Thou to Albion too wert known, Midst the moat and moss-grown wall, That girt her Gothic-structur'd hall With rural trophies strown. The traveller, doubtful of his way, Upon the pathless forest wild; The huntsman, in the heat of day, And with the tedious chase o'ertoil'd; Wide their view around them cast, Mark'd the distant rustic tower, And sought and found the festive bower, And shar'd the free repast.
E'en now, on Caledonia's shore,
When Eve's dun robe the sky arrays,
Thy punctual hand unfolds the door,
Thy eye the mountain road surveys;
Pleas'd to spy the casual guest,
Pleas'd with food his heart to cheer,
With pipe or song to sooth his ear,
And spread his couch for rest.
Nor yet ev'n here disdain'd thy sway,
Where Grandeur's splendid modern seat
Far o'er the landscape glitters gay ;
Or where fair Quiet's lone retreat
Hides beneath the hoary hill,
Near the dusky upland shade,
Between the willow's glossy glade,
And by the tinkling rill.
There thine the pleasing interviews
That friends and relatives endear, When scenes, not often seen, amuse; When tales, not often told, we hear;
There the scholar's liberal mind Oft instruction gives and gains, And oft the lover's lore obtains His fair-one's audience kind.
O gentle power! where'er thy reign,
May Health and Peace attend thee still;
Nor Folly's presence cause the pain,
Nor vice reward thy good with ill :
Gratitude thy altar raise,
Wealth to thee her offerings pay,
And Genius wake his tuneful lay
To celebrate thy praise.
TO MIRTH.
PARENT of joy! heart-easing Mirth!
Whether of Vénus or Aurora born;
Yet goddess sure of heavenly birth,
Visit benign a son of Grief forlorn :
Thy glittering colours gay, Around him, Mirth, display; And o'er his raptur'd sense Diffuse thy living influence : So shall each hill in purer green array'd And, flower-adorn'd, in new-born beauty glow; The grove shall smooth the horrors of the shade,
And streams in murmurs shall forget to flow. Shine, goddess, shine with unremitted ray, And gild (a second sun) with brighter beam our day.
Labour with thee forgets his pain,
And aged Poverty can smile with thee,
If thou be nigh, Grief's hate is vain,
And weak th' uplifted arm of Tyranny.
The Morning opes on high
His universal eye;
And on the world doth pour
His glories in a golden shower,
Lo! Darkness trembling 'fore the hostile ray Shrinks to the cavern deep and wood forlorn:
The brood obscene, that own her gloomy sway, Troop in her rear, and fly th' approach of morn. Pale shivering ghosts, that dread th' all-cheering light, [night. Quick, as the lightning's flash, glide, to sepulchral
But whence the gladdening beam
That pours his purple stream
O'er the long prospect wide?
"Tis Mirth. I see her sit
In majesty of light,
With Laughter at her side.
Bright ey'd Fancy hovering near
Wide waves her glancing wing in air ;
And young Wit flings his pointed dart,
That guiltless strikes the willing heart.
Fear not now Affliction's power,
Fear not now wild Passion's rage,
Nor fear ye ought in evil hour,
Save the tardy hand of Age.
Now Mirth hath heard the suppliant poet's prayer:
No cloud that rides the blast shall vex the troubled,
air.
Smollet.
VOL. II.
10
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 th' Arcadian plain.
Pure stream! in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source;
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly pois'd the scaly brood
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;
The springing trout, in speckled pride;
The salmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike, intent on war;
The silver eel, and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch, and groves of pine,
And edges flower'd with eglantine.
Still on thy banks, so gaily green,
May numerous herds and flocks be seen,
And lasses chanting o'er the pail,
And shepherds piping in the dale,
And ancient Faith that knows no guile,
And Industry, imbrown'd with toil,
And heart resolv'd, and hands prepar'd,
The blessings they enjoy to guard.
OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care,
A burden more than I can bear,
I sit me down and sigh:
O life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such I.
Dim backward as I cast my view,
What sickening scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may pierce me through,
Too justly I may fear!
Still caring, despairing,
Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here shall close ne'er,
But with the closing tomb!
Happy, ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard!
Ev'n when the wished end's denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim,
Meet every sad returning night
And joyless morn the same,
You bustling, and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I listless, yet restless,
Find every prospect vain.·
How bless'd the solitary's lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,
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