網頁圖片
PDF
ePub 版

LINES

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE,

IN THE PARLOR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAY

MOUTH.

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Thabodes 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, meandring 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 glittring in the noontide beam

[blocks in formation]

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 –

[blocks in formation]

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

[graphic]

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

BOOK III.

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,
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 hy 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 NITW-YEAR'S GIFT, TAN

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 Küvin'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, 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.

« 上一頁繼續 »