Chapter V (1)

From life’s fair dawn to liart eve,
We all thy flatt’ring tales believe,
Enamour’d of thy art:
Thy soft and salutary voice
Gives birth to unexpected joys,
And soothes the bleeding heart;
And even at our latest hour,
When earthly comforts fly,
Thou dost, by a superior Pow’r,
Death’s terrors all defy.
Not grieving, when leaving
This scene of dole and care,
But viewing, pursuing
A more exalted sphere.

ON
HAPPINESS.

O happiness! where art thou to be found? What bow’r is blest with thy perpetual gleam? From court, from cot, ev’n while they seek thy stay, On thy soft pinions, rapid is thy flight. Thy name, not substance, is to mortals known.

Repulse from thee makes drunkards stand aghast, Who nightly revel o’er the flowing bowl. In vain they seek thy progress to retard, A guest too noble to be thus detain’d. Thy quick elopement shews their sad mistake; Baulks hope, and certain disappointment brings.

Misers for thee grope ’midst their bags of wealth, Nor find thy residence in golden ore: Fear, anxious care, bleak av’rice, and distrust, Forbid thy access to the grov’ling soul.

Not riches, though in gorgeous pomp array’d, With all the dazzling splendour of the east, Secure thee ’mongst the gay, fantastic train. Pride and Ambition, vulture-like, appear, Gain access to the op’lent master’s heart, And bid defiance to thy sacred charms, Now swiftly banish’d from his sumpt’ous seat.

Nor even the voice of honour can recal Thy hasty steps: thee Pleasure sues in vain; A stranger to the gay, licentious crowd, The giddy flutt’ring sons of dance and song. Thou to the libertine dost ever prove An airy phantom; mock’st his eager grasp; Leaves him to cruel disappointment’s rage, Remorse, despair, the inmates of his soul.

In hopes to meet thee in some distant clime, The ardent warrior quits his native shore, Inur’d to martial toil; at danger smiles, And unconcern’d treads o’er the heaps of slain: His en’mies fly before him; at his feet Millions fall prostrate, and for mercy call: Yet still in vain he makes his court to thee; Thou scarce vouchsafes him one auspicious smile.

See lovers too, in yon sequester’d grove, Seek lonely walks, and spend their sighs in vain, For thee! For what? for some bewitching fair, Whose smiles they deem can boundless bliss secure: Their views contracted would thee thus confine.

Nor art thou found in Hymen’s sacred rites, Though silken cords of sweet affection bind. A thousand ills encompass the fond pair, And mix their sweets with bitterness and wo. Bent in pursuit, through many a devious track, All seem to say, “Successless is the search; To nobler objects henceforth bend your view.”

All hail, Religion! thou celestial power! Thy force alone can soothe the anxious breast, And quite dispel the solitary gloom, These sullen shades that steal upon the soul. O let me hear thy salutary voice! Thy sacred dictates let me still revere; And ever prone in virtue’s steps to tread, My hopes, my wishes center’d all in Him, Whose hand omnipotent the world did frame.

O Thou, great Source of all supreme delight! Without reluctance may I ever prove Submissive to thy providential sway, To know and to observe thy laws divine, My sole solicitude. How mean soe’er my humble station be, Content, and calm serenity of mind, Shall pave my paths along the rugged vale; And when the vain delusive vision’s past, Then happiness, in all its vast extent Unmeasurable, ignorant of bounds, Shall through eternal ages be my lot; The lot of all whose hope is fix’d on thee.

UPON A
YOUNG LADY’S
LEAVING
_LOUDOUN CASTLE_.

What means this silent, solitary gloom? All nature in her dishabille appears; Contracted flow’rets yield no sweet perfume, And ev’ry grove a dismal aspect wears.

Nor do the joys of Autumn glad our plains; Our landscapes are in sable weeds array’d; No jocund sound is heard among the swains, And nought but sighs from each dejected maid.

Rude Eurus echoing through the distant woods, With harsh, discordant note, augments our wo; While rains, impetuous, from the bursting clouds, Our verdant walks and pleasure-grounds o’erflow.

Incumber’d by their foliage now, the trees, With leaves, untimely dropp’d, bestrew the ground: Because Matilda’s presence does not please, All bleak and dismal seem the fields around.

Her placid looks bespoke a mind serene, Each feature wore an unaffected smile; Her’s was the pow’r to beautify the scene, And sweetly gay the languid hours beguile.

Her count’nance milder than an April morn, When Phœbus first emits his infant rays; More radiant beauties do her mind adorn, Than ere were brighten’d by his noon-tide blaze.

Fair Virtue, cloth’d in all it’s native sweets, Celestial precepts in her breast inlaid; And oft, as friendly intercourse invites, In softest accents from her lips convey’d.

But now she’s gone, a sullen sadness reigns! Absorb’d in grief we still her absence mourn, Or beg that heaven would smile upon our plains, And grant a blessing in her swift return.

THE
_FICKLE PAIR_.

Damon and Phillis, ’tother day,
To Hymen’s altar hasten’d;
They talk’d of love along the way,
And wish’d the knot well fasten’d.

A church the willing pair perceiv’d,
With portals wide expanded;
The priest a speedy audience crav’d,
And in the bride was handed.

When lo! a tremor seiz’d the fair,
In marriage robes adorned;
She left the youth perplex’d with care,
The rites yet unperformed.

With eager steps he swift pursu’d
The object of his wishes,
And with redoubl’d ardour woo’d
Her to complete his blisses.

The maid, reluctant, turn’d again,
Some glances kind bestowing;
And well resolv’d appear’d the swain,
Though with resentment glowing.

Kind Hymen heav’d his torch, while they
Re-enter’d both together;
But Cupid slily took his way,
And went--they knew not whither.

The bridegroom next--but what of that,
No bride his absence mourned;
He play’d his charmer tit for tat;
He went but ne’er returned.

Philander kindly fill’d his place;
To Damon Chloe consented.
That night they wed, O woful case!
And ere next morn repented.

TO
A LADY,
A PATRONESS OF THE MUSES,
ON HER
_RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS_.

While sickness, madam, on your vitals prey’d, The sympathetic sisters shar’d your pain: I mark’d them then in sable weeds array’d, In concert sad assume the plaintive strain.

From Elly’s[1] Land was heard the harp of wo; A shepherd, once the blithest of the throng, Did mirth inspiring, sportive notes forego, And steep’d in tears the melancholy song.

From _Irvine’s_ verdant banks, a doleful lay Re-echo’d through the groves and distant dale; Each vocal throat was fill’d with dire dismay, And heart-felt sighs proclaim’d th’ unwelcome tale.

Quick and unstable are the turns of Fate; ’Twixt well and wo are thin partitions rear’d: I mark’d the drooping choir with hearts elate, Exulting o’er the ills so lately fear’d.

When brooding on the verge of deep despair, A gladd’ning voice did through the groves resound; Loud acclamations fill’d the ambient air, And joy and pleasure triumph’d all around.

Health, blooming goddess, re-assum’d her sway, And did the tender, captive frame release; All seem’d intent the tidings to convey, In notes more grateful than the whisp’ring breeze.

Some greet a patroness, all hail a friend, Whose bosom feels seraphic virtues glow; Nor further, madam, do your smiles extend; Vice dreads your frown, and shuns you as a foe.

Long may you live admir’d by all, and lov’d, The honour of a long illustrious race; Your worth innate, by Envy’s self approv’d, Which time or sickness never can efface.

[1] The Residence of the celebrated Poet, Robert Burns.

THE
_LOTTERY TICKET_.

Celia, fair, beyond description,
Soon became the fav’rite toast;
Charms unrival’d ev’n by fiction,
Did the lovely maiden boast.

Beaux and sages, panting, dying,
Did of love and her complain,
While the nymph, his darts defying,
Triumph’d o’er her thousands slain.

With their woes too rashly sporting,
Still more fatal darts were sought;
Anxious to augment her fortune,
She a lott’ry-ticket bought.

But old Plutus, sullen power,
Can the fair and brave withstand;
He, in the decisive hour,
Shov’d a blank to Celia’s hand:

While Brunetta, short of stature,
Limbs distorted, shoulders round,
Gain’d new charms, in spite of Nature,
By good thirty thousand pound.

Celia now, with looks dejected,
Seem’d the erring wheel to blame,
When the god, with brows erected,
Did a moment’s audience claim.

Go bright Celia, fair and cruel,
Still of countless charms secure,
Would you heedless add more fuel
To the flames you will not cure?

View the maid to grief inclined,
Though she grasps the golden prize,
O how gladly she’d resign it,
For the conquests of your eyes!

THE
_MONTH’S LOVE_.

Ye maidens attend to my tale,
Of love that sly archer take care;
His darts o’er all ranks do prevail,
The wealthy, the wise, and the fair.

When once his fierce arrow he throws,
Contentment will bid you adieu;
No potion the doctor bestows,
Can then be of service to you.

Experience prompts me to tell,
I felt his tyrannical sway;
The time I remember too well;
It was a long month and a day.

The youth, I’ll not mention his name,
Who was the sole cause of my smart,
His deeds were unnotic’d by fame,
His manners unpolish’d by art.

His person could boast of no charm,
His words of no conquering power;
Yet his footsteps did give the alarm,
Which made my heart beat for an hour.

When absent from him I ador’d,
One minute as ages did prove;
Though plenty replenish’d my board,
I fasted and feasted on love.

My couch but augmented my pain;
No sleep ever closed my eyes;
One glance of my rustic young swain
Was what I more highly did prize.

None ever bemoan’d my sad case;
They laugh’d at the ills I endur’d;
But time did my sorrows efface,
And spite of the imp I was cur’d.

I saw my lov’d youth in the shade,
Soft whisp’ring to Susan apart;
Resentment came quick to my aid,
And I banish’d him quite from my heart.

But be not too forward, ye fair,
Nor take too much courage from me,
How many have fall’n in the snare
That got not so easily free?

_DAMON AND PHILANDER._

DAMON.

The sun with keenness darts his sultry ray; To some cool shade Philander haste away, Nigh yon smooth riv’let, where the southern breeze So softly plays among the bord’ring trees. Beneath yon spreading elm let’s rest a while, And with our songs the tedious hours beguile: There will I tune my pipe to Delia’s praise, While ev’ry swain’s attentive to my lays.

PHILANDER.

O Damon! how insipid is thy theme? Philander’s sick of thy lov’d Delia’s name: Nor can the fairest nymph enslave my heart; Man’s soul was form’d to act a nobler part. This gewgaw train can ne’er my thoughts employ; Such would dispel but can’t augment my joy. I’ll sing the beauties of the breathing spring, The treasures Autumn to my barns will bring. To notes of transport ever tune my reed, While on the plains my num’rous flocks I feed.

DAMON.

Let Damon’s breast such trivial joys disdain; What though my flocks o’erspread the wide domain? What though my barns were with abundance stor’d, And gen’rous nectar ever grac’d my board? Nor honour, riches, though their force unite, In Delia’s absence ever can delight. O Delia! sweeter than the op’ning dawn, More bright than rays that cheer the dewy lawn. Her sparkling eye the orient gem outshines, Or brightest lustre of Golconda’s mines: Her cheeks of roseate hue, her flaxen hair, In easy curls, waves gently in the air. Her coral lips ambrosial sweets retain; She rivals Juno in her air and mien; She far exceeds what ancient painters drew, When fancy’s flights the Cyprian queen pursue. Such excellence might grace a prince’s arms; Yet this must yield to her interior charms. In her fair bosom virtue bears the sway; There wisdom sheds a pure unmingl’d ray. Truth, innocence, and modesty combine T’ adorn her mind, where all perfections shine: Apollo’s wit does to the maid belong; Her voice more charming than the Syren’s song.

PHILANDER.

Hold, hold, dear Damon, sure too much is said; Your Delia’s then a most bewitching maid: As blind men judge of colours, so you trace The matchless beauties of her charming face, Recount her virtues, and, with partial eyes, Admire in her what others would despise. A sad delirium sure has seiz’d thy brain, Which makes thee fancy what the poets feign, Of love, and such like vain fantastic whims, ’Tis wild chimera all, and idle dreams.

DAMON.

And dost thou doubt of such a thing as love? If once thy breast, like mine, the smart should prove, More than is painted by the poet’s art, In genuine colours will affect thy heart. But wherefore now contemn my rural lays? Thy notes were swell’d once with Lucretia’s praise! Does she thy favours treat with disrespect, Which makes thee now all other maids neglect!

PHILANDER.

Lucretia still appears in all her charms, A match most fitting for Philander’s arms. What she possesses yields most solid joy, Since bags of wealth buy pleasures ne’er can cloy. These beauties catch; they set my heart on fire; Her farm, her flocks, are all I do admire: Her darts are powerful, of a yellowish hue, More fierce than those the fam’d Alcides threw. Her striking beauty in full bloom appears, At the dull period of full fifty years: Then Delia will no admiration claim, But dear Lucretia ever is the same.

DAMON.

For this you love her; now I truly find, That none but gilded cords your heart can bind; Nor wit nor beauty can obtain your vow; At Mammon’s shrine you still devoutly bow.

PHILANDER.

Vain would th’ attempts of either be to hold My am’rous heart, without the force of gold: Beauty an empty trifle still I deem, A childish toy, unworthy of esteem. Its gaudy foliage may attract the eye; But as the tulip it will fade and die: The glowing cheek enamour’d fops may prize, But men of sense can ruby lips despise. And what is wit? a giddy flutt’ring thing, Which can no real satisfaction bring. A thousand ills attend his wretched life, Whose dear companion is a witty wife: Still she is right, and ever in the wrong, Such elocution dwells upon her tongue. But if assisted by the Muse’s skill, He sure may dread the poison of her quill; She with keen satire lashes all around, And with the rest her husband feels the wound. Should poverty, by sudden threats alarm, Can wit with all its power now prove a charm? The fairest flowers Parnassus ere could boast, Yield to the treasures of the golden coast. The maid who comes fraught with that precious ore, Brings virtue, wit, and beauty all in store; This gives the palid cheek a crimson glow, The tawny skin the tincture of the snow. This makes the dwarf complete in ev’ry part: She wounds most sure who throws the golden dart. Short of one foot, distorted of one eye, Struck by its lustre, no defects I spy.

DAMON.

Thus does Philander waste his wits to prove A happy marriage destitute of love. Gold, cursed gold, the bane of ev’ry bliss, Thy _summum bonum_, all thy happiness. Say, to what purpose do thy words avail? Beauty and wit to give us joy may fail. Wit cease to please, and beauty may decay, } Riches make wings and swiftly fly away; } Depriv’d of all, what will Philander say? } But to secure thee of thy darling’s charms, Go to the mines, and lodge within her arms; Enfold thy mistress in a fond embrace, For ever banish’d from the shepherd race. Nor quit thy mansion till thou breathe thy last: Such sordid souls no social joys should taste. Blest with my Delia on this happy plain, Where peace and pleasure in perfection reign, I’ll more serenely pass life’s hours away, Than without her, though crown’d with princely sway. To please my charmer all my care shall be; Can I be wretched when she smiles on me? But we must go, our fleecy charge attend. Farewell, Philander, I am still thy friend. The maid whose real charms the heart can hold, Must not be deem’d one whit the worse for gold.

_COLIN AND ALEXIS._

Now from before Aurora’s rays,
Stern darkness with its horror flies;
The mountain tops begin to blaze,
And Phœbus gilds the eastern skies.

See glist’ning dew drops on the bush,
Reviving odours cheer the morn;
The warbling blackbird and the thrush,
Make vocal ev’ry blooming thorn.

Alexis join the rural lay,
Give welcome to the op’ning spring.
Why sigh’st thou thus thy hours away?
Come take thy pipe, and softly sing.

ALEXIS.

Beneath these ivy mantled trees,
Allow me, Colin, to complain.
No murm’ring brook, nor whisp’ring breeze
Can in the least divert my pain.

The maid, whose charms I oft have sung,
Has left the plain, ’twas what I fear’d,
And o’er her shoulders, careless hung,
A Caledonian plaid appear’d.

Of ancient note on Scotia’s plain,
And by her grandam often wore,
Its crimson hue was free from stain,
Which made Calista shine the more.

Yea still she shines; her radient eyes
Add lustre to the brightest day;
Each feature strikes with new surprise,
And various beauties still display.

But why should I recount them still?
’Tis only to increase my pain.
She bids these verdant fields farewell,
And goes to seek a richer swain.

Calista, with thy rapid flight,
Is vanish’d each delightful gleam.
Can Drife’s fair banks give more delight,
Than Eckles’ gently winding stream?

Do sweeter scents perfume the grove,
Or fairer flow’rs adorn the vale?
Do comelier swains now talk of love,
And cheer thee with their am’rous tale?

More sprightly youths may feel the smart,
And court thee with assiduous care;
But none of all who seek thy heart
Avows a passion more sincere.

Then haste Calista, save the swain,
Who in thy absence ever sighs;
Add fresher beauties to the plain,
And bid more pleasing prospects rise.

Give to the flowers a livelier hue;
Thy presence makes all nature gay.
O lovely maid! when blest with you,
Each season seems the month of May.

The warblers now, with plaintive note,
Seem to accord with ev’ry sigh;
The shepherds have their songs forgot,
And laid their pipes in silence by.

Since thy retreat, O charming fair!
Day after day my hopes destroy.
O save Alexis from despair,
And crown succeeding scenes with joy.

_ALMEDA AND FLAVIA._

FLAVIA.

While dusky shades eclipse the solar ray, And fanning zephyrs ’mong the branches play, Where varied beauties deck the verdant groves, Let us recount the story of our loves. Say, dear Almeda, why this pensive mood, Which does thy wonted cheerfulness exclude?

ALMEDA.

The cause of this to Flavia I’ll reveal: It is a youth whose power I can’t conceal. ’Tis Strephon, who long since obtain’d my heart, When artful Cupid gave the killing dart. When Strephon’s near, no anxious cares molest, Nor access find to my enraptur’d breast; But when he’s gone, his absence still I mourn, And spend my hours in sighs till he return.

FLAVIA.

You kindle into rapture at his name; Be wise in time, and guard against a flame, Which cherish’d, hopeless, will your charms efface, And rob your features of each blooming grace. The dear Castalia taught my heart to prove The soft’ning charms and pleasing art of love. Witness ye rural walks and verdant vales, How charm’d I’ve listen’d to his melting tales; While he, unskill’d in flatt’ry, did impart, In flowing strains, the dictates of his heart. Blind was my passion, long it bore the sway, Suppress’d at last by the enliv’ning ray Of Reason wak’d, by some celestial pow’r, To my relief, in an auspicious hour, With open’d eyes I did the charmer view; Deaf to his accents, from his presence flew. Observe, my precepts are with prudence fraught, What heart so stubborn would remain untaught?

ALMEDA.

Command the briny waves no more to flow, Bid southern breezes ever cease to blow; Say to the flowers, no more your fragrance yield, Nor Ceres crown with joy the fertile field; Bid Phœbus cease to gild the op’ning morn, And Cynthia be of all her beauty shorn: Would these obedient as thy vassals prove? No more can I, dear Flavia, cease to love. A youth possess’d of ev’ry moving art, Quick access gains to the securest heart. When he appears, to cheer the drooping plain, Each nymph enamour’d spends her sighs in vain: And when in softest strains he tunes his lay, Each shepherd, envious, throws his lute away. In him all radiant virtues are combin’d, True greatness centers in a humble mind; Truth, candour, justice, in his gen’rous breast, Firm fortitude and soft compassion rest. Nor can the gods on mortals more bestow, A bright example of their works below. Young Strephon’s charms, no tongue could e’er express; I may be silent, but can’t love him less.

FLAVIA.

Enough is said, Almeda dear, to prove No fault is seen in those we truly love. The son of Venus, by a magic art, Deceives the sight, soon as he wounds the heart. Blind as himself does all his vot’ries make, Extremely happy in their own mistake. In all his charms I have young Strephon seen, Yet never by the youth have wounded been. Yet were he, as you paint him, thus complete, And fond to lay his garlands at your feet, Sure young men’s minds still subject are to change, Though from our plains he were not doom’d to range. A change of scenes may, with distorted brows, Pour swift contempt on all your former vows. But let indiff’rence lodge within your breast, Nor Strephon’s absence e’er your mind molest; The more his charms, the surer he’ll succeed ’Mong pow’rful rivals, whom you now may dread.

ALMEDA.

I know his charms the gentlest dame might move, But he’ll admit no rival in his love: My image still remains within his breast, True to that hour I first my love confest. This pleasing hope will soothe my anxious soul, Nor let stern care its peaceful sway controul, Diffuse into my heart its soft relief, Dispel my fears and dissipate my grief. I’ll say the youth, for me by heaven design’d, Is good, as lovely, constant, as he’s kind; So smoothly shall the seasons glide along, Till Strephon’s presence animate my song, Then shall my pleasure as my love abound, ’Till Hymen’s rites with purest joys be crown’d.

FLAVIA.

So may you sing, and sigh your years away, With flatt’ring hope, perch’d on the feeble spray Of Strephon’s faith, the efforts rend’ring vain Of such as would essay your love to gain, Till his own choice, or some disaster show, Your promis’d pleasures vanish’d like the snow. Your charms are fled, no lover then in view, The paths of discontent you will pursue. That you despis’d Philander then you’ll mourn, Nor gave Lothario’s suit a just return; Or for Alonzo sigh when ’tis too late, And with reluctance meet your destin’d fate. This will your slighted lovers laugh to see Almeda then a maiden old will be.

ALMEDA.

The paths you paint I will not tread alone, While Flavia lives I shall be sure of one. Then hand in hand we’ll smooth the rugged way, And sigh for sigh shall bear our griefs away.

FLAVIA.

Why should we sigh? In smiles we will contend, And laugh at what we have no power to mend. Should fate deprive me of my darling swain, Some braver youth perhaps may grace the plain, And make me happy by the nuptial band, When cheerfully he gives his heart and hand. Or if despis’d and unadmir’d I rest, I’ll call my own sad destiny the best. I’ll bliss the fate I oft have sought to shun, And scorn the fool who would to wedlock run. See Nature now in contrast with thy grief; The warbling songsters seem to chant relief; Their notes are cheerful, nor with sighs depress’d; In concert join and soothe your cares to rest.

ALMEDA.

No warblers can give me delight,
How mournful and pensive their strain;
Nought sweet can appear to my sight,
Since Strephon’s forsaken the plain.

With joy I these banks did survey,
With pleasure I’ve por’d on the stream:
Young Strephon then with me did stray,
And of nought but delight I could dream.

While he by my side did recline,
The flowers seem’d to brighten their bloom;
The sun with more lustre did shine,
And fragrance the fields did perfume.

Still pleas’d with his whispers of love,
Still charm’d with his amorous tale;
Now beauty’s forsaken the grove,
And his absence I’ll ever bewail.

How gloomy and dismal the shade,
Where Strephon was wont to appear,
Where oft his addresses he made,
And his accents delighted my ear.

Those paths I revisit in pain;
Yet love them without knowing why,
When fortune no favour will deign,
I deem it a pleasure to sigh.

In vain have my visitants strove
My woes to divert by a smile;
Though I seem’d of their jest to approve,
My heart was with Strephon the while.

Society, spoil’d of each charm,
Without him no pleasure can give;
In solitude cares will alarm,
In his absence ’tis painful to live.

When Sol, from the watery main,
Ascends to illumine the sky,
My thoughts to the loveliest swain,
More swift than the lightning can fly.

I muse on his charms all the day;
The theme seems enchantingly sweet,
Nor ends with bright Phœbus’s ray;
In dreams I my wishes repeat.

Ye angels that succour the brave,
Prove guardians to the sweet youth;
Still may he with honour behave,
Integrity, wisdom and truth.

While through distant climes he may rove,
His image is fix’d in my view;
Let Strephon be constant in love,
And Almeda will ever be true.

ON
_THE SPRING_.

Now winter, reluctant, the sway
Resigns to the genial spring;
Sol sheds an enlivening ray,
And warblers delightfully sing.

Fresh verdure adorns the gay plains,
So lately o’er-mantl’d with snow;
The rivers, releas’d from their chains,
Do now with soft murmuring flow.

The lark and the linnet unite,
The Cuckow too joins in the lay;
All nature’s profuse of delight,
And soft fanning zephyrs now play.

How charming the garden appears?
Sweet primroses paint the gay vale:
Its head now the daffodil rears,
The sweetest of seasons to hail,

His team now the hind drives along;
Quite cheerful he ploughs the rude plain.
He hums his love’s praise in a song,
Or whistling forgets her disdain.

The seed in the furrow he throws,
Indulg’d by bright Phœbus’s rays;
Rich Ceres vast increase bestows,
When Autumn her bounty displays.

The lambkins now sport on the mead;
They skip round the heath-cover’d hill;
Their dams how securely they feed
By the side of yon murm’ring rill?

Near Damon appears with his lute,
And wakes the melodious lay;
The songsters, attentive and mute,
Are perch’d on the wav’ring spray.

As Phillis traverses the grove,
All nature more charming appears:
Leander’s soft stories of love,
Still touchingly sound in her ears.

They hand in hand trip o’er the plain;
No couple more cheerful and gay:
She counts him the loveliest swain;
He calls her the Queen of the May.

Of each others hearts they are sure;
The arts of no rival they dread.
From minds so unsulli’d and pure,
No treachery e’er can proceed.

Few princes partake of such joys,
Remov’d from all faction and strife:
Sure riches and honours are toys,
But their’s the endearments of life.

_WILLIAM AND MARY._

Young William once the blithest of the swains, That grac’d the flow’ry bank, or trode the plains; Not rustic, but from affectation free, Still courteous, kind, and affable was he. Of gentlest manners, ever form’d to please; His mind unruffl’d, ever blest with ease; His mien engaging, sweet beyond compare; His breath delicious as the fragrant air; His nature prone, attractive sweets t’ impart, Good without shew, and lovely without art.

Each nymph him priz’d, and oft they sought, in vain, The noble conquest of his heart to gain. Their gentlest arts unable were to move, His soul serene, yet undisturb’d by love. Ah! transient happiness! how short thy sway! How swift thy flight! how sudden thy decay! Thy absence now the youth, dejected, mourns, While in his heart love’s kindling passion burns.

A lovely nymph, adorn’d with ev’ry grace, Fairer than fam’d, of old, Arcadia’s race: An easy shape, and graceful in her air, The virgins’ envy, and the swains’ despair. Her name was Mary, from the banks of Clyde, She came to taste the summer in its pride. One fatal eve, this charming youth pass’d by, And on this blooming damsel cast his eye: Her charms, resistless, smote his gen’rous heart, Surpris’d, confounded, then he felt the smart. Sometime with wonder on the maid he gaz’d, Then silence broke, and thus, like one amaz’d: “What do I feel! from whence this magic spell! Is this that love of which the poets tell? It must be so; else why this pleasing pain, These sweet enchanting hopes the nymph to gain? This fear, this dread, which does my soul molest? Such things till now were strangers to my breast.”

He own’d ’twas love, and wish’d to find relief; But warbling songsters can’t assuage his grief. The sweets of Spring no pleasure now can yield, Nor all the verdure which adorns the field. To this soft passion all his powers gave way, And in his heart young Mary bore the sway. Go then, fond youth, and tell the maid thy care, Who knows, perhaps she may be kind as fair. Yes, Mary sure will hear thy plaintive strain; ’Twas her who caus’d, she too must cure thy pain. _Thy_ passion urg’d, _her_ tender love confest, What maid so happy, or what swain so blest?

_LOTHARIO._

Join now Apollo the harmonious strain, O Muses, Graces, all ye gentle train; Once more conspire to aid my humble lays, And wake my harp to fam’d Lothario’s praise. A comely youth, young Cupid’s favourite care, Handsome in shape, and graceful in his air: In all respects he’s form’d the fair to please, Can sigh, and talk, and laugh, and love with ease. But O what words, what numbers can express, What muse can paint Lothario’s late distress? This I’ll essay, although the talk’s severe, While Delia drops a sympathetic tear.

And thus it happen’d, on a fatal morn, Rous’d with the sound of hound and echoing horn, This charming youth, on rural sports intent, With some companions to the field he went: Each hound he summons, they attend him there, With eager steps pursue the timid hare. Pleas’d with their toil, o’er various heights they went, Nor did the craggy cliffs their speed prevent. Too soon Lothario gain’d the wish’d for prize, While horns and hounds re-echo to the skies.

The chase now past, their late inspiring toil, Our jovial sportsman led to rest a while. To the next inn with hasty steps they pass, And quaff with social hearts the cheerful glass. In foaming goblets pleasing draughts went round; In sparkling liquors ev’ry care was drown’d. But ah! the fumes affect Lothario’s brain; Once more he tries for pleasure on the plain. The scene is chang’d, his pleasure now is gone, Lost and forlorn he wanders all alone. With weari’d steps, o’er barren heaths he past, And in Bane’s moss, alas! he lands at last. His trembling hand, which held the lifeless hare, Now casts it from him as not worth his care. Three times he drops, three times he lifts his plaid, Hope and despair by turns his breast invade: He look’d for help, alas! no help was nigh, And in the dreary moss he’s forc’d to lie. “Am I to Death become an easy prey,” With quiv’ring lips methought he thus did say, “Now farewell hope, my much lov’d friends, adieu; “My dear companions, charming Delia too. “O wert thou near to heave a tender sigh, “Upon thy breast I would contented die: “With ravish’d eyes I’ll view thy charms no more; “My race is run, life’s fleeting vision o’er.”

Thus did the sad Lothario vent his grief, Till balmy sleep bestow’d a short relief. On mossy pillows rests his drooping head, While azure curtains hang around his bed. All night extended on the turf he lay, Nor op’d his eyes till dawning of the day: The chilling frost his tender form had seiz’d, But Phœbus’ beams the captive swain releas’d, Abash’d, confounded, being thus confin’d, To free himself part of his coat resign’d; With tardy pace the plains he wander’d o’er, Some cot or village wish’d to see once more. Kind fortune now did her assistance lend, And led him safely to a gen’rous friend.

Lothario view’d the mansion with delight, And at the door he knock’d with all his might. Impatience, by repeated strokes, confest, Till they with joy receiv’d the welcome guest, Who seem’d as one from mortals long estrang’d, His soft address and comely visage chang’d: His clothes by nauseous mud bespatter’d o’er; His hair dishevell’d, and his ruffles tore. Struck with amaze, they view’d his dismal case, Nor were they slow in rend’ring him solace. Unto the parlour fire he first is led, From thence into Matilda’s downy bed; Then with assiduous care they kindly soothe And cheer the lonely, wand’ring, helpless youth. Each friendly aid conspir’d to ease his pain, And bring Lothario to himself again.

Ye lovely nymphs, now sing in softest strains Lothario’s praise, the pride of Scotia’s plains; Ye charming youths, blest with his company, Pray that Bane Moss he never more may see.

_AMANDA_:

AN ELEGY
ON THE
DEATH OF Mrs. ----,
_PERSONATING HER HUSBAND_.

Where can the wretched find relief from wo, Or sue for comfort in life’s dreary vale? Here can philosophy no aid bestow, And reason must in all her efforts fail.

What bosom feels not, while with deepest sighs, In fault’ring accents, I of Fate complain? A pale and mangl’d corps Amanda lies; O that by savage hands she had been slain!

It was her own, on fatal purpose bent, To dark oblivion be the deed consign’d; Nor let officious mem’ry thus torment, With wild reflection my disorder’d mind.

Ah! what is happiness? an airy dream: While stupid mortals fondly hope its stay, Supinely basking in the transient gleam, A sudden blast dispels the glimm’ring ray.

Amanda, late the fairest of the throng, Of all our rural nymphs she was the pride: I saw, I lov’d, nor did I languish long, With modest blushes she became my bride.

We then the sweets of social life did prove, Blest in our lot, nor did we sigh for fame. A comely boy, the pledge of mutual love, Enhanc’d our pleasure, and our care did claim.

What words can paint the horrors of my breast, While briefly I the tragic scene disclose? Pale death our darling infant did arrest, One direful night when sunk in soft repose.

No tender guardian mark’d his latest sigh; No cordial did his quiv’ring lips receive; So have I seen a flow’r of fairest die, Bud in the morn, and fade before ’twas eve.

Amanda view’d the change with wild surprise; Tumult’ous passions did her bosom swell; Nor could she long the fervid flame disguise; An awful victim to despair she fell!

She’s gone, and Nature seems a blank to me; No charm appears in all its large domain. The songsters silent sit upon the tree, Or pour their notes in melancholy strain.

The banks of Irvine yield me no delight, Nor can bright Phœbus cheer me by his ray: In restless tossing still I spend the night, Nor comfort find at the return of day.

The briny tears in copious torrents flow, Nor can my trembling hand the theme pursue: The pangs I feel may Damon never know; Amanda’s gone, my dearest friend adieu.

_CELIA_
AND
HER LOOKING GLASS.

As Celia, who a coquette was,
O’er fading charms lamented,
She frown’d upon her looking-glass,
And thus her spleen she vented.

“Thou silly, stupid, worthless thing,
Of all discretion empty,
I o’er the window will thee fling,
If any more you tempt me.

Thou’rt incorrigible and bold,
Unworthy my attention:
What! must I ever more be told,
The thing I dread to mention?

A maiden old, kind heaven avert;
I hate the appellation.
The blood runs chill about my heart,
I’m choak’d with sore vexation.

Last night when at the ball I danc’d,
My air was counted charming;
My eyes gave pain where’er they glanc’d,
Each gesture prov’d alarming.

Philander saw, their pow’r confest,
And with love tales did tease me!
I sigh’d, I frown’d, he was distress’d,
But with my smiles seem’d easy.

But Chloe mark’d, that new made toast,
By other flirts surrounded,
Poor Celia now her charms had lost,
Which in last cent’ry wounded.

A whisper then and laugh went round,
Such scoffing I endured,
Nor did Philander heed my frown,
But by the jest was cured.

An easy passage through the crowd
I found, none did escort me;
No gallant youth my presence su’d,
Nor flatter’d to support me.

Now Morpheus next I did address,
For slumbers more delightful;
But in my dreams I found distress,
With apes and spectres frightful.

Then unto thee, thou base ingrate,
I su’d for consolation,
Who rudely now foretels my fate
Without alleviation.

Though I’m abandon’d on that score,
Though fools and fops are changed,
Of thy impertinence no more,
Else sure I’ll be revenged.”

Its head the looking-glass did bow,
With reverent low submission,
And to its angry mistress now,
Did utter this petition.

“O madam, deign to hear my tale,
And let my sorrows move ye;
My plain sincerity can’t fail
To shew how much I love you.

Nor lap-dog, bird, or powder’d beau
Was more by you regarded,
Than I full fifteen years ago,
Though basely now discarded.

Each hour you paid me visits ten,
My counsel well you trusted;
Without my approbation then
No curls you e’er adjusted.

An artless smile adorn’d your cheek,
And grac’d each lovely feature,
Which I observe now, once a-week,
Distorted by ill nature.

The pallid cheek and wrinkl’d brow
Announce your charms declining;
And wont you take the vestal vow
Without so much repining?

The truth, though in unwelcome strain,
To you I must discover;
While youth or beauty sways the swain,
You’ll never find a lover.”

Poor Celia now could bear no more,
Her stars malignant cursed;
Her looking-glass cast on the floor,
And into tears she bursted.

She would have died, but Claudius came,
Preventing all her fears;
He wed the pensive, weeping dame,
And wip’d away her tears.

THE
_UNFORTUNATE RAMBLER_.

Late on an evening I chanced to roam,
The night it was dark, and the streets they were dirty;
It was to attend the lov’d Celia home,
Engag’d in a company jovial and hearty.

I instantly hasten’d to put on my shield,
The shield of indiff’rence, perhaps you may know it;
Appriz’d of the danger attending the field,
I judg’d it a piece of high prudence to shew it.

I went to the door of an elegant inn;
I heard who was there, and was fearful to venture:
Hope to embolden me then did begin,
And courage undaunted advis’d me to enter.

I quickly stepp’d forward, but struck with amaze,
By imminent danger I then was surrounded:
Three handsome young damsels upon me did gaze,
And all of a sudden, alas! I was wounded.

Their shafts were set right, and their arrows did fly;
I scarce could distinguish from whom they came thickest.
By Cupid’s assistance at last I did spy
The person best tim’d in her motions, and quickest.

Each gesture was killing, and gave me surprise;
I grop’d for my breast-plate, it from me was taken:
My shield of indiff’rence had left me likewise;
My courage did fail, and my heart it was shaken.

Thus finding myself in a pitiful plight;
A young maid so handsome I needs must admire:
I gave a deep sigh, and I bid them goodnight;
My only expedient was--to retire.

A little of absence effected the cure,
So happily I of my wounds did recover;
But now at a distance to keep I’ll be sure,
And laugh at the fate of a vanquished lover.

_LUCINA_:

AN ELEGY.

Direful indeed are thy effects, O love! When Reason’s voice deserts thy frantic shrine; Platonic lessons no asylum prove; His dictates must obsequious yield to thine.

Religion, in majestic form array’d, Attempts to soothe the wild, disorder’d breast. Alas! too often fails the promis’d aid, Nor can procure one tranquil moment’s rest.

The wife, subdu’d by thy tyrannic sway, Thy cruel and malignant influence feel; Compell’d to act by thy delusive ray, As humble vot’ries at thine altars kneel.

The Prince, the Peasant, drag an equal chain, Nor high, nor low, thy subtle darts can brave. Lucina felt the agonizing pain, Then hopeless sunk amid the rapid wave.

She was of Annon’s lovely nymphs the grace, Of charms superior to the crowd possess’d: Her shape was faultless, matchless fair her face, Her virtues bright, by Envy’s self confest.

Of all the sprightly youths that sought to gain The envi’d conquest of her virgin heart, Philander prov’d the dear distinguish’d swain, Arm’d with the cruel, unrelenting dart.

He in soft accents urg’d his ardent flame, And when Lucina would his suit deny, Her beating bosom would assert his claim-- Her modest blush, and more expressive eye.

At last her tongue, the purpose of her heart Unto the youth convey’d, in tender strain: Then mutual joy each whisper did impart, So great the transport, neither dream’d of pain.

But Ah! their joys were soon for ever lost, Her sire, enrag’d, forbid the nuptial tie, Because Philander no rich stores could boast: Charms most attractive to a parent’s eye.

The injur’d youth was by resentment sway’d; To this his softer passion soon gave way: Too rash, alas! he sought another maid, And left Lucina to despair a prey.

From ev’ry hope, from all her wishes torn, Depriv’d of what alone could give relief, The lovely fair, dejected and forlorn, Some time in heavy sighs did vent her grief.

The nymphs assembling us’d their utmost art, The sad Lucina’s sorrows to beguile: Vain was th’ attempt to ease her bleeding heart, Or from her eye extort a cheerful smile.

At latest hour, when each auspicious light Seem’d hid in chaos--Cynthia’s silver beam Withdrew its lustre on that fatal night, Nor bless’d the shade, nor wanton’d in the stream.

Her auburne locks the mournful maiden tore, Her downy pillow could afford no rest; She wander’d where the swelling surges roar, In wild despair she beat her snowy breast!

From Annon’s cliff, she view’d the breaking wave; Philander was her last, her darling theme; No hand was near the frantic maid to save, And, Sappho-like, love’s victim she became!

Ye rigid parents, with attentive ear, Instruction learn from this sad tale of wo: Ye heedless maids, in time the danger fear, That wrought Lucina’s fatal overthrow.

THE
_ENVIED KISS_.

And was it thine to share the bliss,
For which so many sigh in vain?
And did thy lips receive a kiss
From James that honest-hearted swain?

Oft has Belinda tri’d her art,
In this her radiant charms did fail;
Oft Sylvia sought to touch his heart,
But could not in the least prevail.

Oft Chloe sung in tender strain,
Calista danc’d upon the green;
But James in haste tripp’d o’er the plain,
And seem’d as though he had not seen.

Ulysses-like, he did defy
The Syren’s most enchanting voice;
In vain Matilda’s sparkling eye
Did labour hard to fix his choice.

Thou little, happy, smiling fair,
And didst thou then the victor prove?
Is James now caught in Cupid’s snare,
And taught by thee to kiss and love?

If in thy early infant state,
Thou mak’st such stubborn hearts to yield,
What conquests do thy charms await,
When ripen’d beauties grace the field?

Does baleful Envy rear its crest,
For this one favour now obtain’d?
Sure rage will swell each female breast,
When o’er mankind thy empire’s gain’d.

Then gentle charmer pity have,
Nor sigh for conquests ever new:
In haste some fond Amyntor save,
And let us hear no more of you.

THE
_YOUNG MAN’S RESOLUTION_.

By Cupid and Bacchus I’m sadly perplex’d,
Both parties to hear I incline:
The urchin for ever comments on this text,
Beware of the juice of the vine.

Then Bacchus appears, with a cup in his hand,
Says, “Drink, and you’ll drown ev’ry care;
But mind, ere you taste, I’ll a promise demand,
That you fly from the lips of the fair.”

O, sad the dilemma! pray, what must I do?
With Bacchus I never can part:
Ah! dear Little God, if neglected by you,
It will rend ev’ry string of my heart.

O why such a pother? I’ve found out a way,
I’ll bind myself fast by an oath,
While life warms my breast, each his pow’r shall display,
And I’ll henceforth be loyal to both.

TO A
YOUNG MAN
UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH
FOR
_FORGERY_.
FROM HIS MISTRESS.

In awful solitude, in direful chains, Where deep despair and sad reflection reigns, If yet thy breast another’s woes can feel, Woes which no language ever can reveal, Let the distresses of a hapless maid, Be to thy silent gloomy cell convey’d. Life left my heart, I felt my blood run cold, When the sad tidings of thy fate were told: Then keenest anguish wrung my tortur’d frame, Distraction seem’d to seize my madd’ning brain. Depriv’d of thee, who could all pain remove, My heav’n on earth, my happiness, my love; Depriv’d of hope, whose dear, delusive ray Did softest scenes of happiness, portray: Scenes now for ever fled! the poignant dart, Deep wounds my soul, and tears my bleeding heart.

For thee, no more, I’ll wait th’ appointed hour, No more I’ll meet thee in the peaceful bower; No more, enraptur’d, hang upon thy smile, No more thy presence ev’ry care beguile. Was it for me? grant support gracious heav’n! Was it for me the fatal bond was giv’n? Is it for me stern Justice must arise? Is it for me he now a victim lies? Distracting thoughts still crowd upon my mind! O were my restless soul to heav’n resign’d! O could I now my piercing griefs conceal, Nor add fresh anguish to the wounds you feel!

’Tis vain, alas! my bursting heart o’erflows, And death I feel will terminate my woes! It was for thee alone I wish’d to live; The world without thee can no pleasure give. Now law for one rash act thy life demands Tho’ pure till then thy thoughts, unstain’d thy hands: While villains hourly practis’d in deceit, At freedom range, nor dread impending fate. Ah! now I see thee to the scaffold walk, I hear the gazing crowd unthinking talk. Farewell, my love! O still on heaven rely, I can no more, I tremble, faint and die!

ON
AN UNLOOKED-FOR
_SEPARATION FROM A FRIEND_.

Transient proves our sweetest pleasure,
Short our moments of delight;
While we grasp the darling treasure,
O how rapid is its flight?

Oft at morn ourselves we flatter,
That our comforts wont decay:
Fortune lavish seems to scatter
Fairest flowers along our way.

But the change by night is galling;
We lament our doom severe:
Joys, like snows on Ailsa falling,
In a moment disappear.

Such the plague of human nature,
Fond to trifle with our smart,
While we do escape the greater,
Little evils rend our heart.

I have lost no valu’d charter,
Nor lament a fickle swain;
But, alas! a friend’s departure,
Fills my heart with piercing pain.

Pond’ring sharpens ev’ry arrow,
Sighing but augments my grief:
Now I mourn, o’erwhelm’d with sorrow,
But next hour may bring relief.

_WRITTEN_
JANUARY FIRST, 1792.

To-day old wrinkl’d Time appears;
A smile adorns his brow,
While to our list of fleeting years,
He adds the ninety-two.

Our fav’rite hopes, that swiftly glide,
Announce his steps too slow,
Lest Disappointment’s hasty stride
Should ev’ry bliss o’erthrow.

He softly creeps along the way,
While we his progress watch:
He turns his back, vain our essay
His bald-pate then to catch.

On his right hand a lovely dame,
In robes of crimson hue;
Her eyes our admiration claim,
Her form attracts our view;

Distant her air, staid, sapient, mild,
A figure fine and tall;
By Wisdom own’d, her legal child,
Who did her Prudence call.

With vermil lips, in accents sweet,
Soft as that falling snow,
These words I heard, the nymph repeat,
Address’d to all below:

“In Virtue’s cause exert your pow’rs,
Let her your actions sway;
Employ with speed the passing hours,
Nor trust another day.”

On his left hand, with tardy pace,
Here walks a maid forlorn;
Lank hunger painted on her face,
Her scanty raiment torn:

Rich Luxury her father deem’d,
Idle her dam confess’d;
In public by no man esteem’d,
In secret much caress’d.

With smirking smile, and speeches fair,
She does us kindly greet;
But sage Experience cries, “Beware!
She’ll prove an arrant cheat.”

This now the lazy warrior finds,
His sword with rust adorn’d;
Half plann’d as yet his dire designs,
His conquests unperform’d.

She’ll spoil the politician’s scheme,
The patriot’s gen’rous toil;
For Sloth is the impostor’s name,
O deign her not a smile.

She whisper’d in young Strephon’s ear,
When Delia seem’d to frown,
That soon she’d change that look severe,
And all his wishes crown.

Lull’d in her soft, alluring chain,
His success did prevent;
Till Delia found an active swain,
And left him to lament.

Poor Chloe’s comrade, air and late,
While pow’rs she had to charm;
Those gone, she feels the sad deceit,
And gives the loud alarm.

In vain each specious art she tries;
Vain the cosmetic aid:
She must be what all ranks despise,
An old forsaken maid.

Sloth, of society the pest,
Of ev’ry bliss the bane,
May we the latent ills detest,
Which form thy direful train.

Our helm let Prudence ever steer;
She’ll shield us from the blast;
And ev’ry new, revolving year,
Remind us of our last.

Direct our course to yonder shore,
Where virtue ever reigns;
Where time and seasons are no more;
Where death is bound in chains.

Unvari’d there the blissful scene,
’Mid seraphims above,
All pure, all placid, and serene,
All harmony and love.

ON A
_VISIT TO Mr. BURNS_.

Is’t true? or does some magic spell
My wond’ring eyes beguile?
Is this the place where deigns to dwell
The honour of our isle?

The charming Burns, the Muse’s care,
Of all her sons the pride;
This pleasure oft I’ve sought to share,
But been as oft deni’d.

Oft have my thoughts, at midnight hour,
To him excursions made;
This bliss in dreams was premature,
And with my slumbers fled.

’Tis real now, no vision here
Bequeaths a poignant dart;
I’ll view the poet ever dear,
Whose lays have charm’d my heart.

Hark! now he comes, a dire alarm
Re-echoes through his hall!
Pegasus[2] kneel’d, his rider’s arm
Was broken by a fall.

The doleful tidings to my ears
Were in harsh notes convey’d;
His lovely wife stood drown’d in tears,
While thus I pond’ring said:

“No cheering draught, with ills unmix’d,
Can mortals taste below;
All human fate by heav’n is fix’d,
Alternate joy and wo.”

With beating breast I view’d the bard;
All trembling did him greet:
With sighs bewail’d his fate so hard,
Whose notes were ever sweet.

[2] The name of the Poet’s horse.

GIVEN TO A LADY
WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE
_A POEM_.

In royal Anna’s golden days, Hard was the task to gain the bays: Hard was it then the hill to climb; Some broke a neck, some lost a limb. The vot’ries for poetic fame, Got aff decrepit, blind, an’ lame: Except that little fellow Pope, Few ever then got near its top: An’ Homer’s crutches he may thank, Or down the brae he’d got a clank.

Swift, Thomson, Addison, an’ Young Made Pindus echo to their tongue, In hopes to please a learned age; But Doctor Johnston, in a rage, Unto posterity did shew Their blunders great, their beauties few. But now he’s dead, we weel may ken; For ilka dunce maun hae a pen, To write in hamely, uncouth rhymes; An’ yet forsooth they please the times.

A ploughman chiel, Rab Burns his name, Pretends to write; an’ thinks nae shame To souse his sonnets on the court; An’ what is strange, they praise him for’t. Even folks, wha’re of the highest station, Ca’ him the glory of our nation.

But what is more surprising still, A milkmaid must tak up her quill; An’ she will write, shame fa’ the rabble! That think to please wi’ ilka bawble. They may thank heav’n, auld Sam’s asleep; For could he ance but get a peep, He, wi’ a vengeance wad them sen’ A’ headlong to the dunces’ den.

Yet Burns, I’m tauld, can write wi’ ease, An’ a’ denominations please; Can wi’ uncommon glee impart A usefu’ lesson to the heart; Can ilka latent thought expose, An’ Nature trace whare’er she goes: Of politics can talk wi’ skill, Nor dare the critics blame his quill.