Emigration of Birds. Beneath th' incessant weeping of these drains, 820 The crystal treasures of the liquid world, Or from the bottoms of the bosom'd hills, In Th' exhaling sun, the vapour-burden'd air, When Autumn scatters his departing gleams, 825 830 835 Emigration of Birds. In clusters clung, beneath the mouldering bank, 840 And where, unpierc'd by frost, the cavern sweats. Or rather into warner climes convey'd, With other kindred birds of season, there They twitter cheerful, till the vernal months Invite them welcome back: for, thronging, now 845 Innumerous wings are in commotion all. Where the Rhine loses his majestic force In Belgian plains, won from the raging deep, By diligence amazing, and the strong Unconquerable hand of Liberty, 850 The stork-assembly meets; for many a day, Wheel'd round and round, in congregation full Th' aërial billows, mixes with the clouds. Or where the Northern ocean, in vast whirls, 860 Boils round the naked melancholy isles Of farthest Thule, and th' Atlantic surge Caledonia described. Pours in among the stormy Hebrides; Who can recount what transmigrations there Here the plain harmless native, his small flock, Tends on the little island's verdant swell, The shepherd's sea-girt reign; or, to the rocks The plumage, rising full, to form the bed 865 870 875 Her airy mountains, from the waving main, 880 Breathing the soul acute; her forests huge, Full; winding deep, and green, her fertile vales; 885 Caledonia described. With many a cool, translucent, brimming flood To where the north-inflated tempest foams Of unsubmitting spirit, wise and brave; Who still through bleeding ages struggled hard, (As well unhappy WALLACE can attest, 890 895 Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief!) To hold a generous undiminish'd state; Too much in vain! Hence of unequal bounds O'er every land; for every land their life 900 Has flow'd profuse, their piercing genius plann'd, And swell'd the pomp of peace their faithful toil, 905 As from their own clear north, in radiant streams, Bright over Europe bursts the Boreal Morn. Oh is there not some patriot, in whose power Character of the Duke of Argyle. That best, that godlike Luxury is plac'd, Through late posterity? some, large of soul, A double harvest to the pining swain? To weave; how, white as hyperborean snow, 910 915 920 That heave our friths, and crowd upon our shores? How all-enlivening trade to rouse, and wing The prosperous sail, from every growing port, Bid BRITAIN reign the mistress of the deep? Yes, there are such. And full on thee, ARGyle, Р 925 930 |