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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75938 ***





                                   A

                             NEW SELECTION

                                  OF

                         Miscellaneous Pieces,

                              _IN VERSE_.


                                  BY

                            CHRISTIAN GRAY,

                        BLIND FROM HER INFANCY,

            _In Milton, Parish of Aberdalgie, Perthshire_.


    Hail, holy light! offspring of heaven first born,--
    *       *       *       *       *       *
    *       *       *        Thee I revisit safe,
    And feel thy sovereign vital lamp; but thou
    Revisit’st not these eyes, that roll in vain
    To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;
    *       *       *        Yet not the more
    Cease I to wander where the muses haunt--

                    _Milton’s Paradise Lost,--Book III._


                                PERTH:
                        PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR,
                            BY R. MORISON.
                                 1821.




                                  To

                              THE LADIES,

                        THOSE KIND PATRONESSES,

                who have honored my former and present

                             LITTLE WORK,

            with their disinterested and generous support,

                         THE FOLLOWING PIECES

                   ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED;

                   being the only way of expressing

                             THE GRATITUDE


                        WHICH WILL EVER BE FELT

                                  BY

                             THEIR MUCH OBLIGED,

                                      AND VERY HUMBLE SERVANT,

                                                     _THE AUTHOR_.




                               Preface.


Whatever may be the nature, or design of the work itself, no one, I
am persuaded, has ever offered a book to the public without indulging
a wish that it should be prosperous, and its influence beneficial. My
motives in publishing this little volume are pure, and may be laudable,
but it must be allowed they are not altogether disinterested. While I
earnestly trust that it may prove an humble source of gratification to
those whose benevolence has induced them to befriend me, I pretend not
to suppress the desire that it may become the means of contributing to
cheer the downward days of my lonely life.

The greater part of these verses was composed at an early period of my
life--at a time when the human mind is most susceptible of being deeply
impressed by its own ideas, or by the influence of surrounding objects.
My artless rhymes indeed may not excite a very powerful interest in the
hearts of others; but, in my own, on account of the circumstances and
recollections from which they originated, they have long been cherished
with the complacency and fondness of affectionate regard.

About twelve years ago, a selection of my pieces was given to the
public; and under the active patronage of my well-wishers, met with
a reception far beyond what my most sanguine hopes could ever have
anticipated: others which, on that occasion, were not required, I
have now brought to recollection, and revised with care, and welcomed
with the partiality which we naturally devote to an old friend,
whose society has often been agreeable, amusing, or instructive.
Several of them are of a more recent date; these were composed at
intervals subsequent to a protracted illness which nearly exhausted my
debilitated frame, and impaired the remaining energies of my mind;
while, from the same cause, I was more than usually confined within
doors, and thereby deprived of the advantages of friendly instruction.
Their subjects are drawn from occurrences which, in a particular
manner, interested my own feelings; I have therefore endeavoured to
express those feelings in language descriptive of the impression left
by them on my own heart. Such then, as they and the others are, they
are my best, and I cast them, with respectful diffidence, on the
benevolence of the world, and hope that they may be judged solely as
the simple effusions of an unpolished mind.

Having a strong presentiment that I shall never more address myself
to public attention, I would embrace this last, and to me, important
opportunity, of declaring my deep sense of gratitude and respect for
those generous individuals by whose kindness my solitude has been
enlivened, and my comforts promoted.

My heart derives a melancholy gratification from the discharge of this
affecting duty, and it is sad, but satisfied, when wishing my readers
every happiness, I bid them FAREWELL.

                                                        CHRISTIAN GRAY.

   Milton of Aberdalgie, Perthshire, 1821.




                               Contents.


                                                            PAGE
    DEDICATION,                                                3

    PREFACE,                                                   5

    Lines addressed to the E----l of K----l,                  13

    Anecdote of Alexander, Emperor of Russia,                 19

    Lines composed on receiving a letter,                     25

    Lines on receiving an unexpected present,                 30

    Stanzas to the memory of a Gentleman,                     34

    A Sonnet,                                                 39

    To a young Lady,                                          41

    On receiving a descriptive poem,                          44

    A Letter to a friend in a great town,                     48

    A Letter to my Nephew,                                    58

    A Letter to a Gentleman Farmer,                           63

    On laying an old petticoat beside a good one,             66

    On visiting a faded flower,                               69

    A fact recorded in the Evangelical Magazine,              83

    A complaint to Poesy,                                     88

    Versification of Ossian’s Address to the Moon,            96

    Balclutha’s Ruins--from Ossian,                           99

    An Extract from Ossian,                                  102

    A Petition to a Medical Gentleman,                       104

    Lines composed in the time of war,                       107

    Sabella--a metrical tale,                                109

    Song,--on leaving the country for the town,              129

    Song, in answer to “I’m wearin’ awa Jean,”               132

    Song,--“Farewell to Perth,”                              134

    Song, in answer to “O Nannie wilt thou gang, &c.”        137

    Evening Reflections,                                     140




                         Miscellaneous Pieces,

                               IN VERSE.




                           TO THE RIGHT HON.

                         THE E----L OF K----L,

      _On his granting me the neat Cottage which I now inhabit_.


    Neat is the Cottage rear’d for me
      Upon this rising bank;
    I’ll send my hand-maid, Poesy,
    To Dupplin-Castle on her knee,
      The noble Earl to thank.

    Lest wrong my messenger betide,
      Or lest she should offend,
    A guardian for her I’ll provide,
    And to his kindness her confide,--
      Poor nymph she needs a friend.

    Will Mr L---- then introduce
      My handmaid into view;
    Perhaps his Lordship wont refuse
    To hear, for once, a hamlet muse
      Who sings with deference due;

    Tell how I prize this cottage bower,
      Commodious, new, and clean;
    Near where my swaddling clothes I wore,
    Where long my fathers dwelt before,
      Which more endears the scene.

    My ancestors are pass’d away,
      (So families fail apace)
    And soon at latest comes the day,
    When with myself the name of Gray
      Will vanish from this place:--

    Here bushes, braes, and rocks remind
      Of childhood’s happy days,
    When playful, ’midst companions kind,
    I scrambled up, or lean’d reclin’d
      On yonder crag’s rough base.

    Where dashing falls the proud cascade,
      Oft when a message sent,
    So long I there have list’ning strayed,
    That mother’s orders disobeyed,
      Brought fear of punishment.

    Wild berries, nut, or jetty sloe,
      Would tempt my venturous feet
    To climb, where hazardous to go,
    And when my own hand stript the bough,
      I deem’d them doubly sweet.

    So spring-time of my life did run,
      To kind indulgence us’d;
    If I my lessons did not shun,
    Though other tasks were poorly done,
      ’Twas wink’d at and excus’d.

    For oft in languid health I pin’d,
      Which parents view’d full sad,
    And wandering, freedom I did find
    Adown yon den, where shrubs, entwin’d
      With flowers of summer, spread.

    Though since much alter’d is my lot,
      And that in many ways,
    These times oft fill a passing thought,
    To banish dull reflection--sought,
      A dream of early days.

    Now smoothly gliding down the dell,
      My native streamlet flows,
    And when its waters rushing swell,
    The distant din will please me well,
      And lull me to repose.

    This is the very, very place,
      That’s to my heart most dear,
    For which warm thanks I would express,
    Though sent, indeed, in sorry dress,
      Yet not the less sincere.

    On some green spot, in weather fair,
      I’ll sit in sober mood,
    And when I breathe my native air,
    That blessing I will thankful share,
      And think it does me good.

    This close-built cot, in coldest day,
      Affords a warm retreat;
    And whether near or far away,
    I grateful wish your Lordship may
      Be bless’d as well as great.




                              AN ANECDOTE

   _Of Alexander, Emperor of Russia, recorded in a newspaper several
                              years ago_.


    Great ALEXANDER, it is said,
      Once conquer’d all the then known world:
    From clime to clime, with fury mad,
      War’s desolating rage he hurl’d.

    Ambition thirsting still for blood,
      Th’ infatuated tyrant drove,
    To shed it in a sanguine flood,
      As if to extirpate man he strove.

    Though after ages hear his fame,
      Preserv’d in history and in song;
    Humanity detests his name,
      And all the war-delighted throng.

    At present I would sing of one,
      An ALEXANDER of more worth,
    Humanity’s exalted son,
      The potent Emperor of the north.

    A humble muse who never soar’d,
      Nor e’er to sing of Monarch try’d,
    One royal action to record,
      Counts both her pleasure and her pride.

    Fam’d ALEXANDER, who doth sway
      The Russian Empire, large and broad;
    It chanc’d that lately on a day,
      At distance from his train he rode.--

    It chanc’d;--No! Providence did send,
      That hour, the Emperor out with speed,
    To prove himself Compassion’s friend,
      And to perform a noble deed.--

    He rode at distance from his train,
      For, innocent, no harm he fear’d,
    And deem’d all hir’d Protectors vain,--
      His people’s love a surer guard.

    Out from a river’s rapid force,
      He saw some peasants who convey’d,
    With toil, a seeming lifeless corse,
      Which on the grassy bank they laid.

    Then all his sympathetic soul
      Was mov’d with pity’s keenest zeal,
    Was mov’d at nature’s kind controul,
      As minds ignoble never will.

    The peasants look’d with silent gaze,
      No farther service they can do;
    “Be active,” ALEXANDER says,
      “And I myself will aid you too.”

    Then quickly on the ground he stands,
      Fast by the fatal river’s verge,
    And rais’d the corse with cautious hands,
      The oozing water to discharge.

    Just then his whole attendants came,
      The sight, no doubt, surpris’d them all;
    Their sloth he stops not once to blame,
      But loudly does a doctor call.

    Physician he of skill approv’d,
      From fam’d Britannia’s distant isle;
    He was the Emperor’s friend belov’d,
      And sprung with haste to share his toil.

    An artery quick was opened now,
      In hopes that wound might life restore;
    But ah! no blood from thence would flow,
      ’Twas ev’n more hopeless than before.

    Yet still the Emperor persever’d,
      Inspir’d with kind philanthropy,
    And patient, all about him cheer’d,
      That yet they might successful be.

    And still his temples gently chaf’d,
      And still rub’d all his body o’er;
    For two whole hours he nothing left
      Untri’d that might the man restore.

    At last life’s current flow’d anon,
      And from the wounded vessel stream’d,
    And now he faintly breathes a groan:
      Then his preserver glad exclaim’d--

    “O God! this is the brightest day
      Of all my reign--of all my life.”--
    Such bliss will generous bosoms ay
      From truly noble deeds derive.

    His handkerchief was rent in haste,
      As bandage for the wounded part;
    A trifle added to the rest,
      Which spoke the goodness of his heart.

    O Russia! of thy monarch boast,
      Who well deserves the world’s thanks;
    Be not his bright example lost,
      But may it influence all ranks.

    Ye Russian subjects eye the throne,
      Correct your manners, harsh and wild,
    Copy your Emperor’s, hate your own--
      ’Twill make the rudest of you mild.




                                 LINES

                _Composed on receiving a Letter from a_

                             YOUNG FRIEND.


    Dear little nephew with delight
      I heard your letter read;
    With pleasure heard them praise your write,
      No wonder I was glad.

    At six years old you write so well,
      But vain I must not be;
    Experience many a tale can tell,
      To check and humble me.

    Yet present good I ought to prize,
      Will hope good things to come:
    Storms do not always cloud the skies,
      Nor veil them with deep gloom.

    ’Tis gratifying to receive
      Lines from a friend so young;
    Our family’s representative,
      Posterity among.

    Our line, for three full centuries past,
      Resided in this place;
    Yourself, dear boy, was born the last,
      And stopt a little space.

    No wealth, nor fame, nor costly toys,
      To you through lineage run;
    But let its virtues be your choice,
      And all its failings shun.

    Plains lie, hills rise, waves roll between
      You and your natal spot;
    When scarce ’tis known we here have been,
      Our place and race forgot.

    That after time, yon aged stone,
      (Down in the green church-yard)
    Perhaps you’ll visit, all alone,
      Where are our sires interr’d:

    Low sunk amid surrounding grass,
      Like Ryno’s tomb of old,
    And roughly fram’d, and clad with moss,
      It long has mark’d the mould,

    That forms our kindreds’ narrow bed;--
      If any cause directs
    You there, a pensive tear to shed,
      O’er time and its effects.

    Bless’d be the occasion of your stop,
      The thoughts that move your heart,
    Bless’d means, vain folly’s growth to lop,
      And wisdom’s plants t’ impart.

    Oh! deem not these ideas vain,
      For love inspires the theme;
    My only brother’s only child,
      You bear my father’s name.

    In many a sense I hold you mine,
      By many ties endear’d;
    You’ve led me, in my bosom lain,
      My lonely moments cheer’d.

    The lisping prattle of your tongue,
      Thrills pleasant in my thought,
    And all your little ways, when young,
      Fresh in my memory float.

    And oh! may He, whose special care
      Did guard you then from harm,
    Be with you still, shall be my prayer,
      Whilst life this heart doth warm.

    His Providence did us prevent,
      From every hurtful thing,
    As if an angel had been sent,
      To shield us with his wing.

    O! early learn His name to fear,
      The holy name of God;
    Him honour, trust, obey, revere,
      Whilst earth is your abode.

    And when from hence you must remove,
      (How shortly none can tell)
    You’ll see His gracious face in love,
      And in his presence dwell.




                                 LINES

                 _On receiving an unexpected Present._


    I place thee here, but have no name
      As yet, by which to ca’ thee;
    Yet thou’rt so high in my esteem,
      Should ony wrang befa’ thee,

    I would be truly vex’d indeed,
      But hope we ne’er shall sever;
    No,--tho’ I were in greatest need,
      Sweet welcome little favour.

    A name for thee shall be propos’d,
      Of still more precious meaning,
    Than that of which thou art compos’d,
      Though gold and ruby shining.

    Thy value shall not be impaired,
      For truth shall here define thee;
    ’Twas generous Pity,--kind regard,
      Between them did design thee.

    Kindness compared my present state
      Wi’ what she ance had ken’d me;
    And tender Pity mourn’d my fate,
      And bade the giver send thee.

    Lest I had thought at e’en or morn,
      And wi’ a sigh reflected;
    That now ’cause mair and mair forlorn--
      I therefore was neglected.

    While feeling in this breast is left,
      The proud shall ne’er despise thee;
    I’ll ca’ thee Pity’s parting gift,
      And then the good will prize thee.--

    Less for thy beauty, than that name,
      I’m fain at being thy owner;
    And though ’midst perils, far frae hame
      Is now the gen’rous donor;

    Not for thy sake, but for his ain,
      Him my best wishes follow,
    And may the task he’s underta’en
      Thrive like the water’d willow.

    May wealth and honour on him smile,
      And goodness far ’bove either;
    Peace guide him back t’ his native isle,
      And safety waft him hither.

    Till then, O! were his labours blest,
      For Afric and for Britain,
    That Prejudice might be dismissed,
      And us no longer hatin’.

    Trade’s intercourse might prove a mean
      T’ amend their sad condition;
    For darkness, heavenly light be seen,
      ’Tis my sincere petition

    To Him, who only knows the end
      Of all from the beginning,--
    May grace to them, even them extend,
      A willing people winning.




                                STANZAS

         _To the Memory of a Young Gentleman who died abroad_.


   The mournful occasion of the following Stanzas which happened
   soon after the preceding piece was composed, shews the
   uncertainty of human hope, and the impotency of all human
   wishes; but it becomes his creatures to humble themselves under
   the mighty hand of God, without repining at his dispensations,
   who doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men,
   but for wise and gracious purposes, and what we know not now we
   shall know hereafter--

    _God is his own interpreter,
    And he will make it plain._

                                COWPER.

    There is a bed beyond the main,
      Where sleeps a generous youth in peace,
    Far distant from his kindreds’ ken,
                            The lonely place.

    He left his home at honour’s call,
      And hurried on to win her bays;
    But death commissioned, mark’d his fall,
                            Ere half his days.

    At least sound health, and manhood’s bloom,
      Intrepid mind and spirits bright,
    Him promised many days to come,
                            To our dim sight.

    But in this transitory state,
      Man’s highest hopes, below the skies,
    Must all end thus, or soon or late,
                            In “here he lies.”

    Where did his friends their leader leave?
      What kindly turf doth him embrace?
    Where orange branches mingling wave
                            Above the place.

    To screen from Afric’s burning beams,
      The shrubs and verdure newly sprung,
    Where desert flowers like beauteous gems,
                            Will blossom long.

    The monumental honours paid
      By friendship to his lov’d remains,
    By sons of Briton will be read,
                            In mournful strains.

    For there, by friendly Negroes led,
      Enquiring travellers will be shewn
    The stranger white man’s letter’d bed,
                            From land unknown.

    ’Twill warn the youth, whoe’er he be,
      Who haply there may venturous roam,
    That hopeful, healthful, gay as he,
                            Soon found a tomb.

    There rest his bones, yet feeling here,
      Will view the spot in fancy’s dream,
    And hold his memory truly dear,
                            And love his name.

    Parental tenderness will feel,
      In melting woe, a kind relief,
    And time will ease though never heal
                            The wound of grief.

    Let sisterly affection flow,
      It calms the heart, and ’tis a debt
    Which to a brother’s love they owe,
                            And to his fate.

    O’erpowering painful stretch of mind,
      Fatigue and fever, all did meet,
    And death made cold a heart, as kind
                            As ever beat.

    But sweetness mixes with the cup;
      Who knows but Heaven has call’d him home
    From draining many a bitter drop
                            Of ills to come.

    Now anxious fears are at an end,
      And hope’s delightful visions lost
    All buried in a foreign land,
                            Sad Afric’s coast.

    Like time its comforts fleeting prove,
      Life’s joys are here but shadowy bliss,
    Found real in the world above,
                            But not in this.




                               A SONNET.

   The following Sonnet was an early production, which memory, more
   faithful to her trust than was expected, has long preserved for
   me; it is here inserted as a memorial of Mrs P----’s goodness, a
   small part of which was, that she taught me to knit Stockings,
   and by means of that employment, I enjoyed more liberty of
   walking about in the open air, than I could otherwise have had,
   and which exercise contributed greatly to promote what share of
   health I possessed: but every thing here is of a passing and
   changeable nature, I cannot now profit in that way, which was
   meant for my double benefit, my kind instructress has done with
   time and all its fleeting concerns.


    Dear madam while I tread the verdant lawn,
      With heartfelt satisfaction and delight;
    Whither by morning’s mildest beauty drawn,
      Or lur’d by calm approach of sober night.
    Can I forget that I that pleasure owe
      To you, but as the happy means regard
    Of heaven’s best earthly bliss to me below;--
      For what, save peace, can be with health compared.
    I’ve known its loss, and therefore prize the more,
      Its genial warmth enlivening all my frame;
    It cheers, recruits, does brighter thoughts restore,
      And under God from you these comforts came.
    True as the unbroken thread leads to the clue,
    So does your kindness lead my love to you.




                            TO A YOUNG LADY

   _Who generously sent me a piece of Gold Coin, but concealed
   her name, one of my pieces having come into her hands before any
   of the rest were published._


    Dear Miss, what breast so cold as would not feel,
      The kindness you so generous have shewn;
    And since your name the Lady did conceal,
      With grateful heart I thank you, _fair unknown_.

    Believe me, Miss, I’m gratified much more,
      That you felt pleasure from my humble lines,
    Than to accept this present from your store,
      Though ’tis the finest metal of the mines.

    I first compos’d them with a heavy heart,
      For I was sad, nor small my cause of woe;
    Yet time alleviates the keenest smart,
      Though nothing can supply my loss below.

    Yet Providence to me is ever kind;
      The watchful care of Heav’n I daily note;
    Soft sympathy in every breast I find,
      And many comforts gild my humble lot.

    Yes; very much I may be thankful for,
      Tho’ lonelier now than once,--I have a home;
    Have still ’bove charity a little store,
      And hope I shall not want for time to come.

    This token of your kindness I receive,
      And will preserve with more than Miser’s care,
    And though even spent--in memory while I live,
      Your generous goodness will be treasur’d there.

    Would, my young benefactress, I but knew,
      Deign dearest Miss to let me know your name,
    For soon a gift I mean to offer you,
      Which to accept I will a favour deem.

    Meanwhile, dear lady, do not this despise,
      In rustic dress my grateful thanks I send;
    You have my feelings here without disguise,
      And must accept the present I intend.[1]

[1] The present intended is a copy of my verses proposed soon to be
published.




   _On receiving a Descriptive Poem from a young Lady, to whom it
   was given for me, by the Author._


    Thanks Sir, for this new token of good-will,
      Which by a kindly hand convey’d has been,
    It makes the greatest favour greater still,
      When pleasantly conferred like this I ween.

    Was it in labyrinths of a town immured,
      That thus your thoughts to rural scenes retired,
    While youth oft’ errs by dissipation lured,
      Your better choice by wisdom was inspired.

    For this did many a vacant hour employ,
      But pleasant hours its progress to behold;
    Soft recollections self-approving joy,
      Were yours a theme so lov’d thus to unfold.

    And now a finish’d picture meets my view,
      Which by the mental eye can be discern’d,
    Then with avidity I follow you,
      Where pleasure may be found, or knowledge learn’d.

    Lead where you please and trust me I will come,
      Convinced of this you will not lead me wrong,
    Shew each fair prospect round your early home,
      Where with enthusiast’s eye you rov’d when young.

    Delightful scenery describ’d with skill,
      Describ’d with feeling pleases every mind;
    Sweet nature ever did, and ever will,
      Admirers of her many beauties find.

    From yonder lofty eminence with you,
      I glance from sea to sea, the picture wide;
    But chief one landscape’s charms invite my view,
      With uplands, woods, and vales diversified.

    Each water’d with its own blue winding stream;
      ---- dear to many a swain and maid,
    And dear to you as an Elysian dream,
      Its hills with all the warmth of youth portray’d.

    Its poets’ work, its heroes’ deeds explor’d,
      With much research its various parts explain’d,
    By local notes with information stor’d,
      From ancient lore and modern language gain’d.

    Thanks, then, for this new token of good-will,
      This flow’ry picture of your fav’rite scene;
    What so engaged your heart, your time and skill,
      To think not thrown away on one so mean:

    Nor is it thrown away, for I will con,
      As when a little girl, its choicest lines;
    And oft’ your goodness by myself alone,
      Will mind, when all the past my thought combines.

    May nature still for you her charms retain,
      And genius crown you with his favours rare;
    Philanthropy within your bosom reign,
      Religion’s power and heavenly peace be there.

    May you, and she your friend, and only love,
      Be happy long, and still in goodness grow;
    Here blest, hereafter may your bliss improve,
      When earth’s dissolv’d, and time shall cease to flow.




                               A LETTER

                    _TO A FRIEND IN A GREAT TOWN_.


   The following will not appear well connected at the beginning, a
   number of verses being omitted: as they cannot concern any one
   but he to whom they were originally addressed, what may be more
   generally useful are here inserted.

    ---- Ever dear, with willing ear
      I beg you to attend,--
    I would advise you to be wise,
      O listen to a friend.

    Forgive a zeal that seeks your weal,
      No motive else have I;
    For that intent these lines are sent,
      Not whim to gratify.

    I know you’re plac’d ’midst follies vast,
      ’Midst vice in every shape,
    Where pleasure cries, with siren voice,
      And few her wiles escape.

    Let others riot--keep you all quiet,
      Serene and pure within;
    Your Maker fear--his laws revere--
      Indulge no darling sin.

    One day in seven, devote to heaven,
      God’s house of prayer seek;
    Be what’s there said in memory laid,
      For practice through the week.

    In dealing just, still true to trust,
      Whatever others do,
    Be truth sincere, and honour fair,
      The character of you.

    Owe to no man.--What good you can
      With friendly zeal perform,--
    Let hasty ire your breast ne’er fire,
      Though wrong’d, still passion’s storm.

    Judicious be in your choice;
      A real _friend_ is rare;
    Be kind to all, but try them well,
      Your confidence who share.

    Vain empty pride, high scornful ey’d,
      Ne’er stoop to flatter it;
    But worth, where seen, in rich or mean,
      Respect and imitate.

    Ne’er be so weak, as vaunting make
      Proud self your darling song;
    Let others praise, if there is cause,
      But never one’s own tongue.

    Vain boasting must still raise disgust,
      Where it applause expects;
    But solid sense learns diffidence,
      By seeing its own defects.

    Be by each fault in others taught,
      T’ avoid the same through life;
    But to their hurt such ne’er report,
      Thus keeping clear of strife.

    No word obscene, or oath profane,
      Be by your lips express’d,
    Nor even your ear approving hear,
      But from your soul detest.

    In reason’s scale weigh matters well,
      When doubtful how to act;
    But ne’er in cause of goodness pause,
      Nor virtuous motions check.

    All ill resist, do not assist
      In any guilty scheme,
    But count all foes who would propose
      To sully so your fame.

    The gaming board shun as a sword,
      That would assail your breast;
    Haunts of the rude, like death elude,
      And drunkards’ bowl unblest.

    In harmless joy your days employ,
      I would not have them dull;
    To some wise use, each spare hour chuse,
      On pleasures rational.

    Lightsome as day with spirits gay,
      And sprightly temper even;
    Join jocund mirth, with men of worth,
      But ne’er to excess driven.

    Good books at home, read in your room,
      When business will permit;
    These friends each night will bring delight,
      Pursu’d by no regret.

    Your pillow prest, then sweetest rest
      Will every sense absorb;
    Such as by guilt, can ne’er be felt,
      Which vexing dreams disturb.

    A heart at ease, in virtue’s ways,
      Its portion here is peace;
    Be that your aim--a worthier gem
      Than George’s crown doth grace.

    Fresh wholesome air, oft walk to share;
      From noise and nonsense steal;
    Attend to health, without which, wealth
      Will be of small avail.

    If fortune smile, O let meanwhile,
      A giving God be blest;
    Though troubles low’r, yet meek adore,
      And in your Maker trust.

    What Providence doth wise dispense,
      Should by his friends be view’d,
    All sent in love, their hearts to prove,
      And working for their good.

    In every case, then humbly place,
      On high your confidence;
    Use means, ’tis true, but grateful view,
      And own all help from thence.

    Frail erring man, do all he can,
      Can merit make no plea;
    We at God’s hand can nought command,
      His favours all are free.

    Free grace and love, Oh! these improve,
      While in this lower clime,
    For all must end, as here we spend,
      Use or abuse our time.

    One thing ’bove all, one day we shall
      Find to be needful most;
    And time mis-spent, we may repent,
      Our precious moments lost.

    Time pass’d, again we never can
      With pray’rs nor tears recall;
    And e’er perhaps few days elapse,
      We low in dust may fall.

    No wisdom then we can attain,
      Or knowledge in the tomb;
    Each day we live doth warning give,
      That change may shortly come.

    Death at our side makes havock wide,
      Acquaintance not a few,
    Some young and gay are call’d away,
      Since I last spoke with you.

    Let us regard, and be prepar’d,
      More wean’d from worldly toys,
    Which nought can give, but us deceive
      With false and fleeting joys.

    The immortal mind is sure design’d
      To rise ’bove trifles here,
    Still soaring higher, it should aspire
      To heaven, its native sphere.

    Below the skies, nought can suffice,
      The soul still feels a void;
    Its lov’d abode is with its God,
      His presence full enjoy’d.

    Look on this state so short of date,
      As trial for the next;
    Thro’ a Saviour’s name make heaven your claim,
      Be there your treasure fix’d.

    Tho’ we are weak, and wisdom lack,
      To our best interest blind;
    Aid, wisdom, light, if sought aright,
      We graciously shall find.

    May heaven direct, and ne’er forsake,
      But bless my youthful friend;
    To life give charms, in death’s alarms--
      Peace, Hope, and Triumph send.




                               A LETTER

     _To my NEPHEW after he had been ill, then residing in Perth_.


    Dear G---- when you these lines receive,
      Some lovely day like this,
    Then of your guardian friends ask leave,
      And if they answer, yes--

    With bow of thanks accept the boon;
      And then with playful glee,
    And lightsome step, come here at noon,
      To dine that day with me.

    But if your guardians answer, no,
      Without complaint submit;
    What’s proper for you best they know,
      And every way most fit.

    Returning health, relations kind,
      These blessings duly prize,
    And with a glad, but humble mind,
      Let grateful thoughts arise,

    And trace them from a source divine,
      Whence all our blessings flow,
    Such feelings will your soul refine,
      True happiness to know.

    For in whatever state we are,
      ’Tis comfort still to feel,
    We’re under his Almighty care,
      Who orders all things well.

    Supported by his Providence,
      Preserved by his power,
    Our hope is in Omnipotence,
      Both now and evermore.

    Nought of this hope can us deprive,
      Unless, O wicked thought!
    We ’gainst his tender mercies strive,
      And set his love at nought.

    Be then your youthful heart impress’d
      With awe, nor so offend,--
    But not with gloomy dread possess’d--
      Your Maker is your friend.

    When I beneath the sod lie pale,
      O! may your days be spent,
    Though ’lotted in life’s humble vale,
      In pious calm content.

    Now Spring with promis’d bounty crown’d,
      Unlocks her lovely stores;
    ’Tis time to dress the spot of ground,
      That shall be called yours.

    When wint’ry storms retreat at last,
      Afar to frozen seas;
    Your seeds will spring and blossom fast,
      And scent the summer breeze.

    When flowers are beautiful to view,
      Fields green, and fair the sky,
    Then ask your friends to come with you,
      These beauties to enjoy.--

    Though eggs or milk should be their fare,
      And bread of barley-meal,
    With welcome, exercise, and air,
      Such food will favour well.

    Though no rich dainties them await,
      Them though exertion tire,
    The walk itself will be a treat,
      And health I hope their hire.


                              POSTSCRIPT.

    Here an acquaintance from the north,
      A visit doth intend;
    You oft’ experienc’d his worth,
      He was the stranger’s friend.




                               A LETTER

                        TO A GENTLEMAN FARMER,

                        _Requesting a favour_.


    Sir, just at a venture this freedom I took,
      And here, as it is, is a letter;
    Excuse its design, its defects overlook,
      For the truth is, I could not do better.

    I will not address you in flatt’ry’s fine strain,
      Which is at the best a mere bubble;
    But simply, and shortly, will try to explain
      The cause why I give you this trouble.

    Being born in this place, and brought up in my youth,
      By parents not rich, but respected,
    For honesty, industry, kindness, and truth,
      On whom some esteem was reflected.

    For whose sakes, this neighbourhood, not then estrang’d,
      Would have helped me, one or another;
    But now, one excepted, the tenants are chang’d,
      Who e’er knew my father or mother.

    Another, of late, to his farm bade farewell,
      On whom was the half of my leaning;
    And one over-burden’d will naturally fail--
      So now you may guess at my meaning.

    A favour from you this is sent to obtain,
      And for leave too, to beg a renewal;
    Please grant me, at this time, and sometimes again,
      A cart to bring sticks home for fuel.

    No claim I can urge to your kindness at all,
      Necessity made me invent this;
    And to Mrs ----’s tho’ my claim is but small,
      Yet her I request to present this.

    And should she, sweet pleader, but give me her vote,
      These lines will, at least, not offend you;
    The favour I ask, be it granted or not,
      I wish, Sir, that good may attend you.




   _On laying an old Petticoat beside a good one, which were both
   cut from the same piece of cloth._


    Do not thy sister poor despise,
      Though now in such a plight;
    Though she in rags beside thee lies,
      Don’t her condition slight.

    I’d have thee better manners taught,
      Than such vain pride to shew;
    ’Twas her misfortune, not her fault,
      That brought thy sister low.

    No diff’rence once you two between,
      A nice eye could have made;
    But she has oft’ in hardships been,
      Which made her sooner fade.

    In useful service she has spent,
      Her beauty, strength, and prime;
    Thou may’st be tarnish’d, burnt, or rent,
      At some unlucky time.

    No one though prosperous to-day,
      Can tell to-morrow’s lot;
    This thought must not be thrown away,
      Though spoke to a petticoat.

    No, let me profit by the same,
      And make the advice my own,
    To bear in mind how frail I am,
      Nor be to censure prone.

    Should error, change, decay, be proud,
      Right reason answers, No--
    And man to these (howe’er endow’d)
      Is liable while below.

    Humility becomes us all,
      Though seldom rightly learn’d:
    We should not boast when others fall,
      But pity, and be warn’d.




                  =On visiting a Faded Flower.=


    Ah! lovely flow’r, art thou already dead,
    Thy freshness lost, and native fragrance fled?
    Fair once thou flourish’d on thy lowly stem,
    Pleasing their sight and smell, who near thee came;--
    I found thee then in infant blossom gay--
    Why call’d so soon to witness thy decay?
    What sudden blast so sorely blighted thee?
    And what thy message or thy charge to me?
    Was it to tell me that in childhood so,
    My beauty too receiv’d a fatal blow?
    That fell distemper’s unrelenting storm
    Blighted its bloom, ere ripen’d into form?
    Yes; to my sorrow, ’twas the case I find,
    Nor want such help to bring it back to mind;
    The casual remembrance claims a tear--
    But let me not long idly ponder here;
    A more important lesson thou hast brought,--
    Oft’ learn’d, but not remember’d as it ought;
    Then faded not in vain thy beauteous tint,
    For it has given one seasonable hint;
    Reminded thoughtless me in whisper smooth--
    I too shall die,--a most momentous truth:
    Which recollection brings a serious train
    Of mix’d ideas to my busy brain.
    Day after day flies with unceasing speed--
    One day, how near I know not, is decreed,
    The utmost bound’ry of my mortal date:
    Then death will summon to his awful gate;
    Nought can from his commission’d stroke release,
    Nature must yield within his cold embrace,
    Nothing more sure;--this mortal body must
    Moulder and mingle with its kindred dust.
    But shall this thinking principle within,
    Also a period have in death’s domain?
    Must that more noble part its mansion quit,
    And then in common air evaporate?
    No! such a thought appals the human heart,
    And makes it doubly loath with life to part;
    We will but for a time be separated,
    To be in lasting union re-united.
    A soul immortal’s given to my care,
    Which weal, or woe, with me shall endless share.
    Have trifles then such melancholy brought,
    Or for a moment occupied my thought--
    That should on everlasting things be fix’d--
    Turn from this world and settle on the next!
    The fashion of this world shall pass away--
    The sun itself grow dim--and time decay:
    This whole terrestrial system have an end:
    Then why upon such fleeting things depend;
    So empty in themselves, and transient,
    So fluctuating all that they present.
    For take this world, even at its best,
    Suppose ourselves of all its good possess’d,
    Something is wanting--we are far from rest.
    Much in this world, it really matters not,
    Was meanest of the mean my destin’d lot:
    External comforts, blessings are, I grant,
    And call for thanks to heaven, by whom they’re sent;
    These in my station I have large enjoy’d,
    Though one great blessing is to me denied;
    Even that, for some wise purpose is withheld--
    For real good these eyes from light are veil’d,
    Not from the effects of gloomy dull chagrine,
    Disgust or envy, but with mind serene;
    From vain amusements I would now depart,
    And while youth’s ardour animates my heart,
    Direct my thoughts to Him who rules above,
    The spring of action and the source of Love.
    But how effect the rational design--
    A God of love indeed, but is he mine?
    Am I obnoxious to his threaten’d ire--
    God out of Christ is a consuming fire!
    Our great apostacy from heaven at first,
    Made its pure law declare us all accurs’d.
    God could not stoop to pardon an offence
    Against his law, committed only once,
    And when its precepts we do daily break,
    In every thing we think, or speak, or act;
    What can be done--for God will not forgive,
    Unless full satisfaction he receive;
    That satisfaction is not in our power,
    And to attempt it we offend the more,
    More that Almighty Being is provok’d,
    Whose word expressly saith, “_He’ll not be mock’d_:”
    Infinite purity will ne’er be stain’d,
    But each perfection to the full maintain’d,
    Then let not poor presumptuous mortals e’er
    Approach to God, but by a Saviour dear;
    For He that form’d them will no favour shew,
    But spurn them and their proffer’d service too.
    Such is our state, we only can expect
    Acceptance, for a Mediator’s sake--
    Mercy’s God’s darling attribute reveal’d,
    That justice also might be reconcil’d,
    That rebel subjects might have free access
    Unto his gracious favour,--he no less
    Than parted with a dear and only son,
    Who cheerful undertook the cause alone.
    Here admiration fills the musing mind,
    Heaven’s uncreated heir his place resign’d;
    His Father’s bosom for a season left,
    Offer’d himself a voluntary gift;
    Though worlds unknown, unnumber’d, by his hand
    Were form’d, sustain’d, and rul’d by his command.
    Though seraph choirs with adoration prais’d,
    And round his throne celestial music rais’d;
    Though of such glory, of such bliss possess’d,
    As could not be augmented nor decreas’d,
    Though happy in himself he could have been,
    Had all this world sunk underneath its sin;
    Yet came to shew even with his latest breath,
    A love divine that stronger was than death!
    When vain was every scheme man could invent,
    Law’s threats to mitigate or to prevent;
    That great days--man stood forward in the breach,
    Did what, nor men, nor angels ere could reach.
    That for the work he might be qualified,
    Veil’d his divinity, not laid aside;
    Step’d in a willing substitute, and gave
    All that a violated law could crave;
    Essential dignity in him at once
    Did its demands and threat’nings both silence,
    Obey’d its precepts, paid its penalty,
    And thus the law did highly magnify.
    Yes; law and justice to the full are pleas’d!
    Offended Deity’s in him appeas’d!
    Hence all our hope, that God will us accept!
    The only way we can his wrath escape!
    But heavy will his hot displeasure fall
    On all who hear, yet slight the gospel call:
    Then shudder daring infidelity,
    For heavy, heavy will it fall on thee;
    The measure of your wickedness is full,
    For ye not only slight but ridicule.
    What Christ said to the Pharisees, self-wise,
    Methinks most fitly now to you applies;
    Ye will not enter mercy’s open door,
    And what still aggravates your crime the more,
    To hinder others who would enter there,
    Have laid a stumbling block, a deadly snare!
    ’Gainst all that’s sacred and divine have set
    Your impious talents to obliterate,
    And make abortive all that Heaven design’d,
    To cheer in every woe the drooping mind.
    But vain such foolish impotent efforts!
    Omnipotence itself the whole supports!
    Let not your hearts admit a single doubt,
    His real friends, for he will sure make out
    His word, and promises, concerning you;
    Nor fail in one, if truth itself be true.
    Exalt him in your hearts higher and higher,
    Let God be true, and every man a liar,
    Who dares to question with effront’ry broad,
    The being, or veracity of God!
    Nor fear his burning wrath should on them break,
    In whom even devils do believe and quake!
    The Lord enthron’d in highest heaven shall laugh;--
    Exalted far ’bove atheistic scoff--
    And justly doth in indignation say,
    “Vengeance belongs to me, I will repay.”
    See such a person, at a dying hour,
    When conscious guilt the soul doth overpower;
    When death tears off the thick film from her eyes,
    And sweeps away her refuges of lies;
    The sand-built system cannot stand the shock,
    False rear’d on shatter’d reason’s broken rock;
    Down falls the tower of self-sufficiency,
    And all within, chaos and uncertainty.
    The soul is well nigh bordering on despair!
    Forc’d to remove, and go, she knows not where!
    In terror driven upon its vast frontiers--
    Eternity sounds dreadful in her ears!--
    Trembling she stands, upon its boundless brink,
    And quite incapable to act or think!
    Cited by conscience to his awful bar,
    With whom her life has been open at war!
    That monitor will be no more supprest,
    But speaks terrific language in the breast!
    Points to a powerful and incensed God,
    And thence doth very fearful things forebode
    Truly deplorable is such a case--
    From which religion can alone release.
    Nought but well grounded hope, and heaven-born faith
    Can bear through ills of life, or sweeten death,
    When that dread monarch comes in frowns array’d,
    Nature shrinks back, confounded and dismay’d;
    Nor is it strange for death is nature’s foe,
    Dissolving every tender tie below,--
    But when his icy hand the heart blood chills,
    When bodily and mental pain assails,
    And every source of earthly comfort fails:
    True faith in Christ will then its hold maintain,
    And in that conflict will the soul sustain;
    Opens bright prospects, and doth plainly show
    That death, at worst, is now a conquer’d foe!
    Teaches to follow Him who once did brave--
    Nay, triumph’d over and subdued the grave!
    If in that hour the Saviour grant relief,
    As long before to the expiring thief;
    And whisper in the Gospel’s cheering voice,
    “To-day thou’lt be with me in Paradise!”
    How will the soul, then elevated high
    Above this planet, hail its native sky!
    And though a darksome valley lies between,
    Each promise is a staff whereon to lean!
    Dust to its fellow dust doth fearless lend,
    And joyful flies Eternity to spend,
    ’Mong fellow-saints on high, at God’s right hand!
    O! glorious exit, from a world of pain,
    To where, nor guilt, nor sorrow, enter can:
    Their state of trial happily is past;
    And let me recollect while mine doth last,
    To order so my conduct while in this,
    As to obtain a life of endless bliss.
    Since health and strength are seasons then most meet,
    To make our peace with heav’n sure and complete.
    Let not the slighting of such golden times
    Be added to the number of my crimes;
    But of ourselves we nothing can acquire--
    No! not so much as form one good desire.
    May God’s good spirit then my soul inspire,
    To apply to Jesus, a Physician fit,
    The Saviour gracious and compassionate;
    Who will, with open arms of love, embrace
    Returning penitents, won by his grace,
    T’ accept free mercy on the offer’d plan,
    At infinite expense prepar’d for man:
    The gospel call doth well my right ensure,--
    “Come all who will and drink life’s water pure.”
    None are excluded, high and low the same,
    Have to their Maker’s favour equal claim:
    Though none can merit, all may humbly crave
    What’s freely promis’d--hoping to receive.--
    Oh! Thou who wilt not turn away thine ear,
    But listen to the needy’s pray’r sincere.
    Look then upon me in my lost estate;
    Thy fulness to my wants accommodate:
    Impute to me a righteousness divine,
    Else everlasting mis’ry will be mine.
    In each vicissitude and wildering maze,
    Keep from arraigning thy most perfect ways--
    For what is good thou only dost bestow--
    All that is evil from ourselves doth flow.
    With love to Thee, O! do my bosom warm!
    Good-will to all that bear the human form.
    My heart and its affections wholly draw,
    And hold in due subjection to thy law.--
    So as thou canst approve, direct my way,
    Else will this perverse heart far from thee stray;
    Unnumber’d vanities lie lurking here,
    Which, in unguarded moments, oft’ appear,
    Leaving a sting behind sharp and severe.
    No power, sin to withstand, is mine I own--
    O! let Almighty power in me be shown,
    And snatch me as a firebrand from the flame,--
    Raise a new monument to mercy’s name.




                                A FACT

                _Recorded in the Evangelical Magazine_,

                            FOR JULY 1812.


    Lately I heard a paper read--
      O! were it blessed to me for good!
    I felt it as the writer did,
      And awful horror chill’d my blood!

    Four criminals were to justice brought,
      But none of them of harden’d mind;
    They view’d their state as sinners ought,
      And were to serious thoughts inclin’d.

    Of every comfort long depriv’d,
      In gloomy dungeon they did moan;
    At last the dreadful day arriv’d,
      When life must for their crimes atone.

    When standing on the scaffold boards,
      The gazing multitude to teach;
    Each made in solemn warning words,
      A simple, but impressive, speech.

    Entreating all to shun each crime,
      Which God and man have doom’d to wrath,
    Which leads to punishment in time,
      And tends to everlasting death.

    If once associates in guilt,
      Now friends in sad affliction, they,
    To press each others hands they felt,
      Before the scaffold boards gave way.

    O! let me hasten to a close--
      Poor ATKINSON in turning round,
    The shifting rope did so dispose,
      That death long sought could not be found.

    Hanging in air--(Oh! dreadful state!)
      He utter’d a most piercing cry:
    His words were (awful to relate!)
      “O God! O God! I cannot die!”

    The sufferer was soon reliev’d;
      ’Twas merciful to speed his doom;--
    But be this truth by all believ’d,
      For all of us may bring it home.

    Yes!--we immortal souls possess,
      (Whoever may this truth deny;)
    Which shall in endless woe, or bliss,
      For ever live, and cannot die.

    Proud infidel, be mute, be mute,--
      Nor longer injur’d heav’n incense;
    Lest awful vengeance thee refute,
      And hurry thee blaspheming hence,

    To where thou’lt own,--(but ah! too late,)
      That all thy boasting was a lie;
    For ever fix’d, thy dismal state,
      Live, feel thou must--but cannot die.

    Even wert thou right, where is thy gain?
      When thou art nothing, all is lost;
    In drear annihilation’s reign,
      Will it be known how big thy boast?

    But wrong, O think,--what fury breaks,
      On miserable thee to fall;
    An error there, of all mistakes,
      Will dreadful be, and past recall.

    O trust the word of truth reveal’d,
      And testimony of the good;
    The _Sacred Book_ to thee is seal’d,
      And mock’d, because not understood.

    Stout-hearted man, let pride no more,
      Or vice estrange thy soul from God!
    Improve his word, his grace implore,
      ’Tis promis’d and will be bestow’d.

    O! thou who kindly lead’st the blind,
      In ways themselves could never trace;
    In mercy guide each humble mind,
      And teach the path to endless peace;

    It will enhance the boundless bliss,
      Of all whose names are wrote on high;
    That they shall ever see thy face,
      In love, assur’d they cannot die.




                         A COMPLAINT TO POESY,

  _Addressed to a young man about to leave this part of the country_.


    Why thoughtful even in company,
      And always sad when left alone?
    I will complain to Poesy,
      Whose tears with mine have often flown.

    To thee sweet nymph! I will impart
      My various feelings as they rise,
    Thy votary thou wilt not desert,
      Like others whom my heart doth prize.

    Adieu! my dearest friend adieu!
      Since here you will not, will not stay;
    My heart’s best wishes rest with you,
      Though four times five score miles away.

    This beating heart’s susceptible,
      Of friendship pure it has a sense,
    And while that natural principle,
      Is not entirely banish’d hence;

    Still faithful memory will present,
      When gone is many a tedious year,
    The hours we’ve altogether spent,
      And cause a pleasing, painful tear;

    Soft sympathy! (the name is dear,
      I mention it with gratitude,)--
    Doth in each breast for me appear,
      With that be satisfied I should.

    But sad I see, when you depart,
      The number of my friends decrease;
    I feel a taste of future smart,
      Which oft’ I fear to feel like this.

    If life prolong’d to age be mine,
      All now so lov’d may then be gone,
    Then who will cheer in life’s decline?
      I’ll ne’er know such as I have known.

    But why to Poesy complain?
      Will not the plain impartial muse
    Assume her power, and me arraign,
      Of selfish ends, of selfish views?

    She in this manner doth reprove,--
      Conceal such sentiments as thine,
    If fortune favours those we love,
      Should we because of that repine.

    You wrong me I did sighing say,
      Do not misunderstand me so;
    Become of C---- whatever may,
      ’Twill give her pleasure that to know.

    But ah! my heart has many a fear,
      T’ avert which, heav’n, I thee implore,
    I dread yon town’s unwholesome air,
      But dread its bad example more.--

    Oh! may all watchful Providence,
      Still guard from every sinful snare;
    Preserve in health and innocence,
      You making its peculiar care.

    A sober, pious, harmless life
      Maintain, and keep its end in view,
    Which soon, or late, will sure arrive,
      Then what is all this world to you.

    Let atheists at religion laugh,
      And libertines live as they list;
    But on a death-bed who can scoff,
      God then in fear will be confess’d!

    Rejoice young man in days of youth,
      Thine heart with every folly cheer;
    But know, all these, as true as truth,
      In after judgment must appear!

    To Israel thus the sacred page--
      But wrote for our instruction too;
    It speaks to youth in every age,
      And now my friend it cautions you.

    With vigorous health your bosom glows,--
      False dazzling views elate your soul;
    Brisk through each vein life’s current flows,--
      Each passion apt to spurn control.

    But oh! let timely counsel warn,
      While yet I hope no friend to vice;
    From wisdom’s pathway never turn,
      Though folly should with smiles entice.

    Be serious, prudent, circumspect,
      Shun pleasure’s fascinating lure;
    And oh! may heaven your heart direct,
      To all that’s virtuous, good, and pure.

    Consider boyish years are flown,
      Endeavour manhood so to spend,
    As honour strict may fairly own,
      Conscience approve, and heaven commend.

    And then though slander aim her darts,
      Your reputation fair to wound;
    Still truth will triumph o’er her arts,
      Her dark designs dash and confound.

    The sober will such worth admire,
      And wealth on diligence attends;
    Fame, fortune, will I hope conspire,
      To gain you many valued friends.

    And pleasing circles will adorn
      Your hearth, to cheer each hour of rest;
    Each night close calm as rose the morn,
      Each day be happy as the past.

    Heaven’s favour heightens every joy,--
      Makes every comfort taste more sweet;
    But vice doth every bliss destroy,
      Follow’d by fear, shame, and regret.

    But even should adverse fortune frown,
      Troubles assail, no friend remain;
    God never can forsake his own,
      But all who trust him will sustain.

    If bitters in life’s cup are mix’d,
      ’Tis from this world their hearts to wean;
    To qualify them for the next,
      Where bliss complete cures every pain.

    That this may be your happy lot;
      (And oh! how happy none can tell!)
    Has oft’ employ’d her earnest thought,
      Who sighing says,--dear youth, Farewell!




                             VERSIFICATION

                                  OF

                 =Ossian’s Address to the Moon=.


    Daughter of heaven! fair art thou,--
      The brightness of thy face,
    Is pleasant to the travellers’ view,
      When darkness flies apace.

    The stars attend thy azure steps,
      And murky clouds, O! Moon,--
    Sport in thy beams, their brightening shapes,
      Rejoicing as at noon.

    Night’s lovely daughter in the sky,
      Who doth like thee preside;
    The stars asham’d thy presence fly,
      Their sparkling eyes to hide.

    But where dost thou thyself repair,
      When dark thy count’nance grows?
    Hast thou a hall like Ossian, where
      Grief’s shadows thee enclose?

    Fell thy fair sisters from the skies,
      That nightly shone before?
    They in thy presence did rejoice,
      And are they now no more?

    Yes! they are fall’n. O! fairest light!
      Who did thy path adorn;
    And thou dost oft’ retire from sight,
      Thy loss of friends to mourn.

    But thou thyself shalt one night fail,
      Nor more in Heaven appear;
    Then stars that shrunk before thee pale,
      With joy their heads shall rear.

    Yet, while with brightest beams begirt,
      Look from thy lofty gate.--
    O! burst ye winds that cloud apart,
      Let her appear in state!

    The shaggy mountains to illume,
      And make their summits bright;
    That azure waves ’midst ocean’s gloom,
      May roll in rays of light!




                          BALCLUTHA’s RUINS;

                       _Versified from Ossian_.


    Raise, ye, my Bards, said mighty Fingal, raise
    A mournful song, in sad Moina’s praise;
    Call to our hills her ghost with tuneful air,
    That she may rest in peace with Morven’s fair.
    The sun-beams mild on other days that shone,
    Delights of ancient heroes long since gone.
    I’ve seen Balclutha’s walls, but they are sad,
    And dreary desolation round them spread;
    The ruinous fire had rioted in the hall;
    The people’s voice is heard no more at all;
    And Clutha’s course was alter’d by the fall;
    And there the thistle shook its lonely head,
    Thro’ wither’d moss the wind a whistling made;
    The skulking fox did from the window look,
    And rank the tufted grass around him shook:
    ‘Such is the dwelling of Moina now,
    The habitation of her fathers low.
    Then raise ye Bards, a sweetly mournful strain,
    And o’er the stranger’s land in song complain;
    They only fell a little us before,
    We too must one day fall and be no more.
    Why build the hall, son of the winged days?
    Or why with toil a stately fabric raise?
    To-day thou lookest from thy tower elate;
    Yet a few years, for lo! how short the date!
    Then desert blasts howl in thy empty court,
    And whistle round thy shield in seeming sport;
    And come thou desert blast, with howling sound,
    We in our little day shall be renown’d;
    Still shall be heard our deeds in battles past,
    And in the song of bards our name shall last;
    When thou shalt fail, O! sun of heaven so bright!
    If thou indeed must fail, thou mighty light!
    If thou, like me, but for a season art,
    Our fame shall live when thy last beams depart.




                            ANOTHER EXTRACT

                            _From Ossian._


    From grief a kind of joy doth flow,
      When peace is in the breast;
    Some minds indulge themselves in woe,
      And love to be distress’d.

    Altho’ by sad remembrance pain’d,
      The heart still holds it dear,
    The soft sensation is retain’d,
      Tho’ causing many a tear.--

    But sorrow wastes the mournful soul,
      Its joyless days are few,
    Whose heart of settled sadness full
      Bids cheerfulness adieu!--

    A willing stranger to delight,
      It wastes in early bloom,
    Like flowers which nightly mildews blight,
      And scorching suns consume.--

    The floweret bends its heavy head,
      The killing drops to drink,
    So does the mind to pleasure dead,
      In cherish’d sorrow sink.--

    But grief doth such in secret waste,
      Their fleeting days are few,
    Whose minds by settled gloom possess’d,
      Bid cheerfulness adieu!--




                           =A Petition=

                        TO A MEDICAL GENTLEMAN.


    Would, Sir, that I could win your ear,
    A favour is petition’d here,
      Though much you have already done,
    Yet bear with one request from me:
    Your patient, now, I fain would be,
      If granted so desir’d a boon;

    A plan might be devis’d that would
    Be blest, who knows, to do me good.
      And, O! it were a happy thing!
    ’Twould greatly better my condition,
    Spread your fame as a physician,
      Double pleasure thence would spring.

    Not that I mean your skill’s denied,
    If so, I had not first applied,
      Much less my pleading now renew;
    But curing such a stubborn case,
    Your usefulness would much increase,
      Tho’ fame should weigh but light with you.

    One kind to me before, now gone,
    Did all that long could have been done;
      This lameness to prevent, and cure,
    But then my wavering constitution,
    More than now, was in confusion,
      And resisted med’cine’s power.

    One time I had a minute’s talk,
    With you ’bout helping me to walk,
      But you declin’d so hard a task,
    And I was then, as at this day,
    So troublesome another way,
      I wanted courage more to ask.

    But measur’d lines possess a power,
    At least I’ve known it so before,
      They’ve gain’d a cause which else had fail’d,
    When told in truth’s persuasive spirit,
    Meaning well, though poor in merit;
      Ev’n such verses have prevail’d;

    Please, Sir, let such prevail with you,
    And try what art and means can do,
      To make me walk though lame and slow:
    I think you nothing can propose,
    As process, regimen, or dose,
      But I will patient undergo:

    And after all if means are vain,
    I will not murmur, or complain,
      When both have done the best we may;
    Do promise, once to make a trial,
    Nor kill weak hope with a denial,
      And your petitioner will pray.




                                 LINES

                     COMPOSED IN THE TIME OF WAR.


    Ha! what’s a’ your hurry my blythe laughing lassie?
      What mak’s you sae merry that’s been sae lang wae?
    Sae cheerily smiling, weel pleas’d, and sae dressy,
      Ye ha’e na been seen for this mony a day?
    Is JAMIE come hame again frae the French prison?
      I read i’ your looks that I haena guess’d wrang;
    Said she, I’ll no hide it, for frankly confessing,
      I hope now to see him afore it be lang.

    See here are twa letters frae him an’ my brither,
      They’re baith to be here in a fortnight at maist;
    I’m gaun the blythe tidings to tell JAMIE’S mither,
      Sae that’s just the cause o’ my gladness and haste.
    I left her, an’ thought how destructive is fighting,
      Contriv’d by nae guid to hand folk in a steer;
    Keeps mony a body themselves ay affrighting,
      For brither, friend, husband, or son, that is dear.

    Some wars on ae side hae been right it is granted,
      But ilk’ sober person’s opinion runs thus--
    That war aye, if possible, should be prevented,
      The wide warld’s wealth canna balance the loss.
    I’m no a deep-learn’d far-skill’d politician,
      But common sense tells me that war is a fiend,
    Spreading poverty, bloodshed, an’ fell desolation,
      Sic havoc I heartily wish at an end.




                            =Sabella=;

                           A METRICAL TALE.


    Near twilight, in a forest vast,
      Which close tall trees did well adorn;
    Surrounded by a heathy waste,
      Where rang’d the deer with branched horn.

    No marks of culture there were shewn,
      But passing Flora, from her lap,
    Some borders had profusely strewn
      With seeds, and Phœbus nurs’d them up.

    An op’ning small the wood divides,
      Where runs a riv’let chrystal clear,
    And plants and flowers bedeck the sides,
      In all its windings far and near.

    Off either bank the blast to ward,
      Stand the straight oak and comely larch,
    The silent pathway’s lofty guard,
      Join’d by the sweetly smelling birch.

    The falling dew they did imbibe,
      Scent, beauty, freshness, to repair;
    And on their boughs, a plumy tribe
      Pour’d sweetest woodnotes on the air.

    Calm was the scene, not e’en a breath
      The smallest quiv’ring leaf did shake;
    When slowly stepping o’er the heath,
      Advanc’d a nymph of graceful make.

    When she approach’d to where the rill
      Out of a little fountain rose;
    ’Twas so inviting, soft, and still,
      Its devious walk the damsel chose.

    Now said she, as she stept along,
      This is a favourable place,
    To search what in me is so wrong,
      And ever robs me of my peace.

    My bosom is not torn with spite,
      Nor dark revenge, nor fell remorse;
    No! what my youthful bloom doth blight,
      Arises from another source.

    Credulity has been my wreck,
      Too easy won by feign’d regard;
    Affection whispering, don’t suspect,--
      Reflection’s voice was not yet heard.

    Long blinded, I did long believe,
      Was loath to think his heart so bad,
    As with such treachery to deceive,
      Then basely slight a trusting maid.

    But long neglect has made me own
      His fondest vows were only feign’d;
    He roves through fields to me unknown,--
      Nor one farewell epistle deign’d.

    Now to some favourite fair he’ll jest,
      And speak of me, with taunting scorn;
    Oh! how this weakness I detest,
      And yet cannot forbear to mourn.

    My heart from every thing around,
      Displeas’d, dissatisfied, turns back!
    Cease cheerful birds! that echoing sound
      Does still my forlorn mind distract.

    Thinking herself unseen, unheard,
      Aloud her sad complaint began,
    When, leaning on his staff, appeared
      A venerable aged man.

    “Daughter,” he said, “be not alarm’d,
      “Pursue your walk, nor tremble so
    “At one, by seventy years disarm’d,
      “From being a formidable foe.

    “I only in the forest stopt,
      “As from my work I did retire;
    “And these few faded branches lopt,
      “A faggot for my lonely fire.”

    “By seventy years,” replied the maid,
      Whose looks much pity did express--
    “And still must work, you sure have had
      “Uncommon family distress.”

    “Ah! why recall that tender name,”
      The old man with a sigh rejoin’d,--
    “Forgive me, you are not to blame,
      “’Tis never absent from my mind.

    “Wouldst thou accompany so old
      “A man as I’m to yonder bank,
    “Hear his advice, or hist’ry told?”
      She said--“for both I would you thank.

    “Of good advice I’m much in want,
      “Sick of deceitful trifling youth;
    “I’ll hear the voice of age intent,
      “And lend a willing ear to truth.

    “I’ll not inquisitive enquire”--
      When seated, thus the sage began:
    “The cause why you so much desire
      “To wander from th’ abodes of man?

    “Amidst the foliage envelop’d,
      “This much I both have heard and seen,
    “By gestures and expressions dropt,
      “Your heart is press’d with anguish keen.

    “O! listen then while I relate
      “The wasting griefs myself have known,
    “Nought interesting to repeat,
      “Befell me till to manhood grown.

    “I was arrived at age mature,
      “Before my honour’d parents died,
    “A passion stronger but as pure,
      “The place of filial love supplied.

    “One night, my day’s employment done,
      “In twilight’s pale but soothing reign;
    “The busy world I wish’d to shun,
      “And sought a long neglected plain.

    “The moon arose with cheering rays--
      “I walk’d on lighted by the same,
    “Where oftentimes in boyish days,
      “I with my mother went and came.

    “Till by some secret impulse led,
      “Near to the margin of a fount,
    “Where a neat cottage rais’d its head,
      “Of no contemptible account.

    “Its owner wealthy was and proud,
      “Had been a hero brave in youth;
    “His daughter’s praises fame sang loud,
      “Nor deviated from the truth.

    “Her merits I had oft’ been told;
      “Had long esteem’d the lovely maid;
    “Another feeling made me bold,
      “And I its dictates quick obey’d.

    “Struck with a whimsical conceit,
      “To try if welcome as a guest,
    “I enter’d the half open’d gate.
      “Nine times five years have not effac’d

    “From memory, the sudden joy
      “That then my raptur’d bosom felt.
    “An object caught my eager eye,
      “On which it long with pleasure dwelt.

    “I saw the fair Amelia stand,
      “Midst her domestic maidens young;
    “Industrious was each busy hand,
      “Whilst to her side an orphan clung.”

    “Poor little child” she said, “bereft
      “Of parents in thy tender years,
    “But not an helpless outcast left,
      “To break thine heart with sighs and tears.

    “No! I will shield from want and cold,
      “And teach thee all myself have known;
    “Virtue and truth to thee unfold,
      “As far as light to me is shewn.”

    “She stopt, I hastily retir’d,
      “Nor waited for a sentence more;
    “Durst not approach what I admir’d,
      “But unobserved reach’d the door.

    “Went home, but no amusement, then,
      “Could from my purpose make me swerve;
    “I visited the maid again,
      “And told my mind without reserve.

    “She heard me with a patient ear,--
      “Our families of old were one;
    “Suspended betwixt hope and fear!
      “I listen’d, while she thus began:”

    “Sincerity’s engaging form,
      “I love, admire, and reverence;
    “Its accents the affections warm,
      “Nor fail to win our confidence.”

    “Could I these protestations trust,
      “My heart your suit would not disown;
    “Treat not this frankness with disgust,
      “Dissembling is to me unknown.

    “O to remember that blest hour,
      “My happiness seem’d then complete;
    “Our mothers both long time before,
      “Friendship did more than blood unite.

    “To wed the daughter of her friend,
      “My mother wish’d me many a day,
    “Hers too the same would recommend,
      “But still a bar was in our way.

    “Her sire our union did prevent,
      “And charg’d her ne’er to see me more;
    “At last an unforeseen event,
      “Rob’d him of all his golden store,

    “Of which he boasted.--With delight,
      “And wing’d with hope, to them I flew;
    “His sentiments were alter’d quite,
      “He own’d Amelia was my due.

    “That treasure then I did espouse,--
      “Heaven soon recall’d the precious pearl;
    “Two pledges of our faithful vows,
      “She left an infant boy and girl.

    “Their opening minds with care I rear’d,
      “With learning suited to their birth:
    “My son adventurous appear’d,
      “My daughter studied private worth.

    “Some men their place of birth esteem,
      “They prize its woods and mountains more
    “Than places which with plenty teem,
      “Of rarest fruits and richest ore.

    “Not so, my son, for he t’ acquire
      “A splendid fortune, so was bent,
    “He left his home, his sister, sire,
      “And to a land far distant went.

    “By no endearing ties deterr’d,
      “Fair Caledonia he would leave;
    “Columbia’s fertile plains preferr’d,
      “For them encounter’d wind and wave.

    “I letters wrote from time to time,
      “Entreating that he would return;
    “At last I learn’d that foreign clime,
      “Had brought him to an early urn.

    “The darling of my anxious cares--
      “My daughter too was in decline,
    “But hid her pains, restrain’d her tears,
      “Conceal’d her grief to comfort mine.

    “While slow consumptive symptoms wore,
      “I saw her like a lily drop;
    “And death relentless from me tore
      “My last remaining earthly prop.

    “Relations now to own refuse,
      “Because they know that at my death,
    “To raise their mercenary views,
      “I have no riches to bequeath.

    “To summer’s sun and winter’s storm,
      “This tottering frame I must expose,
    “When feeble hands and limbs infirm,
      “Plead loud for ease and soft repose:

    “But not at Heaven’s all-wise decree,
      “Should we once murmur in the least;
    “A little longer--then we’ll be
      “Where no afflicting cares infest.

    “These birds to their Creator’s throne,
      “Send up, of praise, a willing rent;
    “And should we, as it were, lock on
      “With peevish fretful discontent.

    “We’re more indebted far than they,
      “With reason’s light we are endow’d,
    “And many favors ev’ry day,
      “Are bounteously on us bestow’d.

    “The current of this little brook,
      “A picture does of time convey;
    “Ere we a moment thereon look,
      “The silent water glides away.

    “To us what lesson does it speak,
      “Time plainly whispers in our ear,
    “Beyond my bounds your thoughts direct--
      “’Tis shadow here, ’tis substance there.”

    “The nightly shades now falling fast,
      “Perhaps I ne’er will see you more.”
    He said, her hand then softly press’d,
      “May Heaven your wonted peace restore.”

    “Once more indulge me,” said the fair,
      “And lead me to your humble home,
    “My every wish is center’d there,
      “Respecting all this side the tomb.

    “My youthful hopes have all expir’d,
      “O let me come with you to live,
    “In station of a servant hir’d,
      “My best assistance you shall have.”

    His utmost eloquence was us’d,
      From such wild fancies to dissuade.
    With faltering voice, and eyes suffus’d
      With tears, return’d the weeping maid--

    “No aged parents of my own,
      “Or friends now my assistance claim,
    “And temperate or torrid zone,
      “To poor SABELLA is the same.”

    Fearing her intellects derang’d,
      He with reluctance let her go;
    But soon this rash opinion chang’d,
      Her conduct show’d it was not so.

    She call’d him “father,” when that name
      Again soft sounded in his ear;
    He her embrac’d--and did exclaim--
      “Heaven bless thee! O my daughter dear!

    “A parent’s duties I’ll fulfil,
      “Whilst Heaven is pleas’d my life to spare.”
    “It is enough,” she said, “I will
      “Endeavour to deserve your care.”

    With every thing convenient,
      She comforted his hours of rest;
    A pleasing calm, if not content,
      At length possess’d her youthful breast.

    He taught her lore from many a page,
      For ancient books he knew full well:
    Of history grave in every age,
      How empires rose and how they fell.

    And here let the narrator pause,
      Who much admires the pleasant sight--
    One evening thus employ’d he was,
      And she attending with delight;

    A youth advanc’d across the vale,
      Declar’d himself the old man’s son;
    And oh! remarkable to tell--
      SABELLA’s lover both in one.

    Not to be tedious or minute,
      An explanation soon took place;
    The youth renew’d his former suit,
      But was refus’d with modest grace.

    “I’ll leave this house, my master will,”
      She said, “no longer want my care.”
    Both sire and son t’ entreaties fell,
      And a third pleader too was there.

    Affection, far from being extinct,
      Now rose a powerful foe to pride:
    What could she speak, or act, or think--
      She smil’d consented, was his bride.

    The sire, four-score and ten years old,
      His faculties not much impair’d;
    Grand-children did with joy behold,
      Then died in peace, _lov’d and rever’d_.




                             =Song=,

                _On leaving the Country for the Town_.


    Ye shrubs, and blooming flow’rs,
      All deck’d in richest pride,
    I’ll sing amidst your foliage;
      In you I can confide.

    But yonder tall plantation,
      Is not a friend so true,
    For there will tell-tale ECHO,
      Repeat each word anew.

    Fair smiling infant nature,
      Again salutes the eye,
    Each leaf and flower expanding,
      And all in beauty vie.

    Bud on ye tender blossoms,
      In vernal breezes wave,
    Some other maid will praise you,
      Though I these beauties leave.

    Spring once thy scented verdure,
      With pleasure I survey’d;
    And music of the woodlands
      Has made my bosom glad.

    No more through flow’ry meadows,
      Delighted now I range,
    But for scenes not so enticing,
      Would all these charms exchange,

    Yes, yonder crowded city,
      With all its bustling noise,
    In place of your mild silence,
      Is now become my choice.

    O hope! what sweet sensations,
      Thy promises do give!
    But oft, alas! though winning,
      Thy brightest smiles deceive.




                             =Song=,

                             In answer to

                       “I’M WEARIN’ AWA’ JEAN.”


    Oh! you are happy now Jo!
    Your care is a’ through Jo!
    Nae pain reaches you
                      In the land o’ the leal.

    Our lassie wan awa’ Jo!
    Nor muckle sorrow saw Jo!
    Now I mourn twa
                      In the land o’ the leal.

    But a’ is guid and weel Jo!
    Though nature it maun feel Jo!
    Ilk pain will be heal
                      In the land o’ the leal.

    My locks are thin and grey Jo!
    My powers fast decay Jo!
    I’m laith lang to stay,
                      Fae the land o’ the leal.

    But my tears drap in vain Jo!
    Alane I maun remain Jo!
    Till we meet again
                      In the land o’ the leal.

    Though trouble here us tries Jo!
    ’Tis blessing in disguise Jo!
    To mak’ us mair prize
                      The land o’ the leal.




                          FAREWELL TO PERTH.


    Adieu! pleasant Perth, all thy parts I admire,
      Thy domes, and rich buildings, in every fine street,
    Thy bridge, and thy churches, with each lofty spire,
      Tay’s meads, and green isles, make thy beauty complete.

    Of old in thy bosom, though kings once resided,
      Thou’rt now even more splendid by commerce increas’d,
    With wise regulations, and rulers provided;
      Where arts are encouraged, and learning, and taste,

    Though much has of late, for the poor been collected,
      Ye affluent, think still, what must many endure,
    Uncover’d from cold, & with want sore dejected,
      Your own cup being brimful, O! think of the poor.

    So may your fine city, still more and more flourish,
      And trade spreading plenty, again soon return,
    With anxious remembrance, this wish I will cherish,
      When far distant from it, reluctantly borne,

    Yes, I’ll think of thee Perth, not for thy gay splendor,
      But sweet were the times that in thee I have seen,
    The mem’ry of which will remain soft & tender,
      Tho’ ’twixt me & thee many miles intervene.

    In some distant valley, by some pleasant fountain,
      Where linnets and larks warble sweet in the spring,
    While sound’s plaintive echo from rocks, grove, or mountain,
      Of Perth, when unseen, often sad I will sing.




                             =Song=,

                             IN ANSWER TO

                  “_O Nannie wilt thou gang wi’ me_.”


    No! SANDIE, I will never gang,
      Ye’ll trudge through life alane for me,
    For aft’ a wife maun thole the wrang,
      And I sic scaith will never dree.
    I’ll busk mysel’ as neat’s I can,
      And claes becoming me will wear,
    Though ne’er admir’d by ony man,
      Or flatter’d, _fairest of the fair_.

    When far awa frae kith and kin,
      I’d cast a look behind, I ween,
    For you to change might soon begin,
      And dwinin’ fondness die wi spleen.
    Puir Nannie’s tender form would sink,
      If bound your cauld-rife looks to bear,
    Just now’s the time for her to think,
      Though flatter’d, _fairest of the fair_.

    Weak woman can misfortunes brave,
      To man in straits is aft’ a frien’--
    That’s right, a friend, but not a slave!
      ’Twere silly to descend so mean.
    Some clowns in health do women scorn,
      But aye in sickness claim their care;
    Sic deem our sex their servants born,
      We spurn the thought baith brown and fair.

    Yet should you wi’ mischanters meet,
      And under pain or poortith bow,
    I’m no sae fu’ o’ deadly hate,
      But I would help to succour you.
    Your grave I dinna wish to see,
      Nor strew, nor gather flowers there;
    Live if you can to bury me,
      Ance flatter’d, _fairest of the fair_.




                         EVENING REFLECTIONS.


    While musing upon many a change,
      Reflecting thought inclines
    Present ideas, to arrange
      In these few simple lines;

    Which unremember’d will decay,
      No higher is their aim,--
    The liker to their author they,
      Who’ll shortly do the same.

    But why one sigh at being forgot?--
      A maid more fair and gay
    Perhaps has trode this peaceful spot,
      Whose very name’s away:--

    Who in this lower world did share,
      Like me, its joy and grief;
    But from misfortune, pain, and care,
      Hath lung since found relief.

    Let fancy for a moment wait,
      To view that fair unknown;
    More early she, and I more late,
      Have wander’d here alone.

    What! though imagination paints
      Her but of mean estate;
    Her views when humble, few her wants,
      Nor wishing to be great.

    Why such a wish? for now her bones
      As peacefully do rest
    As theirs, who once fill’d regal thrones,
      Or Indian mines possess’d.

    Perfection in this lower state,
      ’Bove mortal reach we see,
    But serious minds, humane, and sweet,
      Are found in each degree.

    And wheresoever these appear,
      In high or low, they still
    A heavenly origin declare,
      And shine most beautiful.

    Shine, not with ostentation’s blaze,
      Th’ applauding eye to lure;
    Their actions court not empty praise,
      But flow from motives pure.

    This conduct is a scene of peace,
      Free from discordant noise;
    And such a character might grace
      The sister of my choice.

    Though nat’rally to sadness bent,
      Yet soft, sedate, and mild:
    She with the mourful did lament--
      She with the cheerful smil’d.

    Such meek and placid innocence,
      Pure seraphs would respect;
    But ’mong this globe’s inhabitants,
      It only found neglect.

    Not mention’d by the mouth of fame,
      Nor by reproach assail’d;
    From both, her inoffensive frame,
      The grave completely veil’d.

    Ah! friendly fair! whose dust so small,
      With mine may soon be mix’d:
    She’s only fall’n, and I must fall--
      The sure decree is fix’d.

    Since life’s so short, and death so sure;
      So transient every joy:
    Let us that real good secure,
      Which death cannot destroy.


                                FINIS.


Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious printers’, punctuation and spelling errors have been corrected
silently.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75938 ***