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WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE,
IN THE PARLOR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAY
ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,
Poetic ardors in my bosom swell,
Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
Here, to the wrongs of Fate half re Misfortune's lighten'd steps might And Disappointment, in these lonel Find balm to soothe her bitter, ran Here heart-struck Grief might heav
scan, And injurd Worth forget and pardo
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING
FYERS, NEAR LOCH-N]
AMONG the heathy hills and ragged The roaring Fyers pours his mossy Till full he dashes on the rocky mo Where, through a shapeless breach, h As high in air the bursting torrents As deep recoiling surges foam belo Prone down the rock the whitening And viewless Echo's ear, astonishid, Dim-seen, through rising mists and The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding Still thro' the gap the struggling riAnd still below the horrid cauldron
FAMILIAR AND EPISTOLARY.
TO MISS CRUICKSHANKS,
A VERY YOUNG LADY,
WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAP OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR.
BEAUTEOUS rose-bud, young and gay,
May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,
ON A YOUNG LADY, RESIDING ON THE BANKS OF THE
SMALL RIVER DEVON, IN CLACKMANNANSHIRE, BUT
How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon,
With green spreading bushes, and flow'rs blooming
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 NITW-YEAR'S GIFT, TAN
UARY 1, 1787
AGAIN the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driv'n,
Are so much nearer heav'n.
No gifts have I, from Indian coasts,
The infant year to hail ;
In Küvin's simple tale.
Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charg'd, perhaps too true ;
An Edwin still to you.
TO A YOUNG LADY, WITA 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.