No poets in these climes of ours
Have seen your fam'd Arcadian bowers;
Its fragrance sweet no moss-rose spreads,
Tho' numerous blue-bells paint our meads,
Tho' high our royal thistle rears
His head begirt with bristling spears
The linnet warbles faint and low,
But sharp and shrill the jangling crow;
The wintry winds in summer howl,
"While nightly sings the staring owl;"
For swains, you find the surly clown,➡
Dear Doctor, haste, return to town.
Where shines the sun on plaster'd walls,
Carts, cabbages, and coblers' stalls;
Now, only think how sweet he smiles,
His beams reflected from the tiles.
Yet, Doctor, hear my boding voice,
While still you have the power of choice,
Quick fly impending floods of rain,
Nor deem the Dryad's warning vain.
Vain omens cease-you warn too late:
Impell'd by stern resistless fate,
He goes! while sure as I'm a sinner,
It rains before the hour of dinner.
Now having seiz'd (by way of trope)
Imagination's telescope,
I see as well thro' stone and timber,
As through the window of my chamber;
Nor highest hills impede my vision,
Nay, mark and smile not in derision
Lo! by a stream I see you stray
Where chime the waves in wanton play;
Along with quicken'd pace you go,
And now with steps revers'd and slow,
Still listening to the buzzing crowd
Of idle guests that murmur loud;
Where high the gushing waters spout,
And frequent springs the speckled trout;
While constant in your raptur'd ear
The river's distant hum you hear.
But heard you not at twilight's break
The wrangling hen's harsh-twittering peek?
And see these crows-in airy rings
They wheel on glossy oil-smooth'd wings,
Aloft they dart, oblique they range
In hieroglyphic circles strange,
And now their mazy folds combine
To form one long continuous line.
That living hillock heaves its head
With crumbling earth so fresh and red,
Where, floundering blindfold from his hole,
Springs forth to light the darkling mole.
Fly, Doctor, fly, nor longer stay
Till twining earth-worms bar your way;
Till crawling snails their antlers rear,
And Anne and Margaret* cry "O dear!
How hard yon path-way steep to climb,
And slide o'er slippery tracks of slime.'
The rains descend, the thunders roar―
"Tis well you reach'd that cottage door.
The roads are floods-on such a day
Would Homer's well-soal'd boots + give way.
With hopeless foot the traveller views
His path who, luckless! trusts in shoes;
* Two young ladies, daughters of Dr. Anderson, who accompanied him on this rural excursion.
† Εὔκνημίδης Αχαιοί. HOMER.
But you, perhaps, (ah vain pretence !)
In coaches place your confidence.
In vain in chariot and in horse
You trust to speed you on your course.
That tempest, fit for turning mills,
The coachman's heart with horror fills-
It goes as well might seamen try
To steer straight in the North-wind's eye-
Beneath the blast it tottering reels,
And heaves aloft its ponderous wheels.
Well, Doctor, since you must delay,
Why, practise patience while you stay-
When tempests shroud the stormy sky
These lines its utmost power may try.
EDINBURGH, AUGUST 6, 1796.
O! called from hence, dear child, in life's full bloom;
Thy childless parents sorrow o'er thy tomb!,
Yet, while they mourn thy early flight from earth,
And cherish fond remembrance of thy worth,
This thought ftill cheers-that, when their toils are
Thee shall they meet, and meet to part no more.
On a Butterfly, which came forth from its Chrysalis in o
BORN in Aspasia's fost'ring hand,
My finish'd form I first display'd,
And felt my plumy wings expand,
While gazing on the beauteous maid.
No sunshine glow'd upon the scene,
With kindly warmth those wings to dry;
Yet fair each painted pinion grew
Beneath the lustre of her eye.
No zephyr rose with gentle gale,
To fill my infant frame with air;
But, fann'd by fair Aspasia's breath,
The zephyr's gale I well might spare.
No rose or lily near me grew,
On which my downy limbs might rest;
But these in brighter tints I found
Upon the virgin's cheek and breast.
Thus Nature, with indulgent care,
Propitious grac'd my natal hour;
And with superior sweetness gave
The gale, the sunshine, and the flow'r!
WHILOM by silver Thames's gentle stream,
In London town there dwelt a subtile wight;
A wight of mickle wealth, and mickle fame,
Book-learn'd and quaint; a virtuoso hight.
Uncommon things and rare were his delight;
From musings deep his brain ne'er gotten ease,
Nor ceasen he from study, day or night;
Until, (advancing onward by degrees)
He knew whatever breeds on earth, or air, or seas.
He many a creature did anatomize,
Almost unpeopling water, air, and land;
Beasts, fishes, birds, snails, caterpillars, flies,
Were laid full low by his relentless hand,
That oft with gory crimson was distain'd:
He many a dog destroy'd, and many a cat;
Of fleas his bed, of frogs the marshes drain'd,
Could tellen if a mite were lean or fat,
And read a lecture o'er the entrails of a gnat.
* "The Virtuoso," "Ambition and Content," and "The Poet," are juvenile pieces of the celebrated Akenside, and are not to be found in his works. They were written in his sixteenth year.
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