Glides with white sails, dispense the downy freight
To copsy villages on either side,

And spiry towns, where ready diligence,
The grateful burden to receive, awaits,
Like strong Briareus, with his hundred hands.

GRONGAR HILL.

SILENT nymph, with curious eye!
Who, the purple evening, lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man;
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings;
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale ;-
Come, with all thy various dues,
Come and aid thy sister Muse;
Now, while Phoebus riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky!
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong;
Grongar, in whose mossy cells
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;
Grongar, in whose silent shade,
For the modest Muses made;
So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rill,
Sate upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my

head;

While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,

Over mead and over wood,

From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his chequer'd sides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves, and grottoes where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day:
Wide and wider spreads the vale,

As circles on a smooth canal:

.

The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,

Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise:

Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly-risen hill.

Now, I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours intervene ;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show,
In all the hues of Heaven's bow!
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.
Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly towering in the skies!
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires!
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads!
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks!
Below me trees unnumber'd rise,
Beautiful in various dyes:

The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs.
And beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,

On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye!
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood,
His sides are cloth'd with waving wood,
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an aweful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps;
So both a safety from the wind

'Tis now the raven's bleak abode;
'Tis now th' apartment of the toad;
And there the fox securely feeds;
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there falls
Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls.
Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state;
But transient is the smile of Fate!
A little rule, a little sway,
A sun-beam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers how they run,
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life, to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought,
To instruct our wandering thought;
Thus she dresses green and gay,
To disperse our cares away.
Ever charming, ever new,

When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody valleys warm and low;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky!
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tower,
The naked rock, the shady bower;
The town and village, dome and farm,
Each give each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide;
How close and small the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadows cross the eye!
A step methinks may pass the stream,

So we mistake the Future's face,
Ey'd through Hope's deluding glass;
As your summits soft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,

Which to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the same coarse way,
The present 's still a cloudy day.
O may
I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see;
Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tam'd, my wishes laid;
For, while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul:
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.
Now, e'en now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain-turf I lie;
While the wanton Zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep:
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,

Now, e'en now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts; be great who will; Search for Peace with all your skill: Open wide the lofty door,

Seek her on the marble floor.

In vain you search, she is not there;
In vain ye search the domes of Care!
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads, and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure, close allied,
Ever by each other's side:
And often, by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

WILLIAM HAMILTON was born at Bangour, in Ayrshire, in 1704; and was descended from an ancient and honourable family. The earlier years of his life were passed as a private gentleman, apart from the bustle and business of the world; and a liberal education, a refined taste, and an independent property, enabled him to cultivate literature as a source of enjoyment. The greater number of his poems were composed when youth added its delights to the advantages of fortune-when his talents made him the pride and ornament of the circle in which he moved-and when favourable gales only wafted him along the stream of life. At length wearied of idleness, and influenced by the spirit which so largely excited his countrymen, he joined the standard of the Pretender, in 1745; and celebrated, by an "Ode on the Battle of Gladsmuir," the success of his party at Prestonpans. Unfortunately for the Laureate of the exiled Stuarts, this was his only opportunity of exulting in their triumph.

The following year destroyed their hopes at Culloden, and placed the life of their poetical auxiliary in imminent peril. He wandered for some time in the Highlands, where he wrote the "Soliloquy" which we have extracted into our pages,eluding with extreme difficulty the diligence of the royal troops; and at length found means to escape to France. In France and Italy he resided several years; until having made his peace with government, he returned and took possession of his paternal estate, which had devolved to him by the death of his brother. His health however was very precarious, and he was soon compelled to revisit the continent. He died at Lyons in 1754; but his body was conveyed to Scotland and interred in the Abbey Church of Holyrood-house.

It is to be regretted that no friendly pen was called upon to preserve other than very scanty memorials of his life; his countryman, Dr. Anderson, describes him as "amiable and respectable." He adds, that the poet "possessed the social virtues in an eminent degree. His writings breathe the passions which he felt; and are seldom cold or inanimate. The qualities of his head and heart were equally remarkable. His elegance and judgment were universally confessed. He was, in the proper sense of the word, a fine gentleman."

It is impossible, however, to place him high in the ranks of British Poets; and if the name of Hamilton of Bangour is known more widely than his compositions, it is perhaps to be attributed to the slight mingling of the soldier with the poet; and to the celebrity obtained by his ballad in the Scottish dialect, "the Braes of Yarrow.” His ode on the Battle of Gladsmuir too, as the composition of one actually fighting for the cause he celebrates, could not fail to obtain popularity; he describes the genius of his country as leaving "the vale of solitude and woe," wielding once more the proud imperial sword," and rousing England to support a Prince,

"Who overcomes but to forgive and free."

He wrote however merely for his own amusement and to gratify a circle of accomplished friends; and probably without the remotest idea of giving his productions to the world. They were first printed, not only without his name, but without his consent, at Glasgow in 1748; and although he afterwards made some few corrections in this edition, he never felt himself called upon to produce a new and complete work. It is evident that he either thought them unworthy of fame or was indifferent to it. If, however, we cannot usher him to a conspicuous seat among the Bards, we may safely accord to him the merit of being an agreeable and effective writer. Few of his compositions bear the marks of genius, and are by no means conspicuous for strength of intellect or fertility of invention. But he had a delicate and refined taste; and his natural advantages were improved by an extensive acquaintance with classical learning and a thorough knowledge of the world. He writes with ease and grace, occasionally with energy and spirit, and his versification is correct and harmonious. His productions are numerous-but except the Triumph of Love, the Odes to Fancy, the Episode of the Thistle, the Braes of Yarrow, the Ode on the Battle of Gladsmuir, and an Epistle sent to the Countess of Eglintoun with "the Gentle Shepherd," they consist of songs and addresses to fair ladies, epitaphs on some of his personal friends,