphnis' eyes?
For sure ye heard the weeping mother's cries;—
But the dread pow'r of Fate what can withstand?
Young Daphnis smil'd at death; the tyrant's darts
As stubble counted. What was his support?
His conscience, and firm trust in Him whose ways
Are truth; in Him who sways

His potent sceptre o'er the dark domains
Of death and hell; who holds in strait'ned reins
Their banded legions: “Thro' the darksome vale
“He'll guide my trembling steps with heav'nly ray;
“I see the dawning of immortal day,”
He smiling said, and died!—

VI.

Hail, and farewell, blest youth! Soon hast thou left
This evil world. Fair was thy thread of life;
But quickly by the envious Sisters shorn.
Thus have I seen a rose with rising morn
Unfold its glowing bloom, sweet to the smell,
And lovely to the eye; when a keen wind
Hath tore its blushing leaves, and laid it low,
Stripp'd of its sweets.—Ah! so,
So Daphnis fell! long ere his prime he fell!
Nor left he on these plains his peer behind;

These plains, that mourn their loss, of him bereft,
No more look gay, but desart and forlorn.

VII.

Now cease your lamentations, shepherds! cease:
Tho' Daphnis died below, he lives above;
A better life, and in a fairer clime,
He lives. No sorrow enters that blest place;
But ceaseless songs of love and joy resound.
And fragrance floats around,
By fanning zephyrs from the spicy groves,
And flow'rs immortal wafted; asphodel
And amaranth, unfading, deck the ground,
With fairer colours than, ere Adam fell,
In Eden bloom'd. There hap'ly he may hear
This artless song. Ye pow'rs of verse! improve,
And make it worthy of your darling's ear,
And make it equal to the shepherd's love.

VIII.

Thus, in the shadow of a frowning rock,
Beneath a mountain's side, shaggy and hoar,
A homely swain, tending his little flock,
Rude, yet a lover of the Muse's lore,
Chanted his Doric strain till close of day;
Then rose, and homeward slowly bent his way.

SIR JAMES THE ROSS:

AN HISTORICAL BALLAD.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Of all the Scottish northern chiefs
Of high and mighty name,
The bravest was Sir James the Ross,
A knight of meikle fame.

His growth was like a youthful oak,
That crowns the mountain's brow;
And, waving o'er his shoulders broad,
His locks of yellow flew.

Wide were his fields; his herds were large;
And large his flocks of sheep;
And num'rous were his goats and deer
Upon the mountains steep.

The chieftain of the good Clan Ross,
A firm and warlike band:
Five hundred warriors drew the sword
Beneath his high command.

In bloody fight thrice had he stood
Against the English keen,
Ere two and twenty op'ning springs
The blooming youth had seen.

The fair Matilda dear he lov'd,
A maid of beauty rare;
Even Marg'ret on the Scottish throne
Was never half so fair.

Long had he woo'd; long she refus'd
With seeming scorn and pride;
Yet oft her eyes confess'd the love
Her fearful words deny'd.

At length she bless'd his well-try'd love,
Allow'd his tender claim:
She vow'd to him her virgin heart,
And own'd an equal flame.

Her father, Buchan's cruel lord,
Their passion disapprov'd:
He bade her wed Sir John the Graeme,
And leave the youth she lov'd.—

One night they met, as they were wont,
Deep in a shady wood;
Where on the bank, beside the burn,
A blooming saugh-tree stood.

Conceal'd among the underwood
The crafty Donald lay,
The brother of Sir John the Graeme,
To watch what they might say.

When thus the maid began: “My sire
“Our passion disapproves;
“He bids me wed Sir John the Graeme,
“So here must end our loves.

“My father's will must be obey'd,
“Nought boots me to withstand:
“Some fairer maid in beauty's bloom
“Shall bless thee with her hand.

“Soon will Matilda be forgot,
“And from thy mind effac'd;
“But may that happiness be thine,
“Which I can never taste!”—

“What do I hear? Is this thy vow?”
Sir James the Ross reply'd:
“And will Matilda wed the Graeme,
“Tho' sworn to be my bride?

“His sword shall sooner pierce my heart,
“Than reave me of thy charms”—
And clasp'd her to his throbbing breast,
Fast lock'd within her arms.

“I spoke to try thy love,” she said;
“I'll ne'er wed man but thee:
“The grave shall be my bridal bed,
“If Graeme my husband be.

“Take then, dear youth! this faithful kiss,
“In witness of my troth;
“And every plague become my lot
“That day I break my oath.”—

They parted thus—the sun was set:
Up hasty Donald flies;
And, “Turn thee, turn thee, beardless youth!”
He loud insulting cries.

Soon turn'd about the fearless chief,
And soon his sword he drew;
For Donald's blade before his breast
Had pierc'd his tartans thro'.

“This for my brother's slighted love;
“His wrongs sit on my arm.”—
Three paces back the youth retir'd,
And sav'd himself from harm.

Returning swift, his sword he rear'd
Fierce Donald's head above;
And thro' the brain and crashing bone
The furious weapon drove.

Life issu'd at the wound; he fell,
A lump of lifeless clay:
“So fall my foes,” quoth valiant Ross,
And stately strode away.

Thro' the green wood in haste he pass'd
Unto Lord Buchan's hall;
Beneath Matilda's windows stood,
And thus on her did call:

“Art thou asleep, Matilda fair!
“Awake, my love! awake:
“Behold thy lover waits without,
“A long farewell to take.

“For I have slain fierce Donald Graeme,
“His blood is on my sword:
“And far, far distant are my men,
“Nor can defend their lord.

“To Skye I will direct my flight,
“Where my brave brothers bide;
“And raise the mighty of the Isles
“To combat on my side.”—

“O do not so,” the maid reply'd,
“With me till morning stay;
“For dark and dreary is the night,
“And dang'rous is the way.

“All night I'll watch thee in the park;
“My faithful page I'll send
“In haste to raise the brave Clan Ross,
“Their master to defend.”

He laid him down beneath a bush,
And wrap'd him in his plaid;
While, trembling for her lover's fate,
At distance stood the maid.—

Swift ran the page o'er hill and dale;
Till, in a lowly glen,
He met the furious Sir John Graeme,
With twenty of his men.

“Where goest thou, little page?” he said,
“So late who did thee send?”—
“I go to raise the brave Clan Ross,
“Their master to defend.

“For he has slain fierce Donald Graeme,
“His blood is on his sword;
“And far, far distant are his men,
“Nor can assist their lord.”—

“And has he slain my brother dear?”
The furious chief replies:
“Dishonour blast my name, but he
“By me ere morning dies.

“Say, page! where is Sir James the Ross?
“I will thee well reward.”—
“He sleeps into Lord Buchan's park;
“Matilda is his guard.”—

They spurr'd their steeds, and furious flew,
Like light'ning, o'er the lea:
They reach'd Lord Buchan's lofty tow'rs
By dawning of the day.

Matilda stood without the gate
Upon a rising ground,
And watch'd each object in the dawn,
All ear to every sound.

“Where sleeps the Ross?” began the Graeme,
“Or has the felon fled?
“This hand shall lay the wretch on earth
“By whom my brother bled.”

And now the valiant knight awoke,
The virgin shrieking heard:
Straight up he rose, and drew his sword,
When the fierce band appear'd.

“Your sword last night my brother slew,
“His blood yet dims its shine;
“And, ere the sun shall gild the morn,
“Your blood shall reek on mine.”

“Your words are brave,” the chief return'd;
“But deeds approve the man:
“Set by your men, and hand to hand
“We'll try what valour can.”

With dauntless step he forward strode,
And dar'd him to the fight:
The Graeme gave back, and fear'd his arm,
For well he knew his might.

Four of his men, the bravest four,
Sunk down beneath his sword;
But still he scorn'd the poor revenge,
And sought their haughty lord.

Behind him basely came the Graeme,
And pierc'd him in the side:
Out spouting came the purple stream,
And all his tartans dy'd.

But yet his hand not dropp'd the sword,
Nor sunk he to the ground,
Till thro' his en'my's heart his steel
Had forc'd a mortal wound.

Graeme, like a tree by winds o'erthrown,
Fell breathless on the clay;
And down beside him sunk the Ross,
And faint and dying lay.

Matilda saw, and fast she ran:
“O spare his life,” she cry'd;
“Lord Buchan's daughter begs his life,
“Let her not be deny'd.”

Her well-known voice the hero heard;
He rais'd his death-clos'd eyes;
He fix'd them on the weeping maid,
And weakly thus replies:

“In vain Matilda begs a life
“By death's arrest deny'd;
“My race is run—adieu, my love!”
Then clos'd his eyes, and dy'd.

The sword, yet warm, from his left side,
With frantic hand she drew:
“I come, Sir James the Ross,” she cry'd,
“I come to follow you.”

The hilt she lean'd against the ground,
And bar'd her snowy breast;
Then fell upon her lover's face,
And sunk to endless rest.

VERNAL ODE.

See! see! the genial Spring again
Unbind the glebe and paint the plain.
The garden blooms: the tulips gay
For thee put on their best array;
And ev'ry flower so richly dight
In spangled robes of varying light.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

From noisy towns and noxious sky,
Hither, Amelia! haste and fly.
View these gay scenes; their sweets inhale:
Health breathes in ev'ry balmy gale:
Nor fear lest the returning storm
The vernal season may deform.
For hark! I hear the swallows sing,
Who ne'er uncertain tidings bring:

They with glad voice proclaim on high,
“The Spring is come, the Summer's nigh!”—
Sweet bird! what sacred lore is thine,
The change of seasons to divine?
Thou countest no revolving day
By solar or sidereal ray:
No clock hast thou, with busy chime
To tell the silent lapse of time—
To call thee from thy drowsy cell.
'Tis Heav'n that rings thy matin bell.
Strait all the chatt'ring tribe obey;
Start from their trance, and wing away:
To their lov'd summer seats repair;
And ev'ry pinion floats on air.

ODE:

TO A FOUNTAIN.

O fountain of the wood! whose glassy wave,
Slow-welling from the rock of years,
Holds to heav'n a mirror blue,
And bright as Anna's eye,

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

With whom I've sported on the margin green:
My hand with leaves, with lillies white,
Gaily deck'd her golden hair,
Young Naiad of the vale.

Fount of my native wood! thy murmurs greet
My ear, like poet's heav'nly strain:
Fancy pictures in a dream
The golden days of youth.

O state of innocence! O paradise!
In Hope's gay garden, Fancy views
Golden blossoms, golden fruits,
And Eden ever green.

Where now, ye dear companions of my youth!
Ye brothers of my bosom! where
Do ye tread the walks of life,
Wide scatter'd o'er the world?

Thus winged larks forsake their native nest,
The merry minstrels of the morn:
New to heav'n they mount away,
And meet again no more.

All things decay;—the forest like the leaf;
Great kingdoms fall; the peopled globe,
Planet-struck, shall pass away;
Heav'ns with their hosts expire:

But Hope's fair visions, and the beams of Joy,
Shall cheer my bosom: I will sing
Nature's beauty, Nature's birth,
And heroes, on the lyre.

Ye Naiads! blue-ey'd sisters of the wood!
Who by old oak, or story'd stream,
Nightly tread your mystic maze,
And charm the wand'ring Moon,

Beheld by poet's eye; inspire my dreams
With visions, like the landscapes fair
Of heav'n's bliss, to dying saints
By guardian angels drawn.

Fount of the forest! in thy poet's lays
Thy waves shall flow: this wreath of flow'rs,
Gather'd by Anna's hand,
I ask to bind my brow.

DANISH ODE.

The great, the glorious deed is done!
The foe is fled! the field is won!
Prepare the feast; the heroes call:
Let joy, let triumph fill the hall!

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

The raven claps his sable wings;
The bard his chosen timbrel brings;
Six virgins round, a select choir,
Sing to the music of his lyre.

With mighty ale the goblet crown;
With mighty ale your sorrows drown:
To-day, to mirth and joy we yield;
To-morrow, face the bloody field.

From danger's front, at battle's eve,
Sweet comes the banquet to the brave:
Joy shines with genial beam on all,
The joy that dwells in Odin's hall.

The song bursts living from the lyre,
Like dreams that guardian ghosts inspire;
When mimic shrieks the heroes hear,
And whirl the visionary spear.

Music's the med'cine of the mind;
The cloud of Care give to the wind:
Be ev'ry brow with garlands bound;
And let the cup of Joy go round.

The cloud comes o'er the beam of light;
We're guests that tarry but a night:
In the dark house, together press'd,
The princes and the people rest.

Send round the shell, the feast prolong,
And send away the night in song:
Be blest below, as those above
With Odin's and the friends they love.

DANISH ODE.

In deeds of arms, our fathers rise
Illustrious in their offspring's eyes:
They fearless rush'd thro' Ocean's storms,
And dar'd grim Death in all its forms:
Each youth assum'd the sword and shield,
And grew a hero in the field.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Shall we, degenerate from our race,
Inglorious, in the mountain chace?
Arm, arm in fallen Hubba's right;
Place your forefathers in your sight;
To fame, to glory fight your way,
And teach the nations to obey.

Assume the oars, unbind the sails:
Send, Odin! send propitious gales.
At Loda's stone, we will adore
Thy name with songs, upon the shore;
And, full of thee, undaunted dare
The foe, and dart the bolts of war.

No feast of shells, no dance by night,
Are glorious Odin's dear delight:
He, king of men, his armies led
Where heroes strove, where battles bled;
Now reigns above the morning star,
The god of thunder and of war.

Bless'd who in battle bravely fall!
They mount on wings to Odin's hall;
To Music's sound, in cups of gold,
They drink new wine with chiefs of old;

The song of bards records their name,
And future times shall speak their fame.

Hark! Odin thunders! haste on board;
Illustrious Canute! give the word.
On wings of wind we pass the seas,
To conquer realms, if Odin please:
With Odin's spirit in our soul,
We'll gain the globe from pole to pole.

ANACREONTIC:

TO A WASP.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

[_]

The following is a ludicrous imitation of the usual Anacreontics; the spirit of composing which was raging, a few years ago, among all the sweet singers of Great Britain.

Winged wand'rer of the sky!
Inhabitant of heav'n high!
Dreadful with thy dragon-tail,
Hydra-head, and coat of mail!
Why dost thou my peace molest?
Why dost thou disturb my rest?—
When in May the meads are seen,
Sweet enamel! white and green;

And the gardens, and the bow'rs,
And the forests, and the flow'rs,
Don their robes of curious dye;
Fine confusion to the eye!
Did I—chase thee in thy flight?
Did I—put thee in a fright?
Did I—spoil thy treasure hid?
Never—never—never—did.
Envious nothing! pray beware;
Tempt mine anger if you dare.
Trust not in thy strength of wing;
Trust not in thy length of sting.
Heav'n nor earth shall thee defend;
I thy buzzing soon will end.
Take my counsel while you may;
Devil take you if you stay.
Wilt—thou—dare—my—face—to—wound?—
Thus, I fell thee to the ground.

Down amongst the dead men, now,
Thou shalt forget thou ere wast thou.—
Anacreontic bards beneath,
Thus shall wail thee after death.

CHORUS OF ELYSIAN BARDS.

“A Wasp, for a wonder,
“To paradise under
“Descends! See, he wanders
“By Styx's meanders!
“Behold, how he glows
“Amidst Rhodope's snows!
“He sweats, in a trice,
“In the regions of ice!
“Lo! he cools, by God's ire,
“Amidst brimstone and fire!

“He goes to our king,
“And he shows him his sting.
“(God Pluto loves satire,
“As women love attire;)
“Our king sets him free,
“Like fam'd Euridice.—
“Thus a wasp could prevail
“O'er the Devil and hell,
“A conquest both hard and laborious!
“Tho' hell had fast bound him,
“And the Devil did confound him,
“Yet his sting and his wing were victorious!”

THE MUSIAD:

A MINOR EPIC POEM. A Fragment. In the manner of Homer .

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

In ancient times, ere traps were fram'd,
Or cats in Britain's Isle were known;
A mouse, for pow'r and valour fam'd,
Possess'd in peace the regal throne.

A farmer's house he nightly storm'd;
(In vain were bolts, in vain were keys:)
The milk's fair surface he deform'd,
And digg'd entrenchments in the cheese.

In vain the farmer watch'd by night,
In vain he spread the poison'd bacon;
The mouse was wise, as well as wight,
Nor could by force or fraud be taken.

His subjects follow'd where he led,
And dealt destruction all around;
His people, shepherd-like, he fed:
Such mice are rarely to be found!—

But evil fortune had decreed
(The foe of mice as well as men)
The royal mouse at last should bleed;
Should fall—ne'er to arise again.

Upon a night, as authors say,
A luckless scent our hero drew,
Upon forbidden ground to stray,
And pass a narrow cranny thro'.

That night a feast the farmer made,
And joy unbounded fill'd the house;
The fragments in the pantry spread
Afforded bus'ness to the mouse.

He ate his fill, and back again
Return'd: but access was deny'd.
He search'd each corner; but in vain:
He found it close on ev'ry side.

Let none our hero's fears deride;
He roar'd, (ten mice of modern days,
As mice are dwindled and decay'd,
So great a voice could scarcely raise.)

Rous'd at the voice, the farmer ran,
And seiz'd upon his hapless prey.
With entreaties the mouse began,
And pray'rs, his anger to allay.

“O spare my life!” he trembling cries:
“My subjects will a ransom give,
“Large as thy wishes can devise;
“Soon as it shall be heard I live.”

“No, wretch!” the farmer says in wrath;
“Thou dy'st: no ransom I'll receive.”—
“My subjects will revenge my death,”
He said: “This dying charge I leave.”

The farmer lifts his armed hand,
And on the mouse inflicts an wound.
What mouse could such a blow withstand?
He fell, and dying bit the ground.

Thus Lambris fell, who flourish'd long;
(I half forgot to tell his name;)
But his renown lives in the song,
And future times shall speak his fame.—

A mouse, who walk'd about at large
In safety, heard his mournful cries;
He heard him give his dying charge,
And to the rest he frantic flies.

Thrice he essay'd to speak, and thrice
Tears, such as mice may shed, fell down:
“Revenge your monarch's death,” he cries;
His voice half-stifl'd with a groan.

But having reasssum'd his senses,
And reason, such as mice may have;
He told out all the circumstances,
With many a strain and broken heave.

Chill'd with sad grief th'assembly heard;
Each dropp'd a tear, and bow'd the head:
But symptoms soon of rage appear'd,
And vengeance, for the royal dead.

Long sat they mute: at last up rose
The great Hypenor, blameless sage!
A hero born to many woes;
His head was silver'd o'er with age

His bulk so large, his joints so strong,
Though worn with grief, and past his prime,
Few rats could equal him, 'tis sung,
As rats are in these dregs of time.

Two sons, in battle brave, he had,
Sprung from fair Lalage's embrace:
Short time they grac'd his nuptial bed,
By dogs destroy'd in cruel chace.

Their timeless fate the mother wail'd,
And pin'd with heart-corroding grief:
O'er ev'ry comfort it prevail'd,
Till death advancing brought relief.

Now he's the last of all his race,
A prey to wo: he inly pin'd:
Grief pictur'd sat upon his face;
Upon his breast his head reclin'd.

And, “O my fellow-mice!” he said,
“These eyes ne'er saw a day so dire,
“Save when my gallant children bled:
“O wretched sons! O wretched sire!

“But now a gen'ral cause demands
“Our grief, and claims our tears alone;
“Our monarch, slain by wicked hands:
“No issue left to fill the throne.

“Yet, tho' by hostile man much wrong'd,
“My counsel is, from arms forbear,
“That so your days may be prolong'd;
“For man is Heav'n's peculiar care”

LOCHLEVEN:

A POEM.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Hail, native land! where, on the flow'ry banks
Of Leven, Beauty ever-blooming dwells.
A wreath of roses, dropping with the dews
Of morning, circles her ambrosial locks
Loose-waving o'er her shoulders: where she treads,
Attendant on her steps, the blushing Spring
And Summer wait, to raise the various flow'rs
Beneath her footsteps; while the cheerful birds
Carol their joy, and hail her as she comes,
Inspiring vernal love and vernal joy.

Attend, Agricola! who to the noise
Of public life preferr'st the calmer scenes
Of solitude, and sweet domestic bliss,
Joys all thine own! attend thy poet's strain,
Who triumphs in thy friendship, while he paints
The past'ral mountains, the poetic streams,
Where raptur'd Contemplation leads thy walk,
While silent Evening on the plain descends.

Between two mountains, whose o'erwhelming tops,
In their swift course, arrest the bellying clouds,
A pleasant valley lies. Upon the south
A narrow op'ning parts the craggy hills;
Through which the lake, that beautifies the vale,
Pours out its ample waters. Spreading on,
And wid'ning by degrees, it stretches north
To the high Ochel, from whose snowy top
The streams that feed the lake flow thund'ring down.

The twilight trembles o'er the misty hills,
Trinkling with dews: and whilst the bird of day
Tunes his etherial note, and wakes the wood—
Bright from the crimson curtains of the morn,
The Sun, appearing in his glory, throws
New robes of beauty over heav'n and earth.

O now, while Nature smiles in all her works,
Oft let me trace thy cowslip-cover'd banks,
O Leven! and the landscape measure round.
From gay Kinross, whose stately tufted groves
Nod o'er the lake, transported let mine eye
Wander o'er all the various checquer'd scene,
Of wilds, and fertile fields, and glitt'ring streams,
To ruin'd Arnot; or ascend the height
Of rocky Lomond, where a riv'let pure
Bursts from the ground, and thro' the crumbled crags
Tinkles amusive. From the mountain's top,

Around me spread, I see the goodly scene.
Inclosures green, that promise to the swain
The future harvest; many-colour'd meads;
Irriguous vales, where cattle low; and sheep,
That whiten half the hills; sweet rural farms
Oft interspers'd, the seats of past'ral love
And innocence: with many a spiry dome
Sacred to heav'n, around whose hallow'd walls
Our fathers slumber in the narrow house.
Gay, beauteous villas, bosom'd in the woods,
Like constellations in the starry sky,
Complete the scene. The vales, the vocal hills,
The woods, the waters, and the heart of man,
Send out a gen'ral song: 'tis beauty all
To poet's eye, and music to his ear.

Nor is the shepherd silent on his hill,
His flocks around: nor school-boys, as they creep,

Slow-pac'd, tow'rds school; intent, with oaten pipe
They wake by turns wild music on the way.

Behold the man of sorrows hail the light!
New risen from the bed of pain; where late,
Toss'd to and fro upon a couch of thorns,
He wak'd the long dark night, and wish'd for morn.
Soon as he feels the quick'ning beam of heav'n,
And balmy breath of May, among the fields
And flow'rs he takes his morning walk: his heart
Beats with new life; his eye is bright and blithe;
Health strews her roses o'er his cheek, renew'd
In youth and beauty; his unbidden tongue
Pours native harmony, and sings to Heav'n.

In ancient times, as ancient bards have sung,
This was a forest. Here the mountain-oak
Hung o'er the craggy cliff, while from its top

The eagle mark'd his prey; the stately ash
Rear'd high his nervous stature, while below
The twining alders darken'd all the scene.
Safe in the shade, the tenants of the wood
Assembled, bird and beast. The turtle-dove
Coo'd, am'rous, all the live-long summer's day.
Lover of men, the piteous redbreast plain'd,
Sole-sitting on the bough. Blithe on the bush,
The blackbird, sweetest of the woodland choir,
Warbl'd his liquid lay; to shepherd-swain
Mellifluous music, as his master's flock,
With his fair mistress and his faithful dog,
He tended in the vale: While leverets round,
In sportive races, thro' the forest flew
With feet of wind; and, vent'ring from the rock,
The snow-white coney sought his ev'ning meal.—
Here, too, the poet, as inspir'd at eve
He roam'd the dusky wood, or fabl'd brook

That piece-meal printed ruins in the rock,
Beheld the blue-ey'd sisters of the stream,
And heard the wild note of the fairy throng
That charm'd the queen of heav'n; as round the tree,
Time-hallow'd, hand in hand they led the dance,
With sky-blue mantles glitt'ring in her beam.

Low by the lake, as yet without a name,
Fair bosom'd in the bottom of the vale,
Arose a cottage, green with ancient turf,
Half hid in hoary trees, and from the north
Fenc'd by a wood, but open to the sun.
Here dwelt a peasant, rev'rend with the locks
Of age; yet youth was ruddy on his cheek:
His farm his only care: his sole delight,
To tend his daughter, beautiful and young;
To watch her paths; to fill her lap with flow'rs;
To see her spread into the bloom of years,

The perfect picture of her mother's youth.
His age's hope, the apple of his eye,
Belov'd of Heav'n, his fair Levina grew
In youth and grace, the Naiad of the vale.
Fresh as the flow'r amid the sunny show'rs
Of May, and blither than the bird of dawn,
Both roses' bloom gave beauty to her cheek,
Soft temper'd with a smile. The light of heav'n,
And innocence, illum'd her virgin-eye,
Lucid and lovely as the morning star.
Her breast was fairer than the vernal bloom
Of valley-lily, op'ning in a show'r;—
Fair as the morn, and beautiful as May,
The glory of the year, when first she comes
Array'd, all beauteous, with the robes of heav'n;
And, breathing summer breezes, from her locks
Shakes genial dews, and from her lap the flow'rs.—
Thus beautiful she look'd; yet something more,

And better far than beauty, in her looks
Appear'd: the maiden blush of modesty;
The smile of cheerfulness, and sweet content;
Health's freshest rose, the sun-shine of the soul:
Each height'ning each, effus'd o'er all her form
A nameless grace, the Beauty of the Mind.

Thus finish'd fair above her peers, she drew
The eyes of all the village, and inflam'd
The rival shepherds of the neighb'ring dale,
Who laid the spoils of Summer at her feet,
And made the woods enamour'd of her name.
But pure as buds before they blow, and still
A virgin in her heart, she knew not love:
But all alone, amid her garden fair,
From morn to noon, from noon to dewy eve,
She spent her days; her pleasing task to tend
The flow'rs; to lave them from the water-spring;

To ope the buds with her enamour'd breath;
Rank the gay tribes, and rear them in the sun.—
In youth, the index of maturer years,
Left by her school-companions at their play,
She'd often wander in the wood, or roam
The wilderness, in quest of curious flow'r,
Or nest of bird unknown, till eve approach'd,
And hemm'd her in the shade. To obvious swain,
Or woodman chanting in the greenwood glin,
She'd bring the beauteous spoils, and ask their names.
Thus ply'd assiduous her delightful task,
Day after day, till ev'ry herb she nam'd
That paints the robe of Spring, and knew the voice
Of ev'ry warbler in the vernal wood.

Her garden stretch'd along the river side,
High up a sunny bank: on either side,
A hedge forbade the vagrant foot; above,

An ancient forest screen'd the green recess.
Transplanted here, by her creative hand,
Each herb of Nature, full of fragrant sweets,
That scents the breath of Summer; ev'ry flow'r,
Pride of the plain, that blooms on festal days
In shepherd's garland, and adorns the year,
In beauteous clusters flourish'd: Nature's work,
And order, finish'd by the hand of Art.
Here gowans, natives of the village green,
To daisies grew. The lilies of the field
Put on the robe they neither sew'd nor spun.
Sweet-smelling shrubs and cheerful spreading trees,
Unfrequent scatter'd, as by Nature's hand,
Shaded the flow'rs; and to her Eden drew
The earliest concerts of the Spring, and all
The various music of the vocal year.
Retreat romantic! Thus from early youth
Her life she led: one summer's day, serene

And fair, without a cloud! like poet's dreams
Of vernal landscapes, of Elysian vales,
And islands of the blest; where, hand in hand,
Eternal Spring and Autumn rule the year,
And Love and Joy lead on immortal youth!

'Twas on a summer's day, when early show'rs
Had wak'd the various vegetable race
To life and beauty, fair Levina stray'd.
Far in the blooming wilderness she stray'd
To gather herbs, and the fair race of flow'rs,
That Nature's hand creative pours at will,
Beauty unbounded, over Earth's green lap,
Gay without number, in the day of rain.
O'er vallies gay, o'er hillocks green she walk'd,
Sweet as the season; and at times awak'd
The echoes of the vale, with native notes
Of heart-felt joy, in numbers heav'nly sweet—

Sweet as th'hosannahs of a Form of light,
A sweet-tongu'd Seraph in the bow'rs of bliss.

Her, as she halted on a green hill-top,
A quiver'd hunter spy'd. Her flowing locks,
In golden ringlets glitt'ring to the sun,
Upon her bosom play'd: her mantle green,
Like thine, O Nature! to her rosy cheek
Lent beauty new; as from the verdant leaf
The rose-bud blushes with a deeper bloom,
Amid the walks of May. The stranger's eye
Was caught as with etherial presence. Oft
He look'd to heav'n, and oft he met her eye
In all the silent eloquence of love;
Then, wak'd from wonder, with a smile began:
“Fair wand'rer of the wood! what heav'nly pow'r,
“Or providence, conducts thy wand'ring steps
“To this wild forest, from thy native seat

“And parents, happy in a child so fair?
“A shepherdess, or virgin of the vale,
“Thy dress bespeaks; but thy majestic mien,
“And eye, bright as the morning star, confess
“Superior birth and beauty, born to rule:
“As from the stormy cloud of night, that veils
“Her virgin orb, appears the queen of heav'n,
“And with full beauty gilds the face of night.
“Whom shall I call the fairest of her sex,
“And charmer of my soul? In yonder vale,
“Come, let us crop the roses of the brook,
“And wildings of the wood: soft under shade
“Let us recline by mossy fountain-side,
“While the wood suffers in the beam of noon.
“I'll bring my love the choice of all the shades;
“First fruits; the apple ruddy from the rock;
“And clust'ring nuts, that burnish in the beam.
“O wilt thou bless my dwelling, and become

“The owner of these fields? I'll give thee all
“That I possess; and all thou seest is mine.”

Thus spoke the youth, with rapture in his eye;
And thus the maiden, with a blush, began:
“Beyond the shadow of these mountains green,
“Deep-bosom'd in the vale, a cottage stands,
“The dwelling of my sire, a peaceful swain;
“Yet at his frugal board Health sits a guest,
“And fair Contentment crowns his hoary hairs,
“The patriarch of the plains: ne'er by his door
“The needy pass'd, or the way-faring man.
“His only daughter, and his only joy,
“I feed my father's flock; and, while they rest,
“At times retiring, lose me in the wood,
“Skill'd in the virtues of each secret herb
“That opes its virgin bosom to the moon.—
“No flow'r amid the garden fairer grows

“Than the sweet lily of the lowly vale,
“The queen of flow'rs—But sooner might the weed
“That blooms and dies, the being of a day,
“Presume to match with yonder mountain-oak,
“That stands the tempest and the bolt of heav'n,
“From age to age the monarch of the wood—
“O! had you been a shepherd of the dale,
“To feed your flock beside me, and to rest
“With me at noon in these delightful shades,
“I might have list'ned to the voice of love,
“Nothing reluctant; might with you have walk'd
“Whole summer suns away. At even-tide,
“When heav'n and earth in all their glory shine
“With the last smiles of the departing sun;
“When the sweet breath of Summer feasts the sense,
“And secret pleasure thrills the heart of man;
“We might have walk'd alone, in converse sweet,
“Along the quiet vale, and woo'd the moon

“To hear the music of true lovers vows.
“But Fate forbids; and Fortune's potent frown,
“And honour, inmate of the noble breast.
“Ne'er can this hand in wedlock join with thine.
“Cease, beauteous stranger! cease, beloved youth!
“To vex a heart that never can be yours.”

Thus spoke the maid, deceitful: but her eyes,
Beyond the partial purpose of her tongue,
Persuasion gain'd. The deep-enamour'd youth
Stood gazing on her charms, and all his soul
Was lost in love. He grasp'd her trembling hand,
And breath'd the softest, the sincerest vows
Of love: “O virgin! fairest of the fair!
“My one beloved! were the Scottish throne
“To me transmitted thro' a scepter'd line
“Of ancestors, thou, thou should'st be my queen,

“And Caledonia's diadems adorn
“A fairer head than ever wore a crown!”

She redden'd like the morning, under veil
Of her own golden hair. The woods among
They wander'd up and down with fond delay,
Nor mark'd the fall of ev'ning: parted, then,
The happiest pair on whom the sun declin'd.

Next day he found her on a flow'ry bank,
Half under shade of willows, by a spring,
The mirror of the swains, that o'er the meads,
Slow-winding, scatter'd flow'rets in its way.
Thro' many a winding walk and alley green,
She led him to her garden. Wonder-struck,
He gaz'd, all eye, o'er th'enchanting scene:
And much he prais'd the walks, the groves, the flow'rs,
Her beautiful creation; much he prais'd

The beautiful creatress; and awak'd
The echo in her praise. Like the first pair,
Adam and Eve, in Eden's blissful bow'rs,
When newly come from their Creator's hand,
Our lovers liv'd in joy. Here, day by day,
In fond endearments, in embraces sweet,
That lovers only know, they liv'd, they lov'd,
And found the paradise that Adam lost.—
Nor did the virgin, with false modest pride,
Retard the nuptial morn: she fix'd the day
That bless'd the youth, and open'd to his eyes
An age of gold, the heav'n of happiness
That lovers in their lucid moments dream.

And now the morning, like a rosy bride
Adorned on her day, put on her robes,
Her beauteous robes of light: the Naiad streams,
Sweet as the cadence of a poet's song,

Flow'd down the dale; the voices of the grove,
And ev'ry winged warbler of the air,
Sung over head; and there was joy in heav'n.
Ris'n with the dawn, the bride and bridal-maids
Stray'd thro' the woods, and o'er the vales, in quest
Of flow'rs and garlands, and sweet-smelling herbs,
To strew the bridegroom's way, and deck his bed.

Fair in the bosom of the level lake
Rose a green island, cover'd with a spring
Of flow'rs perpetual, goodly to the eye,
And blooming from afar. High in the midst,
Between two fountains, an enchanted tree
Grew ever green, and every month renew'd
Its blooms and apples of Hesperian gold.
Here ev'ry bride (as ancient poets sing)
Two golden apples gather'd from the bough,
To give the bridegroom in the bed of love,

The pledge of nuptial concord and delight
For many a coming year. Levina now
Had reach'd the isle, with an attendant maid,
And pull'd the mystic apples, pull'd the fruit;
But wish'd and long'd for the enchanted tree.
Not fonder sought the first created fair
The fruit forbidden of the mortal tree,
The source of human woe. Two plants arose
Fair by the mother's side, with fruits and flow'rs
In miniature. One, with audacious hand,
In evil hour she rooted from the ground.
At once the island shook, and shrieks of wo
At times were heard, amid the troubled air.
Her whole frame shook, the blood forsook her face,
Her knees knock'd, and her heart within her dy'd.
Trembling and pale, and boding woes to come,
They seiz'd the boat, and hurry'd from the isle.

And now they gain'd the middle of the lake,
And saw th'approaching land: now, wild with joy,
They row'd, they flew. When lo! at once effus'd,
Sent by the angry demon of the isle,
A whirlwind rose: it lash'd the furious lake
To tempest, overturn'd the boat, and sunk
The fair Levina to a wat'ry tomb.
Her sad companions, bending from a rock,
Thrice saw her head, and supplicating hands
Held up to heav'n, and heard the shriek of death:
Then overhead the parting billow clos'd,
And op'd no more. Her fate in mournful lays
The Muse relates; and sure each tender maid
For her shall heave the sympathetic sigh.
And haply my Eumelia, (for her soul
Is pity's self,) as, void of household cares,
Her ev'ning walk she bends beside the lake,
Which yet retains her name, shall sadly drop

A tear, in mem'ry of the hapless maid;
And mourn with me the sorrows of the youth,
Whom from his mistress death did not divide.
Robb'd of the calm possession of his mind,
All night he wander'd by the sounding shore,
Long looking o'er the lake; and saw at times
The dear, the dreary ghost of her he lov'd:
Till love and grief subdu'd his manly prime,
And brought his youth with sorrow to the grave.—

I knew an aged swain, whose hoary head
Was bent with years, the village-chronicle,
Who much had seen, and from the former times
Much had receiv'd. He, hanging o'er the hearth
In winter ev'nings, to the gaping swains,
And children circling round the fire, would tell
Stories of old, and tales of other times.
Of Lomond and Levina he would talk;

And how of old, in Britain's evil days,
When brothers against brothers drew the sword
Of civil rage, the hostile hand of war
Ravag'd the land, gave cities to the sword,
And all the country to devouring fire.
Then these fair forests and Elysian scenes,
In one great conflagration, flam'd to heav'n.
Barren and black, by swift degrees arose
A muirish fen; and hence the lab'ring hind,
Digging for fuel, meets the mould'ring trunks
Of oaks, and branchy antlers of the deer.

Now sober Industry, illustrious pow'r!
Hath rais'd the peaceful cottage, calm abode
Of innocence and joy: now, sweating, guides
The shining ploughshare; tames the stubborn soil;
Leads the long drain along th'unfertile marsh;
Bids the bleak hill with vernal verdure bloom,

The haunt of flocks; and clothes the barren heath
With waving harvests, and the golden grain.

Fair from his hand behold the village rise,
In rural pride, 'mong intermingled trees!
Above whose aged tops the joyful swains,
At even-tide, descending from the hill,
With eye enamour'd, mark the many wreaths
Of pillar'd smoke, high-curling to the clouds.
The streets resound with Labour's various voice,
Who whistles at his work. Gay on the green,
Young blooming boys, and girls with golden hair,
Trip nimble-footed, wanton in their play,
The village hope. All in a rev'rend row,
Their grey-hair'd grandsires, sitting in the sun,
Before the gate, and leaning on the staff,
The well-remember'd stories of their youth
Recount, and shake their aged locks with joy.

How fair a prospect rises to the eye,
Where Beauty vies in all her vernal forms,
For ever pleasant, and for ever new!
Swells th'exulting thought, expands the soul,
Drowning each ruder care: a blooming train
Of bright ideas rushes on the mind.
Imagination rouses at the scene;
And backward, thro' the gloom of ages past,
Beholds Arcadia, like a rural queen,
Encircled with her swains and rosy nymphs,
The mazy dance conducting on the green.
Nor yield to old Arcadia's blissful vales
Thine, gentle Leven! Green on either hand
Thy meadows spread, unbroken of the plough,
With beauty all their own. Thy fields rejoice
With all the riches of the golden year.
Fat on the plain, and mountain's sunny side,
Large droves of oxen, and the fleecy flocks,

Feed undisturb'd; and fill the echoing air
With music, grateful to the master's ear.
The trav'ller stops, and gazes round and round
O'er all the scenes, that animate his heart
With mirth and music. Ev'n the mendicant,
Bowbent with age, that on the old grey stone,
Sole sitting, suns him in the public way,
Feels his heart leap, and to himself he sings.

How beautiful around the lake outspreads
Its wealth of waters, the surrounding vales
Renews, and holds a mirror to the sky,
Perpetual fed by many sister-streams,
Haunts of the angler! First, the gulphy Po,
That thro' the quaking marsh and waving reeds
Creeps slow and silent on. The rapid Queech,
Whose foaming torrents o'er the broken steep
Burst down impetuous, with the placid wave

Of flow'ry Leven, for the canine pike
And silver eel renown'd. But chief thy stream,
O Gairny! sweetly winding, claims the song.
First on thy banks the Doric reed I tun'd,
Stretch'd on the verdant grass: while twilight meek,
Enrob'd in mist, slow-sailing thro' the air,
Silent and still, on ev'ry closed flow'r
Shed drops nectareous; and around the fields
No noise was heard, save where the whisp'ring reeds
Wav'd to the breeze, or in the dusky air
The slow-wing'd crane mov'd heav'ly o'er the lee,
And shrilly clamour'd as he sought his nest.
There would I sit, and tune some youthful lay;
Or watch the motion of the living fires,
That day and night their never-ceasing course
Wheel round th'eternal poles; and bend the knee
To Him the Maker of yon starry sky,
Omnipotent! who, thron'd above all heav'ns,

Yet ever present thro' the peopl'd space
Of vast Creation's infinite extent,
Pours life, and bliss, and beauty, pours himself,
His own essential goodness, o'er the minds
Of happy beings, thro' ten thousand worlds.

Nor shall the Muse forget thy friendly heart,
O Lelius! partner of my youthful hours.
How often, rising from the bed of peace,
We would walk forth to meet the summer morn,
Inhaling health and harmony of mind;
Philosophers and friends; while science beam'd,
With ray divine, as lovely on our minds
As yonder orient sun, whose welcome light
Reveal'd the vernal landscape to the view.
Yet oft, unbending from more serious thought,
Much of the looser follies of mankind,
Hum'rous and gay, we'd talk, and much would laugh;

While, ever and anon, their foibles vain
Imagination offer'd to our view.

Fronting where Gairny pours his silent urn
Into the lake, an island lifts its head,
Grassy and wild, with ancient ruin heap'd
Of cells; where from the noisy world retir'd
Of old, as fame reports, Religion dwelt
Safe from the insults of the dark'ned crowd
That bow'd the knee to Odin; and in times
Of ignorance, when Caledonia's sons
(Before the triple-crowned giant fell)
Exchang'd their simple faith for Rome's deceits.
Here Superstition for her cloister'd sons
A dwelling rear'd, with many an arched vault;
Where her pale vot'ries at the midnight hour,
In many a mournful strain of melancholy,
Chanted their crisons to the cold moon.

It now resounds with the wild-shrieking gull,
The crested lapwing, and the clam'rous mew,
The patient heron, and the bittern dull,
Deep-sounding in the base, with all the tribe
That by the water seek th'appointed meal.

From hence the shepherd in the fenced fold,
'Tis said, has heard strange sounds, and music wild;
Such as in Selma, by the burning oak,
Of hero fallen, or of battle lost,
Warn'd Fingal's mighty son, from trembling chords
Of untouch'd harp, self-sounding in the night.
Perhaps th'afflicted genius of the lake,
That leaves the wat'ry grot each night, to mourn
The waste of time, his desolated isles,
And temples in the dust: his plaintive voice
Is heard resounding thro' the dreary courts
Of high Lochleven Castle, famous once,

Th'abode of heroes of the Bruce's line.
Gothic the pile, and high the solid walls,
With warlike ramparts, and the strong defence
Of jutting battlements: an age's toil!
No more its arches echo to the noise
Of joy and festive mirth. No more the glance
Of blazing taper thro' its windows beams,
And quivers on the undulating wave:
But naked stand the melancholy walls,
Lash'd by the wintry tempests, cold and bleak,
That whistle mournful thro' the empty halls,
And piece-meal crumble down the tow'rs to dust.
Perhaps in some lone, dreary, desert tow'r,
That time has spar'd, forth from the window looks,
Half hid in grass, the solitary fox;
While from above, the owl, musician dire!
Screams hideous, harsh, and grating to the ear.

100

Equal in age, and sharers of its fate,
A row of moss-grown trees around it stand.
Scarce here and there, upon their blasted tops,
A shrivell'd leaf distinguishes the year:
Emblem of hoary age, the eve of life,
When man draws nigh his everlasting home,
Within a step of the devouring grave;
When all his views and tow'ring hopes are gone,
And ev'ry appetite before him dead.

Bright shines the morn, while in the ruddy east
The sun hangs hov'ring o'er th'Atlantic wave.
Apart on yonder green hill's sunny side,
Seren'd with all the music of the morn,
Attentive let me sit: while from the rock,
The swains, laborious, roll the limestone huge,
Bounding elastic from th'indented grass;

101

At ev'ry fall it springs, and thund'ring shoots
O'er rocks and precipices to the plain.—
And let the shepherd careful tend his flock
Far from the dang'rous steep; nor, O ye swains!
Stray heedless of its rage. Behold the tears
Yon wretched widow o'er the mangled corpse
Of her dead husband pours: who, hapless man!
Cheerful and strong, went forth at rising morn
To usual toil; but, ere the ev'ning hour,
His sad companions bare him lifeless home.
Urg'd from the hill's high top, with progress swift,
A weighty stone, resistless, rapid came;
Seen by the fated wretch, who stood unmov'd,
Nor turn'd to fly, till flight had been in vain;
When now arriv'd the instrument of death,
And fell'd him to the ground. The thirsty land
Drank up his blood: such was the will of Heav'n.

102

How wide the landscape opens to the view!
Still as I mount the less'ning hills decline,
Till high above them northern Grampius lifts
His hoary head, bending beneath a load
Of everlasting snow. O'er southern fields
I see the Cheviot hills, the ancient bounds
Of two contending kingdoms. There in fight
Brave Piercy and the gallant Douglas bled;
The house of heroes, and the death of hosts!
Wat'ring the fertile fields, majestic Forth,
Full, deep, and wide, rolls placid to the sea,
With many a vessel trim and oared bark
In rich profusion cover'd, wafting o'er
The wealth and produce of far distant lands.

But chief mine eye on the subjected vale
Of Leven pleas'd looks down; while o'er the trees,
That shield the hamlet with the shade of years,

103

The tow'ring smoke of early fire ascends,
And the shrill cock proclaims th'advanced morn.

How blest the man! who, in these peaceful plains,
Ploughs his paternal field; far from the noise,
The care, and bustle of a busy world!
All in the sacred, sweet, sequester'd vale
Of Solitude, the secret primrose-path
Of rural life, he dwells; and with him dwells
Peace and Content, twins of the Sylvan shade,
And all the Graces of the golden age.—
Such is Agricola, the wise, the good;
By nature formed for the calm retreat,
The silent path of life. Learn'd, but not fraught
With self-importance, as the starched fool,
Who challenges respect by solemn face,
By studied accent, and high-sounding phrase.
Enamour'd of the shade, but not morose.

104

Politeness, rais'd in courts by frigid rules,
With him spontaneous grows. Not books alone,
But man his study, and the better part;
To tread the ways of virtue, and to act
The various scenes of life with God's applause.
Deep in the bottom of the flow'ry vale,
With blooming sallows and the leafy twine
Of verdant alders fenc'd, his dwelling stands
Complete in rural elegance. The door,
By which the poor or pilgrim never pass'd,
Still open, speaks the master's bounteous heart.
There, O how sweet! amid the fragrant shrubs,
At ev'ning cool to sit; while, on their boughs,
The nested songsters twitter o'er their young;
And the hoarse low of folded cattle breaks
The silence, wafted o'er the sleeping lake,
Whose waters glow beneath the purple tinge
Of western cloud; while converse sweet deceives

105

The stealing foot of time! Or where the ground,
Mounded irregular, points out the graves
Of our forefathers, and the hallow'd fane,
Where swains assembling worship, let us walk,
In softly-soothing melancholy thought,
As Night's seraphic bard, immortal Young,
Or sweet-complaining Grey; there see the goal
Of human life, where drooping, faint, and tir'd,
Oft miss'd the prize, the weary racer rests.—

Thus sung the youth, amid unfertile wilds
And nameless desarts, unpoetic ground!
Far from his friends he stray'd, recording thus
The dear remembrance of his native fields,
To cheer the tedious night; while slow disease
Prey'd on his pining vitals, and the blasts
Of dark December shook his humble cot.

106

ODE:

TO PAOLI.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

I

What man, what hero shall the Muses sing,
On classic lyre, or Caledonian string,
Whose name shall fill th'immortal page;
Who, fir'd from Heav'n with energy divine,
In sun-bright glory bids his actions shine
First in the annals of the age?
Ceas'd are the golden times of yore;
The age of heroes is no more:
Rare, in these latter times, arise to fame
The poet's strain inspir'd, or hero's heav'nly flame.

107

II

What star arising in the southern sky,
New to the heav'ns, attracting Europe's eye,
With beams unborrow'd shines afar?
Who comes, with thousands marching in his rear,
Shining in arms, shaking his bloody spear,
Like the red comet, sign of war?
Paoli! sent of Heav'n, to save
A rising nation of the brave;
Whose firm right hand his angels arm, to bear
A shield before his host, and dart the bolts of war.

III

He comes! he comes! the saviour of the land!
His drawn sword flames in his uplifted hand,
Enthusiast in his country's cause;
Whose firm resolve obeys a nation's call,
To rise deliv'rer, or a martyr fall
To Liberty, to dying laws.

108

Ye sons of Freedom, sing his praise!
Ye poets, bind his brows with bays!
Ye scepter'd shadows cast your honours down,
And bow before the head that never wore a crown!

IV

Who to the hero can the palm refuse?
Great Alexander still the world subdues,
The heir of everlasting praise.
But when the hero's flame, the patriot's light;
When virtues human and divine unite;
When olives twine among the bays;
And, mutual, both Minervas shine:
A constellation so divine,
A wond'ring world behold, admire, and love,
And his best image here th'Almighty marks above.

V

As the lone shepherd hides him in the rocks,
When high heav'n thunders; as the tim'rous flocks

109

From the descending torrent flee:
So flies a world of slaves at War's alarms,
When Zeal on flame, and Liberty in arms,
Leads on the fearless and the free,
Resistless; as the torrent flood,
Horn'd like the moon, uproots the wood,
Sweeps flocks, and herds, and harvests from their base,
And moves th'eternal hills from their appointed place.

VI

Long hast thou labour'd in the glorious strife,
O land of Liberty! profuse of life,
And prodigal of priceless blood.
Where heroes bought with blood the martyr's crown,
A race arose, heirs of their high renown,
Who dar'd their fate thro' fire and flood:
And Gaffori the great arose,
Whose words of pow'r disarm'd his foes;
And where the filial image smil'd afar,
The sire turn'd not aside the thunders of the war.

110

VII

O Liberty! to man a guardian giv'n,
Thou best and brightest attribute of Heav'n!
From whom descending, thee we sing.
By nature wild, or by the arts refin'd,
We feel thy pow'r essential to our mind;
Each son of Freedom is a king.
Thy praise the happy world proclaim,
And Britain worships at thy name,
Thou guardian angel of Britannia's isle!
And God and man rejoice in thy immortal smile!

VIII

Island of beauty, lift thy head on high!
Sing a new song of triumph to the sky!
The day of thy deliv'rance springs—
The day of veng'ance to thy ancient foe!
Thy sons shall lay the proud oppressor low,
And break the head of tyrant kings.

111

Paoli! mighty man of war!
All bright in arms, thy conqu'ring car
Ascend; thy people from the foe redeem,
Thou delegate of Heav'n, and son of the Supreme!

IX

Rul'd by th'eternal laws, supreme o'er all,
Kingdoms, like kings, successive rise and fall.
When Caesar conquer'd half the earth,
And spread his eagles in Britannia's sun;
Did Caesar dream the savage huts he won
Should give a far-fam'd kingdom birth?
That here should Roman freedom 'light;
The western Muses wing their flight;
The Arts, the Graces find their fav'rite home;
Our armies awe the globe, and Britain rival Rome?

X

Thus, if th'Almighty say, “Let Freedom be,”
Thou, Corsica! thy golden age shalt see.

112

Rejoice with songs, rejoice with smiles!
Worlds yet unfound, and ages yet unborn,
Shall hail a new Britannia in her morn,
The queen of arts, the queen of isles:
The Arts, the beauteous train of Peace,
Shall rise and rival Rome and Greece;
A Newton Nature's book unfold sublime;
A Milton sing to Heav'n, and charm the ear of Time!

113

ODE:

TO THE CUCKOW.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

I

Hail, beauteous stranger of the wood!
Attendant on the Spring!
Now Heav'n repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

II

Soon as the daisie decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

114

III

Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flow'rs,
When heav'n is fill'd with music sweet
Of birds among the bow'rs.

IV

The school-boy, wand'ring in the wood
To pull the flow'rs so gay,
Starts, thy curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

V

Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fly'st thy vocal vale.
An annual guest, in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.

115

VI

Sweet bird! thy bow'r is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year!

VII

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with social wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.

116

ELEGY:

TO SPRING.

I

'Tis past: the iron North has spent his rage;
Stern Winter now resigns the length'ning day;
The stormy howlings of the winds assuage,
And warm o'er ether western breezes play.

II

Of genial heat and cheerful light the source,
From southern climes, beneath another sky,
The Sun, returning, wheels his golden course;
Before his beams all noxious vapours fly.

117

III

Far to the north grim Winter draws his train
To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore;
Where, thron'd on ice, he holds eternal reign;
Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempests roar.

IV

Loos'd from the bands of frost, the verdant ground
Again puts on her robe of cheerful green,
Again puts forth her flow'rs; and all around,
Smiling, the cheerful face of Spring is seen.

V

Behold! the trees new-deck their wither'd boughs;
Their ample leaves, the hospitable plane,
The taper elm, and lofty ash, disclose;
The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene,

118

VI

The lily of the vale, of flow'rs the queen,
Puts on the robe she neither sew'd nor spun:
The birds on ground, or on the branches green,
Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun.

VII

Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers,
From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings;
And, chearful singing, up the air she steers;
Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she sings.

VIII

On the green furze, cloth'd o'er with golden blooms
That fill the air with fragrance all around,
The linnet sits, and tricks his glossy plumes,
While o'er the wild his broken notes resound.

119

IX

While the Sun journeys down the western sky,
Along the green sward, mark'd with Roman mound,
Beneath the blithsome shepherd's watchful eye,
The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around.

X

Now is the time for those who wisdom love,
Who love to walk in Virtue's flow'ry road,
Along the lovely paths of Spring to rove,
And follow Nature up to Nature's God.

XI

Thus Zoroaster studied Nature's laws;
Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind;
Thus heav'n-taught Plato trac'd th'Almighty cause,
And left the wond'ring multitude behind.

120

XII

Thus Ashley gather'd academic bays;
Thus gentle Thomson, as the Seasons roll,
Taught them to sing the great Creator's praise,
And bear their poet's name from pole to pole.

XIII

Thus have I walk'd along the dewy lawn;
My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn;
Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn,
And gather'd health from all the gales of morn.

XIV

And, ev'n when Winter chill'd the aged year,
I wander'd lonely o'er the hoary plain:
Tho' frosty Boreas warn'd me to forbear,
Boreas, with all his tempests, warn'd in vain.

121

XV

Then, sleep my nights, and quiet bless'd my days;
I fear'd no loss, my Mind was all my store;
No anxious wishes e'er disturb'd my ease;
Heav'n gave content and health—I ask'd no more.

XVI

Now, Spring returns: but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known;
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health are flown.

XVII

Starting and shiv'ring in th'inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,
Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclin'd,
And count the silent moments as they pass:

122

XVIII

The winged moments, whose unstaying speed
No art can stop, or in their course arrest;
Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
And lay me down in peace with them that rest.

XIX

Oft morning-dreams presage approaching fate;
And morning-dreams, as poets tell, are true.
Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate,
And bid the realms of light and life adieu.

XX

I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of wo;
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore,
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,
Which mortals visit, and return no more.

123

XXI

Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains!
Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound,
Where melancholy with still silence reigns,
And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.

XXII

There let me wander at the shut of eve,
When sleep sits dewy on the lab'rers eyes;
The world and all its busy follies leave,
And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies.

XXIII

There let me sleep forgotten in the clay,
When death shall shut these weary aching eyes;
Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,
Till the long night's gone, and the last morn arise.

124

THE LAST DAY:

A POEM.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

His second coming, who at first appear'd
To save the world, but now to judge mankind
According to their works;—the trumpet's sound,—
The dead arising,—the wide world in flames,—
The mansions of the blest,—and the dire pit
Of Satan and of woe,—O Muse! unfold.

O Thou! whose eye the future and the past
In one broad view beholdest—from the first
Of days, when o'er this rude unformed mass
Light, first-born of existence, smiling rose,
Down to that latest moment, when thy voice

125

Shall bid the sun be darkness, when thy hand
Shall blot creation out,—assist my song.
Thou only know'st, who gav'st these orbs to roll
Their destin'd circles, when their course shall set;
When ruin and destruction fierce shall ride
In triumph o'er creation. This is hid,
In kindness unto man. Thou giv'st to know
The event certain: Angels know not when.

'Twas on an Autumn's eve, serene and calm,
I walk'd, attendant on the funeral
Of an old swain: Around, the village crowd
Loquacious chatted, till we reach'd the place
Where, shrouded up, the sons of other years
Lie silent in the grave. The sexton there
Had digg'd the bed of death, the narrow house,
For all that live appointed. To the dust
We gave the dead. Then moralizing, home

126

The swains return'd, to drown in copious bowls
The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.

The sun now trembled at the western gate;
His yellow rays stream'd in the fleecy clouds.
I sat me down upon a broad flat stone;
And much I mused on the changeful state
Of sublunary things. The joys of life,
How frail, how short, how passing! As the sea,
Now flowing, thunders on the rocky shore;
Now lowly ebbing, leaves a tract of sand,
Waste, wide, and dreary: So, in this vain world,
Through every varying state of life, we toss
In endless fluctuation; till, tir'd out
With sad variety of bad and worse,
We reach life's period, reach the blissful port,
Where change affects not, and the weary rest.

127

Then sure the sun which lights us to our shroud,
Than that which gave us first to see the light,
Is happier far. As he who, hopeless, long
Hath rode the Atlantic billow, from the mast,
Skirting the blue horizon, sees the land,
His native land approach; joy fills his heart,
And swells each throbbing vein: So, here confin'd,
We weary tread life's long, long toilsome maze;
Still hoping, vainly hoping, for relief,
And rest from labour. Ah! mistaken thought,
To seek in life what only death can give.
But what is death? Is it an endless sleep,
Unconscious of the present and the past,
And never to be waken'd? Sleeps the soul;
Nor wakes ev'n in a dream? If it is so,
Happy the sons of pleasure; they have liv'd
And made the most of life: And foolish he,
The sage, who, dreaming of hereafter, grudg'd

128

Himself the tasting of the sweets of life,
And call'd it temperance; and hop'd for joys
More durable and sweet, beyond the grave.
Vain is the poet's song, the soldier's toil!
Vain is the sculptur'd marble and the bust!
How vain to hope for never-dying fame,
If souls can die! But that they never die,
This thirst of glory whispers. Wherefore gave
The great Creator such a strong desire
He never meant to satisfy? These stones,
Memorials of the dead, with rustic art
And rude inscription cut, declare the soul
Immortal. Man, form'd for eternity,
Abhors annihilation, and the thought
Of dark oblivion. Hence, with ardent wish
And vig'rous effort, each would fondly raise
Some lasting monument, to save his name

129

Safe from the waste of years. Hence Cæsar fought;
Hence Raphael painted; and hence Milton sung.

Thus musing, sleep oppress'd my drowsy sense,
And wrapt me into rest. Before mine eyes,
Fair as the morn, when up the flaming east
The sun ascends, a radiant seraph stood,
Crown'd with a wreath of palm: His golden hair
Wav'd on his shoulders, girt with shining plumes;
From which, down to the ground, loose-floating trail'd,
In graceful negligence, his heavenly robe:
Upon his face, flush'd with immortal youth,
Unfading beauty bloom'd; and thus he spake:—

“Well hast thou judg'd; the soul must be immortal!
“And that it is, this awful day declares;
“This day, the last that ere the sun shall gild:
“Arrested by Omnipotence, no more

130

“Shall he describe the year: the moon no more
“Shall shed her borrow'd light. This is the day
“Seal'd in the rolls of Fate, when o'er the dead
“Almighty pow'r shall wake, and raise to life
“The sleeping myriads. Now shall be approv'd
“The ways of God to man, and all the clouds
“Of Providence be clear'd: Now shall be disclos'd
“Why Vice in purple oft upon a throne
“Exalted sat, and shook her iron scourge
“O'er Virtue, lowly seated on the ground.
“Now deeds committed in the sable shade
“Of eyeless darkness, shall be brought to light;
“And every act shall meet its just reward.”

As thus he spake, the morn arose; and sure
Methought ne'er rose a fairer. Not a cloud
Spotted the blue expanse; and not a gale
Breath'd o'er the surface of the dewy earth.

131

Twinkling with yellow lustre, the gay birds
On ev'ry blooming spray sung their sweet lays,
And prais'd their great Creator. Through the fields
The lowing cattle graz'd; and all around
Was beauty, happiness, and mirth, and love.—
“All these thou seest,” (resum'd th'angelic power,)
“No more shall give thee pleasure. Thou must leave
“This world; of which now come and see the end.”

This said, he touch'd me, and such strength infus'd,
That as he soared up the pathless air,
I lightly follow'd. On the awful peak
Of an eternal rock, against whose base
The sounding billows beat, he set me down.
I heard a noise, loud as a rushing stream,
When o'er the rugged precipice it roars,
And, foaming, thunders on the rocks below.
Astonished, I gaz'd around; when lo!

132

I saw an angel down from Heav'n descend.
His face was as the sun; his dreadful height
Such as the statue, by the Grecian plan'd,
Of Philip's son, Athos, with all his rocks,
Moulded into a man. One foot on earth,
And one upon the rolling sea, he fix'd.
As when, at setting sun, the rainbow shines
Refulgent, meting out the half of Heav'n—
So stood he; and, in act to speak, he rais'd
His shining hand. His voice was as the sound
Of many waters, or the deep-mouth'd roar
Of thunder, when it bursts the riven cloud,
And bellows through the ether. Nature stood
Silent, in all her works; while thus he spake:—
“Hear, thou that roll'st above, thou radiant sun!
“Ye Heav'ns and earth, attend! while I declare
“The will of the Eternal. By his name

133

“Who lives, and shall for ever live, I swear
“That time shall be no longer.”

He disappear'd. Fix'd in deep thought I stood
At what would follow. Straight another found;
To which the Nile, o'er Ethiopia's rocks
Rushing in one broad cataract, were nought.
It seem'd as if the pillars that upheld
The universe, had fallin; and all its worlds,
Unhing'd, had strove together for the way,
In cumbrous crashing ruin. Such the roar!
A sound that might be felt! It pierc'd beyond
The limits of creation. Chaos roar'd;
And Heav'n and earth return'd the mighty noise.
“Thou hear'st,” said then my heav'nly guide,” the sound
“Of the last trumpet. See where, from the clouds,
“Th'archangel Michael, one of the seven

134

“That minister before the throne of God,
“Leans forward; and the son'rous tube inspires
“With breath immortal. By his side the sword
“Which, like a meteor, o'er the vanquish'd head
“Of Satan hung, when he rebellious rais'd
“War, and embroil'd the happy fields above.”

A pause ensu'd. The fainting sun grew pale,
And seem'd to struggle through a shy of blood;
While dim eclipse impair'd his beam: The earth
Shook to her deepest centre: Ocean rag'd,
And dash'd his billows on the frighted shore.
All was confusion. Heartless, helpless, wild,
As flocks of timid sheep, or driven deer,
Wand'ring, th'inhabitants of earth appear'd
Terror in every look, and pale affright
Sat in each eye; amazed at the past,
And for the future trembling. All call'd great,

135

Or deem'd illustrions, by erring man,
Was now no more. The hero and the prince
Their grandeur lost, now mingled with the crowd;
And all distinctions, those except from faith
And virtue flowing: These upheld the soul,
As ribb'd with triple steel. All else were lost!

Now, vain is greatness! as the morning clouds,
That, rising, promise rain: Condens'd they stand,
Till, touch'd by winds, they vanish into air.
The farmer mourns: So mourns the helplers wreth,
Who, cast by fortune from some envy'd height,
Finds nought within him to support his fall.
High as his hopes had rais'd him, low he sinks
Below his fate, in comfortles despair.—
Who would not laugh at an attempt to build
A lasting structure on the rapid stream
Of foaming Tygris, the foundations laid

136

Upon the glassy surface? Such the hopes
Of him whose views are bounded to this world:
Immers'd in his non labour'd work, he dreams
Himself secure; when, on a sudden, down
Torn from its sandy ground, the fabric falls!
He starts, and, waking, finds himself undone.

Not so the man who on religion's base
His hope and virtue founds. Firm on the rock
Of ages his foundation laid, remains,
Above the frowns of fortune or her smiles,
In every varying state of life, the same.
Nought fears he from the world, and nothing hopes.
With unassuming courage, inward strength
Endu'd, resign'd to Heaven, he leads a life
Superior to the common herd of men,
Whose joys, connected with the changeful flood
Of fickle fortune, ebb and flow with it.

137

Nor is religion a chimera: Sure
'Tis something real. Virtue cannot live,
Divided from it. As a sever'd branch,
It withers, pines, and dies. Who loves not God,
That made him, and preserv'd, nay more—redeem'd,
Is dangerous. Can ever gratitude
Bind him who spurns at these most sacred ties?
Say, Can he, in the silent scenes of life,
Be sociable? Can he be a friend?
At best, he must but feign. The worst of brutes
An atheist is; for beasts acknowledge God.
The lion, with the terrors of his mouth,
Pays homage to his Maker; the grim wolf,
At midnight, howling, seeks his meat from God.

Again th'archangel rais'd his dreadful voice.
Earth trembled at the sound. “Awake, ye dead!
“And come to judgement.” At the mighty call,

138

As armies issue at the trumpet's sound,
So rose the dead. A shaking first I heard,
And bone together came unto his bone,
Though sever'd by wide seas and distant lands.
A spirit liv'd within them. He who made,
Wound up, and set in motion, the machine,
To run unhurt the length of fourscore years,
Who knows the structure of each secret spring;
Can He not join again the sever'd parts,
And join them with advantage? This to man
Hard and impossible may seem; to God
Is easy. Now, through all the darken'd air,
The living atoms flew, each to his place,
And nought was missing in the great account,
Down from the dust of him whom Cain slew,
To him who yesterday was laid in earth,
And scarce had seen corruption; whether in
The bladed grass they cloth'd the verdant plain,

139

Or smil'd in op'ning flowers; or, in the sea,
Became the food of monsters of the deep,
Or pass'd in transmigrations infinite
Through ev'ry kind of being. None mistakes
His kindred matter; but, by sympathy
Combining, rather by Almighty Pow'r
Led on, they closely mingle and unite.
But chang'd: for, subject to decay no more,
Or dissolution, deathless as the soul,
The body is; and fitted to enjoy
Eternal bliss, or bear eternal pain

As when in Spring the sun's prolific beams
Have wak'd to life the insect tribes, that sport
And wanton in his rays at ev'ning mild,
Proud of their new existence, up the air,
In devious circles wheeling, they ascend,
Innumerable; the whole air is dark:—

140

So, by the trumpet rous'd, the sons of men,
In countless numbers, cover'd all the ground,
From frozen Greenland to the southern pole;
All who ere liv'd on earth. See Lapland's sons,
Whose zenith is the Pole; a barb'rous race!
Rough as their storms, and savage as their clime,
Unpolish'd as their bears, and but in shape
Distinguish'd from them: Reason's dying lamp
Scarce brighter burns than instinct in their breast.
With wand'ring Russians, and all those who dwelt
In Scandinavia, by the Baltic sea;
The rugged Pole, with Prussia's warlike race:
Germania pours her numbers, where the Rhine
And mighty Danube pour their flowing urns.

Behold thy children, Britain! hail the light:
A manly race, whose business was arms,
And long unciviliz'd; yet, train'd to deeds

141

Of virtue, they withstood the Roman power,
And made their eagles droop. On Morven's coast,
A race of heroes and of bards arise:
The mighty Fingal, and his mighty son,
Who launch'd the spear, and touch'd the tuneful harp;
With Scotia's chiefs, the sons of later years,
Her Kenneths and her Malcolms, warriors fam'd;
Her generous Wallace, and her gallant Bruce.
See, in her pathless wilds, where the grey stones
Are rais'd in mem'ry of the mighty dead,
Armies arise of English, Scots, and Picts;
And giant Danes, who, from bleak Norway's coast,
Ambitious, came to conquer her fair fields,
And chain her sons: But Scotia gave them graves!—
Behold the kings that fill'd the English throne!
Edwards and Henrys, names of deathless fame,
Start from the tomb. Immortal William! see,
Surrounding angels point him from the rest,

142

Who sav'd the state from tyranny and Rome.
Behold her poets! Shakespear, fancy's child;
Spenser, who, through his smooth and moral tale,
Ypoints fair virtue out; with him who sung
Of man's first disobedience: Young lifts up
His awful head, and joys to see the day,
The great, th'important day, of which he sung.

See where imperial Rome exalts her height!
Her senators and gowned fathers rise:
Her consuls, who, as ants without a king,
Went forth to conquer kings; and at their wheels
In triumph led the chiefs of distant lands.
Behold, in Cannæ's field, what hostile swarms
Burst from th'ensanguin'd ground, where Hannibal
Shook Rome through all her legions: Italy
Trembled unto the Capitol. If fate
Had not withstood th'attempt, she now had bow'd

143

Her head to Carthage. See, Pharsalia pours
Her murder'd thousands! who, in the last strife
Of Rome for dying liberty, were slain
To make a man the master of the world.

All Europe's sons throng forward; numbers vast!
Imagination fails beneath the weight.
What numbers yet remain! Th'enervate race
Of Asia, from where Tanais rolls
O'er rocks and dreary wastes his foaming stream,
To where the Eastern Ocean thunders round
The spicy Java; with the tawny race
That dwelt in Afric, from the Red-Sea, north,
To the Cape, south, where the rude Hottentot
Sinks into brute; with those, who long unknown
Till by Columbus found, a naked race!
And only skill'd to urge the sylvan war,
That peopled the wide continent that spreads

144

From rocky Zembla, whiten'd with the snow
Of twice three thousand years, south to the Straits
Nam'd from Magellan, where the ocean roars
Round earth's remotest bounds. Now, had not He,
The great Creator of the universe,
Enlarg'd the wide foundations of the world,
Room had been wanting to the mighty crowds
That pour'd from ev'ry quarter. At his word,
Obedient angels stretch'd an ample plain,
Where dwelt his people in the Holy Land,
Fit to contain the whole of human race.—
As when the Autumn, yellow on the fields,
Invites the sickle, forth the farmer sends
His servants to cut down and gather in
The bearded grain: So, by Jehovah sent,
His angels, from all corners of the world,
Led on the living and awaken'd dead
To judgement; as, in the Apocalypse,

145

John, gather'd, saw the people of the earth,
And kings, to Armageddon.—Now look round,
Thou whose ambitious heart for glory beats!
See all the wretched things on earth call'd great,
And lifted up to gods! How little now
Seems all their grandeur! See the conqueror,
Mad Alexander, who his victor arms
Bore o'er the then known globe, then sat him down
And wept, because he had no other world
To give to desolation; how he droops!
He knew not, hapless wretch! he never learn'd,
The harder conquest—to subdue himself.—
Now is the Christian's triumph, now he lifts
His head on high; while down the dying hearts
Of sinners helpless sink: Black guilt distracts
And wrings their tortur'd souls; while ev'ry thought
Is big with keen remorse, or dark despair.

146

But now a nobler subject claims the song.
My mind recoils at the amazing theme:
For how shall finite speak of infinite?
How shall a stripling, by the Muse untaught,
Sing Heav'n's Almighty, prostrate at whose feet
Archangels fall. Unequal to the task,
I dare the bold attempt: Assist me Heav'n!
From thee begun, with thee shall end my song!—

Now, down from the op'ning firmament,
Seated upon a sapphire throne, high rais'd
Upon an azure ground, upheld by wheels
Of emblematic structure, as a wheel
Had been within a wheel, studded with eyes
Of flaming fire, and by four cherubs led;
I saw the Judge descend. Around Him came,
By thousands and by millions, Heav'n's bright host.
About Him blaz'd insufferable light,

147

Invisible as darkness to the eye.
His car above the Mount of Olives stay'd,
Where last He with his disciples convers'd,
And left them gazing as He soar'd aloft.
He darkness as a curtain drew around;
On which the colour of the rainbow shone,
Various and bright; and from within was heard
A voice, as deep-mouth'd thunder, speaking thus:
“Go, Raphael, and from these reprobate
“Divide my chosen saints; go separate
“My people from among them, as the wheat
“Is in the Harvest sever'd from the tares:
“Set them upon the right, and on the left
“Leave these ungodly. Thou, Michael, choose,
“From forth th'angelic host, a chosen band,
“And Satan with his legions hither bring
“To judgement, from Hell's caverns; whither fled,
“They think to hide from my awaken'd wrath,

148

“Which chac'd them out of Heav'n, and which they dread
“More than the horrors of the pit, which now
“Shall be redoubled sev'nfold on their heads.”

Swift as conception, at his bidding, flew
His ministers, obedient to his word.
And, as a shepherd, who all day hath fed
His sheep and goats promiscuous, but at eve,
Dividing, shuts them up in different folds:
So now the good were parted from the bad;
For ever parted; never more to join
And mingle as on earth, where often past
For other each; even close hypocrisy
Escapes not, but, unmask'd, alike the scorn
Of vice and virtue stands. Now separate,
Upon the right appear'd a dauntless, firm,
Composed number: Joyful at the thought

149

Of immortality, they forward look'd
With hope unto the future; conscience, pleas'd,
Smiling, reflects upon a well-spent life;
Heav'n dawns within their breasts. The other crew,
Pale and dejected, scarcely lift their heads
To view the hated light: His trembling hand
Each lays upon his guilty face; and now,
In gnawings of the never-dying worm,
Begins a hell that never shall be quench'd.

But now the enemy of God and man,
Cursing his fate, comes forward, led in chains,
Infrangible, of burning adamant,
Hewn from the rocks of Hell; now too the bands
Of rebel angels, who long time had walk'd
The world, and by their oracles deceiv'd
The blinded nations, or by secret guile
Wrought men to vice, came on, raging in vain,

150

And struggling with their fetters, which, as fate,
Compell'd them fast. They wait their dreadful doom.

Now from his lofty throne, with eyes that blaz'd
Intollerable day, th'Almighty Judge
Look'd down a-while upon the subject crowd.
As when a caravan of merchants, led
By thirst of gain to travel the parch'd sands
Of waste Arabia, hears a lion roar,
The wicked trembled at his view: Upon
The ground they roll'd, in pangs of wild despair,
To hide their faces, which not blushes mark'd,
But livid horror. Conscience, who asleep
Long time had lain, now lifts her snaky head,
And frights them into madness; while the lift
Of all their sins she offers to their view:
For she had power to hurt them, and her sting
Was as a scorpion's. He who never knew

151

Its wound is happy, though a fetter'd slave,
Chain'd to the oar, or to the dark damp mine
Confin'd; while he who sits upon a throne,
Under her frown, is wretched. But the damn'd
Alone can tell what 'tis to feel her scourge
In all its horrors, with her poison'd sting
Fix'd in their hearts. This is the Second Death.

Upon the Book of Life He laid his hand,
Clos'd with the seal of Heav'n; which op'd, he read
The names of the Elect. God knows his own.
“Come, (looking on the right, he mildly said,)
“Ye of my Father blessed, ere the world
“Was moulded out of chaos—ere the sons
“Of God, exulting, sung at Nature's birth.
“For you I left my throne, my glory left,
“And, shrouded up in clay, I weary walk'd
“Your world, and many miseries endur'd:

152

“Death was the last. For you I died, that you
“Might live with me for ever, and in Heav'n sit
“On thrones, and, as the sun in brightness, shine
“For ever in my kingdom. Faithfully
“Have ye approv'd yourselves. I hungry was,
“And thirsty, and ye gave me meat and drink;
“Ye cloth'd me, naked; when I fainting lay
“In all the sad variety of pain,
“Ye chear'd me with the tenderness of friends;
“In sickness and in prison, me reliev'd.
“Nay, marvel not that thus I speak: Whene'er,
“Led by the dictates of fair charity,
“Ye help'd the man on whom keen poverty
“And wretchedness had laid their meagre hands,
“And for my sake, ye did it unto me.”

They heard with joy, and, shouting, rais'd their voice
In praise of their Redeemer. Loos'd from earth,

153

They soar'd triumphant, and at the right hand
Of the great Judge sat down; who on the left
Now looking stern, with fury in his eyes,
Blasted their spirits, while his arrows, fix'd
Deep in their hearts, in agonizing pain
Scorched their vitals, thus their dreadful doom
(More dreadful from those lips which us'd to bless)
He awfully pronounc'd. Earth at his frown
Convulsive trembled; while the raging deep
Hush'd in a horrid calm his waves. “Depart,
(These, for I heard them, were his awful words!)
“Depart from me, ye curs'd! Oft have I strove,
“In tenderness and pity, to subdue
“Your rebel hearts; as a fond parent bird,
“When danger threatens, flutters round her young,
“Nature's strong impulse beating in her breast.
“Thus ardent did I strive: But all in vain.
“Now will I laugh at your calamity,

154

“And mock your fears: as oft, in stupid mirth,
“Harden'd in wickedness, ye pointed out
“The man who labour'd up the steep ascent
“Of virtue, to reproach. Depart to fire,
“Kindled in Tophet for th'arch enemy,
“For Satan and his angels, who by pride
“Fell into condemnation; blown up now
“To sevenfold fury by th'Almighty breath.
“There, in that dreary mansion, where the light
“Is solid gloom, darkness that may be felt,
“Where hope, the lenient of the ills of life,
“For ever dies; there shall ye seek for death,
“And shall not find it: for your greatest curse
“Is immortality. Omnipotence
“Eternally shall punish, and preserve.”

So said he; and, his hand high lifting, hurl'd
The flashing lightning, and the flashing bolt,

155

Full on the wicked; kindling in a blaze
The scorched earth. Behind, before, around,
The trembling wretches burst the quiv'ring flames.
They turn'd to fly; but wrath divine pursu'd
To where, beyond creation's utmost bound,
Where never glimpse of chearful light arriv'd,
Where scarce e'en thought can travel, but, absorb'd,
Falls headlong down th'immeasurable gulf
Of chaos—wide and wild, their prison stood
Of utter darkness, as the horrid shade
That clouds the brow of death. Its op'ned mouth
Belch'd sheets of livid flame and pitchy smoke.
Infernal thunders, with explosion dire,
Roar'd through the fiery concave; while the waves
Of liquid sulphur beat the burning shore
In endless ferment. O'er the dizzy steep
Suspended, wrapt in suffocating gloom,
The sons of black damnation shrieking hung.

156

Curses unutterable fill'd their mouths,
Hideous to hear; their eyes rain'd bitter tears
Of agonizing madness: for their day
Was past, and from their eyes repentance hid
For ever! Round their heads their hissing brands
The furies wav'd, and o'er the whelming brink
Impetuous urg'd them. In the boiling surge
They headlong fell. The flashing billows roar'd;
And Hell from all her caves return'd the sound.
The gates of flint, and tenfold adamant,
With bars of steel, impenetrably firm,
Were shut for ever: The decree of fate,
Immutable, made fast the pond'rous door.

“Now turn thine eyes,” my bright conductor said:
“Behold the world in flames! so sore the bolts
“Of thunder, launch'd by the Almighty arm,
“Hath smote upon it. Up the blacken'd air

157

“Ascend the curling flames, and billowy smoke;
“And hideous crackling blot the face of day
“With foul eruption. From their inmost beds
“The hissing waters rise. Whatever drew
“The vital air, or in the spacious deep
“Wanton'd at large, expires. Heard'st thou that crash?
“There fell the tow'ring Alps, and, dashing down,
“Lay bare their centre. See, the flaming mines
“Expand their treasures! no rapacious hand
“To seize the precious bane. Now look around:
“Say, Canst thou tell where stood imperial Rome,
“The wonder of the world; or where, the boast
“Of Europe, fair Britannia, stretch'd her plain,
“Encircled by the ocean. All is wrapt
“In darkness: As (if great may be compar'd
“With small) when, on Gommorah's fated field,
“The flaming sulphur, by Jehovah rain'd,
“Sent up a pitchy cloud, killing to life,

158

“And tainting all the air. Another groan!
“'Twas Nature's last:
“And see! th'extinguish'd sun
“Falls devious through the void; and the fair face
“Of Nature is no more! With sullen joy
“Old Chaos views the havock, and expects
“To stretch his sable sceptre o'er the blank
“Where once Creation smil'd: O'er which, perhaps,
“Creative energy again shall wake,
“And into being call a brighter sun,
“And fairer worlds; which, for delightful change,
“The saints, descending from the happy seats
“Of bliss, shall visit. And, behold! they rise,
“And seek their native land: Around them move,
“In radiant files, Heav'n's host. Immortal wreaths
“Of amaranth and roses crown their heads;
“And each a branch of ever-blooming palm
“Triumphant holds. In robes of dazzling white,
“Fairer than that by wintry tempests shed

159

“Upon the frozen ground, array'd, they shine,
“Fair as the sun, when up the steep of Heav'n
“He rides in all the majesty of light.

“But who can tell, or if an angel could,
“Thou couldst not hear, the glories of the place
“For their abode prepar'd? Though oft on earth
“They struggled hard against the stormy tide
“Of adverse fortune, and the bitter scorn
“Of harden'd villany—their life a course
“Of warfare upon earth; these toils, when view'd
“With the reward, seem nought. The Lord shall guide
“Their steps to living fountains, and shall wipe
“All tears from ev'ry eye. The wintry clouds
“That frown'd on life, rack up. A glorious sun,
“That ne'er shall set, arises in a sky
“Unclouded and serene. Their joy is full:
“And sickness, pain, and death, shall be no more.

160

“Dost thou desire to follow? does thy heart
“Beat ardent for the prize? Then tread the path
“Religion points to man. What thou hast seen,
“Fix'd in thy heart retain: For, be assur'd,
“In that last moment—in the closing act
“Of Nature's drama, e'er the hand of fate
“Drop the black curtain, thou must bear thy part,
“And stand in thine own lot.”—

This said, he stretch'd
His wings, and in a moment left my sight.

161

PHILOCLES:

AN ELEGY, ON THE DEATH OF MR. WILLIAM DRYBURGH.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

I

Wailing, I sit on Leven's sandy shore,
And sadly tune the reed to sounds of woe;
Once more I call Melpomene! once more
Spontaneous teach the weeping verse to flow!

II

The weeping verse shall flow in friendship's name,
Which friendship asks, and friendship fain would pay;
The weeping verse, which worth and genius claim.
Begin then, Muse! begin the mournful lay.

162

III

Aided by thee, I'll twine a rustic wreath
Of fairest flow'rs, to deck the grass-grown grave
Of Philocles, cold in the bed of death,
And mourn the gentle youth I could not save.

IV

Where lordly Forth divides the fertile plains,
With ample sweep, a sea from side to side;
A rocky bound his raging course restains,
For ever lash'd by the resounding tide.

V

There stands his tomb upon the sea-beat shore,
Afar discern'd by the rough sailor's eye,
Who, passing, weeps, and stops the sounding oar,
And points where piety and virtue lie.

VI

Like the gay palm on Rabbah's fair domains,
Or cedar shadowing Carmel's flow'ry side;

163

Or, like the upright ash on Britain's plains,
Which waves its stately arms in youthful pride:

VII

So flourish'd Philocles: and as the hand
Of ruthless woodman lays their honours low,
He fell in youth's fair bloom by Fate's command.
'Twas Fate that struck, 'tis ours to mourn the blow.

VIII

Alas! we fondly thought that Heav'n design'd
His bright example mankind to improve:
All they should be, was pictur'd in his mind;
His thoughts were virtue, and his heart was love.

IX

Calm as a Summer's sun's unruffled face,
He look'd unmov'd on life's precarious game,
And smil'd at mortals toiling in the chase
Of empty phantoms—opulence and fame.

164

X

Steady he follow'd Virtue's onward path,
Inflexible to Error's devious way;
And firm at last, in hope and fixed faith,
Through Death's dark vale he trod without dismay.

XI

Thy gloomy vale he trod, relentless Death!
Where waste and horrid desolation reign.
The tyrant, humbled, there resigns his wrath;
The wretch, elated, there forgets his pain:

XII

There sleeps the infant, and the hoary head;
Together lie the oppressor and the oppress'd;
There dwells the captive, free among the dead;
There Philocles, and there the weary rest.

XIII

The curtains of the grave fast drawn around,
Till the loud trumpet wake the sleep of death,

165

With dreadful clangour through the world resound,
Shake the firm globe, and burst the vaults beneath.

XIV

Then Philocles shall rise, to glory rise,
And his Redeemer for himself shall see;
With him in triumph mount the azure skies:
For where He is, his followers shall be.

XV

Whence then these sighs? and whence this falling tear?
To sad remembrance of his merit just,
Still must I mourn; for he to me was dear,
And still is dear, though buried in the dust.

173

VERSES,

ON HEARING AN ÆOLIAN HARP AT MIDNIGHT.

By Mr. C---, a young Gentleman, who died of a consumption a few days after writing them.

I

Ye heavenly sounds! enchanting notes!
That swell the whisp'ring breeze;
Say, whence your soft complaining airs,
Your magic power to please.

II

Are ye some fairy, tiny voice,
That, by the glow-worm's light,

174

At lonely hours, your vigils keep,
Unmark'd by mortal sight?

III

Are ye some nymph of antient time,
Like Echo's hapless maid,
In plaintive songs that woo'd your love,
Till chang'd into a shade?

IV

Or, are ye Ossian's passing ghost
That thus the midnight cheers,
And to the fair Malvina tunes
The tale of other years?

V

Sweet sounds! that melt the soul to love,
My senses captive take,
Soft as the cygnet's dying voice,
That's wafted from the lake.

175

VI

Oh! cease not to my list'ning ear;
Still tune your heav'nly lay;
And by your strains my raptur'd soul
To Paradise convey.

THE END.