TOBIAS SMOLLETT was born near Renton, Dumbartonshire, Scotland, in 1721. He studied medicine at Glasgow, but gave more thought to poetry than to physic, and at seventeen produced a tragedy founded on the death of James I. of Scotland. He went to London, expecting this production would start him at once on the high-road to wealth and fame. Disappointed, he shipped as surgeon's mate in the navy. He soon left the service in disgust, and attempted practice as a physician; but his ungovernable temper and propensity for satire made him too unpopular. He married a young lady whom he had met in Jamaica, and sued her father for the promised

portion, £3,000. Failing in this also, he turned to literature as a profession, and produced his well-known novels "Roderick Random," "Peregrine Pickle," ""Count Fathom," "Humphrey Clinker," etc. These were very successful, as was also a history of England, which he wrote in fourteen months. He undertook the editorship of a Tory journal, became involved in violent personalities, and was imprisoned and fined. He went to Italy for his health, and died near Leghorn, October 21, 1771. Smollett wrote but few poems, the best of which are in this collection. "The Tears of Scotland" was written just after the battle of Culloden.

THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.

MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valor long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hospitable roofs no more,
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.

The wretched owner sees afar
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast, and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain;
Thy infants perish on the plain.

What boots it then, in every clime,
Through the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancor fell.

The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy dav:
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night
No strains but those of sorrow flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe,
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

O baneful cause, oh, fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their fathers stood,
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's soul was not appeas'd:
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel!

The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forsaken wanders o'er the heath,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.

While the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow:
"Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!"

ODE TO LEVEN WATER.

ON Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love;

I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod the Arcadian plain.

Pure stream! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave;