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But whilst I thus adore,
I'm driven to wild despair;
Indifference is more

Than raging love can bear.

WOULD'ST thou know her sacred charms Who this destin'd heart alarms,

What kind of nymph the Heavens decree The maid that's made for love and me.

Who pants to hear the sigh sincere,
Who melts to see the tender tear,
From each ungentle passion free;
Such the maid that's made for me.

Who joys whene'er she sees me glad,
Who sorrows when she sees me sad,
For peace and me can pomp resign;
Such the heart that's made for mine.
Whose soul with generous friendship glows,
Who feels the blessings she bestows,
Gentle to all, but kind to me;
Such be mine, if such there be.

Whose genuine thoughts, devoid of art,
Are all the natives of her heart,
A simple train, from falsehood free;
Such the maid that's made for me.
Avaunt, ye light coquets, retire,
Whom glittering fops around admire;
Unmov'd your tinsel charms I see,
More genuine beauties are for me.
Should Love, fantastic as he is,
Raise up some rival to my bliss;
And should she change, but can that be?
No other maid is made for me. ·

IF

BY A YOUNG LADY,

ON READING THE FOREGOING.

you would know, my dearest friend,
The man whose merit may pretend
To gain my heart, that yet is free,
Him that's made for love and me:

His mind should be his chiefest care,
All his improvements centre there,
From each unmauly passion free;
That is the man who's made for me.
Whose generous bosom goodness warms,
Whom sacred virtue ever charms,
Who to no vice a slave will be;
This is the man who's made for me.

Whose tongue can easily impart
The dictates of his honest heart,
In plain good sense; from flattery free;
Such he must be who's made for me.

He alone can love inspire,

Who feels the warmth of friendship's fire;
Humane and generous, kind and free;
That is the man who's made for me.
If such an one, my friend, e'er tries
To make me his by strictest ties,

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O GENTLE maid! whoe'er thou art,
That seek'st to bless a friendly heart;
Whose Muse and mind seem fram'd to prove
The tenderness of mutual love.

The heart that flutters in his breast,
That longs and pants to be at rest,
Roam'd all round thy sex, to find
A gentle mate; and hop'd her kind.

I saw a face and found it fair;

I search'd a mind-saw goodness there:
Goodness and beauty both combin'd;
But Heav'n forbad her to be kind.

To thee for refuge dare I fly,
The victim of another eye?
Poor gift! a lost, rejected heart,
Deep wounded by a foreign dart.
From this inevitable chain,
Alas! I hope to 'scape in vain.
Is there a pow'r can set me free,
A pow'r on Earth-or is it thee?

Yet were thy cheek as Venus fair;
Bloom'd all the Paphian goddess there,
Such as she bless'd Adonis' arms;
Thou could'st but equal Laura's charms.

Or were thy gentlest mind replete

With all that's mild, that's soft, that's sweet;
Was all that's sweet, soft, inild, combin'd,
Thou could'st but equal Laura's mind.

Since beauty, goodness, is not found
Of equal force to soothe this wound,
Ah! what can ease my anguish'd mind ?
Perhaps the charm of being kind.

Canst thou transported view the lays
That warble forth another's praise,
Indulgent to the vow unknown,
Well pleas'd with homage not thy own?

Canst thou the sighs with pity hear
That swell to touch another's ear?
Canst thou with soft compassion see
The tears that fall, and not for thee?
Canst thou thy blooming hopes resign,
The vow sincere, so dearly thine;
All these resign, and prove to me
What Laura wou'd not deign to be?

When at thy feet I trembling fall,
My life, my soul, my Laura call;
Wilt thou my anxious cares begnile,
Aud o'er thy face spread Laura's smile.

Perhaps Time's gently stealing pace
May Laura's fatal form efface,
Thou to my heart alone be dear,
Alone thy image triumph here.

Come then, best angel! to my aid!
Come, sure thou'rt such, the gentlest maid:
If thou canst work this cure divine,
My heart henceforth is wholly thine.
Edinburgh.

THE YOUNG LADY'S ANSWER. YOUR Laura's charms I cannot boast; For beauty I ne'er was a toast; I'm not remarkable for

sense; To wit I've not the least pretence.

If gold and silver have the power

To charm, no thousands swell my dower;
No shining treasures I possess,
To make the world my work confess.

An honest plain good-natur'd lass,
The character by which I pass,)
I doubt will scarcely have the art
To drive your Laura from your heart.

But, sir, your having been in love,
Will not your title to me prove:
Far nobler qualities must be
ln him who's made for love and me.

Tis true you can with ease impart
The dictates of your honest heart,
In plain good sense, from flattery free:
But this alone won't answer me.

Once more peruse my lines with care;
Try if you find your picture there:
For by that test you'll quickly see,
If you're the man who's made for me.
Glasgow

TO A LADY

WHO RIDICUled the auTHOR'S LOVES.

A FEMALE friend advis`d a swain

Whose heart she wish'd at ease, "Make love thy pleasure, not thy pain, Nor let it deeply seize.

"Beauty, where vanities abound, No serious passion claims: Then, till a phenix can be found, Do not admit the flames."

But griev'd, she finds all his replies
(Since prepossess'd when young)
Take all their hints from Silvia's eyes,
None from Ardelia's tongue.

Thus, Cupid, all their aim they miss,
Who would unbend thy bow;
And each slight nymph a phenix is,
If thou would'st have it so.

THE BRAES OF YARROW,

TO LADY JANE HOME,

IN IMITATION OF THE ANCIENT SCOTISH MANNER,

A. BUSK ye, busk
ye, my bony bony bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow?
Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,

And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow,

B. Where gat ye that bony bony bride?
Where gat ve that winsome marrow?
A. I gat her where I dare na weil be seen,
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow,

Weep not, weep not, my bony bony bride, Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow, Nor let thy heart lament to leive

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

B Why does she weep, thy bony bony bride? Why does she weep thy winsome marrow? And why dare ye nae mair weil be' seen

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?

A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,

Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow,
And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint her luver luver dear,
Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow,
And I hae slain the comliest swain

That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? Why on thy Braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholeous weids

Hung on the bony birks of Yarrow!

What yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude?
What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!
Tis he, the comely swain I slew

Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears, with dule and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,
And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow,
And weep around in waeful wise,

His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,
His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow,

Did I not warn thee not to lue,

And warn from fight? but, to my sorrow, O'er rashly bald, a stronger arm

Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan, [grass, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

[Tweed,

Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows
As green its grass, its gowan yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple frae the rock as mellow.

Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve,
In floury bands thou him did'st fetter,
Though he was fair and weil beluiv'd again,
Than me, he never lued thee better.

Busk ye, then busk, my bony bony bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ve, and lue me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

C. How can I busk a bony bony bride?

How can I busk a winsome marrow? How lue him on the banks of Tweed,

That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow?

O Yarrow fields, may never never rain,
No dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely slain my luve,

My luve, as he had not been a luver.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest, 'twas my awn seuing;

Ah! wretched me! I little little ken'd
He was in these to meet his ruin.

Pale pale indeed, O lovely lovely youth,
Forgive forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lie all night between my briests,
No youth shall ever lye there after.
A. Return return, O mournful mournful bride,
Return and dry thy useless sorrow,
Thy luver heeds naught of thy sighs,
He lies a corps on the Braes of Yarrow.

THE FLOWER OF YARROW.
TO LADY MARY MONTGOMERY.

Go, Yarrow flower, thou shalt be blest,
To lie on beauteous Mary's breast;
Go, Yarrow flower, so sweetly smelling,
Is there on Earth so soft a dwelling?
Go, lovely flower, thou prettiest flower
That ever smil'd in Yarrow bower,
Go, daughter of the dewy morning,
With Alves' blush the fields adorning.

Go, lovely rose, what do'st thou here?
Lingering away thy short-liv'd year,
Vainly shining, idly blooming,
Thy unenjoyed sweets consuming.

The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed, Vain is thy radiant Garlies hue,

Unheedful of my dule and sorrow;

But ere the toofal of the night

He lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow.

Much I rejoic'd that waeful waeful day;
I sang, my voice the woods returning;
But lang ere night the spear was flown

That slue my luve, and left me mourning.

What can my barbarous barbarous father do, But with his cruel rage pursue me?

My luver's blood is on thy spear,

No hand to pull, no eye to view;
What are thy charms, no heart desiring?
What profits beauty, none admiring?

Go, Yarrow flower, to Yarrow maid,
And on her panting bosom laid,
There all thy native form confessing,
The charm of beauty is possessing.
Come, Yarrow maid, from Yarrow field,
What pleasure can the desert yield?
Come to my breast, O all excelling!

How can'st thou, barbarous man, then woo me? Is there on Earth so kind a dwelling?

My happy sisters may be may be proud,

With cruel, and ungentle scoffin,

May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes
My luver nailed in his coffin.

My brother Douglas may upbraid,

And strive with threat'ning words to muve me, My luver's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?

Yes yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve,
With bridal sheets my body cover,
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,

Let in th' expected husband-lover.

But who th' expected husband husband is?
His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter;
Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,

Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?
Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down,
O lay his cold head on my pillow;

Take aff, take aff these bridal weids,

And crown my careful head with willow.

Pale though thou art, yet best yet best beluv'd,
O could my warmth to life restore thee!

Yet lie all night between my briests,
No youth lay ever there before thee.

Come, my dear maid, thou prettiest maid

That ever smil'd in Yarrow shade,

Come, sister of the dewy morning,
With Alves' blush the dance adorning.

Come, lovely maid, love calls thee here,
Linger no more thy fleeting year,
Vainly shining, idly blooming,
Thy unenjoyed sweets consuming.
Vain is thy radiant Garlies hue,
No hand to press, no eye to view;
What are thy charms, no heart desiring?
What profits beauty, none admiring?
Come, Yarrow maid, with Yarrow rose,
Thy maiden graces all disclose;
Come, blest by all, to all a blessing;
The charm of beauty is possessing.

IMITATIONS.

TO A SWALLOW.
FROM ANACREON.

MALICIOUS bird! what puuis' ment,
Due to thy crimes, can love invent?

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Or clip thy wings, or eut thy tongue,
And spoil thy flight, and future song:
That thus, unseasonable guest,
Thou dar'st disturb a lover's rest,
And tear the maid, profuse of charms,
My fair Maria, from my arms.

TO A DOVE.

FROM ANACREON.

SAY, beauteous dove, where dost thou fly?
To what new quarter of the sky
Dost thou with silken plumes repair,
To scent with sweets the ambient air?
Stay, gentle bird, nor thou refuse
To bear along a lover's vows.

O tell the maid, for me belov'd,
O tell how constant I have prov'd;
How she to me all nymphs exceil'd,
The first my eyes with joy beheld;
And since she treats me with disdain,
The first my eyes beheld with pain.
Yet whether, to my wishes kind,
She bear my pray'r with gracious mind,
Or, unrelenting of her will,
Her hot displeasure kindle still,

I, in her beauty's chains bound fast,
Shall view her with indiff'rence last.
Fly swift, my dove, and swift return
With answer back to those that mourn:
O! in thy bill, bring soft and calm
A branch of silver-flow'ring palm.
But why should I thy flight delay ?
Go fleet, my herald, speed away.

HORACE.

BOOK I. ODE v.

WHAT happy youth, Maria, now
Breathes in thy willing ear his vow?
With whom spend'st thou thy evening hours
Amidst the sweets of breathing flowers?
For whom retired to secret shade,
Soft on thy panting bosom laid,

Set'st thou thy looks with nicest care,
And bind'st in gold thy flowing hair?
O neatly plain! How oft shall he
Bewail thy false inconstancy?
Condemn'd perpetual frowns to prove,
How often weep thy alter'd love?
Who thee, too credulous, hopes to find,
As now still golden and still kind;
And heedless now of Fortune's power
Sets far away the evil hour:

How oft shalt thou, ill-star'd, bewail
Thou trusted to the faithless gale?
When unaccustom'd to survey
The rising winds and swelling sea;
When clouds shall rise on that dear face,
That shone adorn'd in every grace;
That yet untaught in wicked wiles,
Was wont t' appear to thee in smiles.
Wretch'd they to whom thou shin'st, untry'd
Thy shifting calm and treacherous tide:
For me, once shipwreck'd, now on shore,
I venture out my bark no more.

PALINODE.

O HAPPY youth, who now, possest
Of my Maria's smiles, art blest;
Think not thy joys will constant prove;
How many changes are in love!
I once was happy too like thee,
That Sun of beauty shone on me:
In darkness ever to deplore,
The Sun is set to shine no more;
Doom'd ne'er to view the rising light,
But weep out love's eternal night.

When first I spread the lover's sail,
Love blew from shore a friendly gale;
Sweet appear'd th' enchanting scene,
All calm below, above serene:
Joyous I made before the wind,
Heedless of what I left behind;
Nor rocks nor quicksands did I dread,
No adverse winds to check my speed;
No savage pirate did I fear,
To ravish all my soul held dear,
Far off my treasure to convey,
And sell in foreign lands away:
Maria's hands unfurl'd the sails,
Her prayers invok'd the springing gales:
'Twas calm whate'er her eyes survey'd,
Her voice the raging storm obey'd;
And o'er the bosom of the tides,
Her will the ruling rudder guides.
But ah! the change, she flies away,
And will vouchsafe no longer stay.
See now the swelling seas arise,
Loud storming winds enrage the skies.
All weak the tempest to withstand,
Trembling and pale I put to land.
Wet from the tossing surge, aghast
I thank the gods, the danger's past;
And swear to venture out no more,
Secure upon
the safer shore:
Yet should the swelling seas subside,
And roll serene a silver tide;
Should yet the angry tempest cease,
And gently breathe a gale of peace;
Much, much I fear, I'd dare again
A second shipwreck on the main.

HORACE.

BOOK I. ODE VII.

TO THE EARL OF STAIR.

LET others in exalted lays
The lofty dome of Hopetoun praise,
Or where of old, in lonely cell,
The musing druid wont to dwell:
Or with the sacred sisters roam,
Near holy Melrose' ruin'd dome:
There are who paint with all their might
The fields where Fortha's streams delight;
That winding through Stirlina's plain,
Rolls beauteous to the distant main:
Or, faithful to the farmer's toil,
Extol fair Lothian's fertile soil;
Where Ceres her best gifts bestows,
And Edin town her structures shows.
Nor me delight those silvan scenes,
Those chequer'd bowers and winding greens;

Where art and nature join to yield
Unnumber'd sweets to Marlefield:
Nor yet that soft and secret shade,
Where fair Aboyn asleep is laid;
Where gay in sprightly dance no more
She dreams her former triumphs o'er.
These scenes can best entice my soul,
Where smooth Blancatria's waters roll;
Where beauteous Hume in smiling hour,
Plucks the green herb or rising flow'r;
Pleas'd on the borders to behold
The apple redden into gold.

But whate'er place thy presence boast, Let not, O Stair! an hour be lost.

When the rough north and angry storm, Nature's lovely looks deform;

The south restores the wonted grace, And wipes the clouds from Heaven's face. So thou to finish all thy care, The flask of brisk Champaign prepare; Invite thy friends, with wise design, And wash the ills of life with wine: Whether beneath the open sky, Stretch'd in the tented couch to lie, Thy fate ordains; to shine again Great on some future Blenheim's plain; Higher to raise thy deathless name Triumphant to sublimer fame: Or, if secure from feverish heat, Newliston cover thy retreat, Where wit conspires with love's delights, To grace thy days and bless thy nights. When Fergus led, in days of yore, His exil'd bands to Scotia's shore; The godlike founder of our state, Sustain'd the shocks of adverse fate: Yet brave, disdaining to repine, Around his brows he bound the vine: Let's follow still without delay Wherever Fortune shows the way; Courage, my lads, let none despair, When Fergus leads, 'tis base to fear: With better auspice shall arise Our empire in the northern skies: Beauty and valour shall adorn Our happy offspring yet unborn: Now fill the glass, come fill again, To morrow we shall cross the main,

HORACE.

BOOK I. ODE XI.

TO MISS ERSKINE. INQUIRE not, Efair, what end The gods for thee or me intend; How rain the search, that but bestows The knowledge of our future woes! Far happier they, who ne'er repine To draw the lots their fates assign; Then be advis'd, and try not thou What spells and cunning men can do.

In mirth thy present years employ, And consecrate thy charms to joy; Whether the Fates to thy old score Propitious add a winter more;

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