LINES

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample sides;
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills;
The Tay, meand'ring sweet, in infant pride,
The palace rising on his verdant side;

The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste;
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste;
The arches striding o'er the new-borne stream;
The village glitt'ring in the noontide beam ·

* * * * *

Poetic ardors in my bosom swell,

Lone, wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell:
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods ·

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
And look thro' Nature with creative fire;

Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild;
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds;
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch he.

scan,

And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.

LINES

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS.

AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods,

The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods;

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,

Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream resounds, As high in air the bursting torrents flow,

As deep recoiling surges foam below,

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,

And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends.

Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show'rs,
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs.
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils,

And still below the horrid cauldron boils.

BOOK III.

FAMILIAR AND EPISTOLARY.

TO MISS CRUICKSHANKS,

A VERY YOUNG LADY,

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF

OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR.

BEAUTEOUS rose-bud, young and gay,

Blooming on thy early May,

Never may'st thou, lovely flower,

Chilly shrink in sleety show'r!

Never Boreas' hoary path,

Never Eurus' pois'nous breath,
Never baleful stellar lights,
Taint thee with untimely blights.

Never, never reptile thief

Riot on thy virgin leaf!

Nor even Sol too fiercely view

Thy bosom blushing still with dew!

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Richly deck thy native stem;
Till some evening, sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,

And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings;

Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,
Shed thy dying honors round,
And resign to parent earth

The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

VERSES

ON A YOUNG LADY, RESIDING ON THE BANKS OF THE SMALL RIVER DEVON, IN CLACKMANNANSHIRE, BUT WHOSE INFANT YEARS WERE SPENT IN AYRSHIRE.

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flow'rs blooming

fair;

But the boniest flow'r on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.

Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing flower,

In the gay, rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew! And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew.

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,

With chill, hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn.

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,
And England triumphant display her proud rose;
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

TO MISS L

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NI W-YEAR'S GIFT, AN UARY 1, 1787.

AGAIN the silent wheels of time

Their annual round have driv'n,
And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer heav'n.

No gifts have I, from Indian coasts,
The infant year to hail;

I send you more than India boasts,
In win's simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charg'd, perhaps too true;

But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you.

VERSES

TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS.

HERE, where the Scottish muse immortal lives,
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd,
Accept the gift; tho' humble he who gives,
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.