STANZAS

WRITTEN IN A SEAT IN THE SAME PLANTATION.

BY THE SAME.

I.

DORA, one day, no matter when,

While sitting on this seat, was saying, "I'll live a maid; I hate these men, Their sex is ever our's betraying.

11.

"Grant me, ye powers, but this request,
In my retreat from fops and folly,
Let me with one fair friend be blest!

One female friend will bless your Dolly.'

III.

Young Cupid, from a neighbouring tree,

Heard the grave Nymph her thoughts expressing,

"And is it so, sage miss?" said he,

"

"Then why this care display'd in dressing?

IV.

Why, but some coxcomb's heart to win,

This gadding to all public places?

Why, but to take some racer in,

This coaching still to all the races?

V.

"Why, when a beau appears in view,

Those dimpling smiles, that bosom panting? Why, in each cheek, that change of hue?

Why, but I'll quickly stop your canting.

VI.

"I'll show the world how they're abus'd,
Such grave gay baggages believing;
Know then, by me, you stand accus'd
Both of pursuing man, and thieving.

VII.

Nay, never hope your tricks to hide, (Come, hold your head up, hold it higher) You stole, I saw you, from my side

This dart, and threw it at yon 'squire."

VIII.

The Nymph, enrag'd, at Cupid's charge,
(But Cupid ne'er was whipt for lying)
Disdain'd to answer him at large,
Thus only with just pride replying:

IX.

"Were man, young sir, what I pursue,
Need I thy dart to pierce his liver?
My pencil, boy, which Homer drew,
Is of more force than half thy quiver."

EPIGRAM

ON THE

REPRESENTATION OF TIMOUR THE TARTAR. 1813. BY B. H. BROWNE, M. D.

LET the Houynhnhms no longer be reckon'd a fable, Now all our great actors are brought from the stable!

A NIGHT PIECE.

WRITTEN IN AUTUMN, 1811.

BY JAMES HOGG, THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

How
Low lonely is this wildered scene,
When silence, from her vault so blue,
Steals soft o'er Teviot's mountains green,
To sleep embalmed in midnight dew!

All hail ye hills, whose towering height,
Like shadows scoop the yielding sky!
And thou, mysterious guest of night!
Dread traveller of immensity!

Stranger of heaven, I bid thee hail!
Shred from the pall of glory riven,
That flashest in celestial gale;

Broad pennon of the king of Heaven!

Art thou the flag of woe and death
From angel's ensign-staff unfurl'd?
Art thou the standard of his wrath,
Waved o'er a sordid sinful world?

No, from thy pure, pellucid beam,
That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone,
No latent evil we can deem;

Fair herald of th' eternal throne !

Whate'er portends thy front of fire,
And streaming locks so lovely pale;
Or peace to man, or judgments dire,
Stranger of heaven I bid thee hail!

Where hast thou roamed these thousand years?
Why sought those polar paths again?
From wilderness of glowing spheres,
To fling thy vesture o'er the wain?

And when thou climb'st the milky way,
And vanishest from human view,
A thousand worlds shall hail thy ray,
Through wilds of yon empyreal blue..

Oh, on thy rapid prow to glide!

To sail the boundless skies with thee!
And plough the twinkling stars aside,
Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea!

To brush the embers from the sun;
The icicles from off the pole;
Then far to other systems run,
Where other moons and planets roll!

Stranger of heaven! O let thine eye
Smile on a wild enthusiast's dream!
Eccentric as thy course on high,

And airy as thine ambient beam.

And long, long, may thy silver ray
Our northern vault at eve adorn;
Then, wheeling to the east away,
Sweep the gray portals of the morn!

TO A FRIEND,

WHO ASKED THE AUTHOR IF HE WAS NOT TIRED OF WRITING ON LOVE AND BEAUTY.

TIRED of Love!-Of Beauty tired!
Art thou a man, who thus can ask it?
Bid misers say, with hoarding fir'd,
Whether they hate each hidden casket.
Go ask the bird, who, high in air,
Sings, as he soars sublime to heav'n,
Whether he would not rather share
A gilded cage by mortal giv'n.
Go ask the toiling slave, if he
Does not prefer his horrid doom
To home, and joy, and liberty;

To scenes where peaceful pleasures bloom!
"No!" they would answer.-I say, no,
To all thy question's hated boldness;
Long may I own Love's gentle glow,
Unmingled with thy native coldness.
For, oh! its thrill is worth, to me,

The whole of wisdom's treasur'd stories.
Though bound by love, I'd not be free
For all the world's united glories!