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; The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste; * * * * * Poetic ardors in my bosom swell, Lone, wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell: Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd, 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, 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, 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, And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings; Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 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, 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, No gifts have I, from Indian coasts, I send you more than India boasts, Our sex with guile and faithless love But may, dear maid, each lover prove VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS. HERE, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, |