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The bleak wind whistles round her head;
Her helpless orphans cry for bread!
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies!

Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathising verse shall flow:
"Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn !”



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 poised, 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 hedges 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 hearts resolved, and hands prepared,
The blessings they enjoy to guard!



WHEN in the crimson cloud of even,
The lingering light decays,
And Hesper, on the front of heaven,
His glittering gem displays;
Deep in the silent vale, unseen,
Beside a lulling stream,

A pensive youth, of placid mien,
Indulged this tender theme,

Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piled
High o'er the glimmering dale;
Ye woods along whose windings wild
Murmurs the solemn gale;
Where Melancholy strays forlorn,
And Woe retires to weep,
What time the wan moon's yellow horn,
Gleams on the western deep:

To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms
Ne'er drew Ambition's eye,
Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms,
To your
retreats I fly.
Deep in your most sequester'd bower
Let me at last recline,

Where Solitude, mild, modest power,
Leans on her ivied shrine.

- How shall I woo thee, matchless fair! Thy heavenly smile how win!

Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care, And stills the storm within.

O wilt thou to thy favorite grove
Thine ardent votary bring,

And bless his hours, and bid them move
Serene, on silent wing!

Oft let remembrance soothe his mind
With dreams of former days,
When, in the lap of Peace reclined,
He framed his infant lays;
When Fancy roved at large, nor Care
Nor cold Distrust alarm'd,

Nor Envy, with malignant glare,
His simple youth had harm'd...

"Twas then, O Solitude, to thee
His early vows were paid,
From heart sincere, and warm, and free,
Devoted to the shade.

Ah, why did Fate his steps decoy
In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy!-
O take the wanderer home.

Thy shades, thy silence now be mine,
Thy charms my only theme;

My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine
Waves o'er the gloomy stream.
Whence the scared owl, on pinions gray,
Breaks from the rustling boughs,
And down the lone vale sails away
To more profound repose.

O, while to thee the woodland pours
Its wildly warbling song,

And balmy, from the bank of flowers,
The zephyr breathes along ;
Let no rude sound invade from far,
No vagrant foot be nigh,
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car,
Flash on the startled eye.

But if some pilgrim, through the glade,
Thy hallow'd bowers explore,
O guard from harm his hoary head,
And listen to his lore;

For he of joys divine shall tell,
That wean from earthly woe,
And triumph o'er the mighty spell
That chains this heart below.

For me, no more the path invites
Ambition loves to tread;

No more I climb those toilsome heights
By guileful Hope misled;

Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more
To Mirth's enlivening strain;
For present pleasure soon is o'er,
And all the past is vain.


In Epistle to Mr. Cuthbert Jackson.

THIS motley piece to you I send,
Who always were a faithful friend;
Who, if disputes should happen hence,
Can best explain the author's sense;
And, anxious for the public weal,
Do, what I sing, so often feel.

The want of method pray excuse,
Allowing for a vapor'd Muse;
Nor, to a narrow path confined,
Hedge in by rules a roving mind.

The child is genuine; you may trace Throughout the sire's transmitted face. Nothing is stolen: my Muse, though mean, Draws from the spring she finds within ;

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