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For me, I can be well content
To eat my bannock on the bent,

And kitchen 't wi' fresh air;
Of lang-kail I can make a feast,
And cantily had up my crest,
And laugh at dishes rare.
Nought frae Apollo I demand,

But through a lengthened life
My outer fabric firm may stand,

And saul clear without strife.
May he then, but gi'e then,
Those blessings for my share;

I'll fairly, and squarely,

Quite a', and seek nae mair.

THE SPECTACLES.

A FABLE.

AE day when Jove, the high director,
Was merry o'er a bowl of nectar,
Resolved a present to bestow
On the inhabitants below,

Momus, wha likes his joke and wine,
Was sent frae heaven with the propine.
Fast thro' the æther fields he whirled
His rapid car, and reached the warld:
Convened mankind, and tald them Jove
Had sent a token of his love;
Considering that they were short-sighted,
That faut shou'd presently be righted.
Syne loosed his wallet frae the pillions,
And tossed out spectacles by millions.

RAMSAY.

There were enow, and ilk ane chose
His pair, and cocked them on his nose;
And thankfully their knees they bended
To heaven, that thus their sight had mended.
Streight Momus hameward took his flight,
Laughing fou' loud, as well he might.

For ye maun ken, 'tis but o'er true,

The glasses were some red, some blue,

Some black, some white, some brown, some green,
Which made the same thing different seem.
Now all was wrong, and all was right,

For ilk believed his aided sight;

Swore black was white, and red was green,
Asked if he could misdoubt his een;

Far less believe that e'er anither

Could mak' his senses lie or swither.

RAMSAY.

TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY.

WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shade,
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?

'Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom gored?
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
O! ever beauteous! ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?

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What can atone (O ever-injured shade!) Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?

No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier:
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed;
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed;
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned;
By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned!
What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe

To midnight dances and the public show?
What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polished marble emulate thy face?

What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dressed,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast;
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow;
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground now sacred by the relics made.

So peaceful rest, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot;

A heap of dust alone remains of thee,

'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

POPE.

THE TEMPLE OF FAME.

WESTWARD, a sumptuous frontispiece appeared,
On Doric pillars of white marble reared,
Crowned with an architrave of antique mould,
And sculpture rising on the roughened gold.
In shaggy spoils here Theseus was beheld,
And Perseus dreadful with Minerva's shield:
There great Alcides, stooping with his toil,
Rests on his club, and holds the Hesperian spoil:
Here Orpheus sings; trees moving to the sound
Start from their roots, and form a shade around :
Amphion there the loud creating lyre
Strikes, and behold a sudden Thebes aspire!
Cythæron's echoes answer to his call,

And half the mountain rolls into a wall:

There might you see the lengthening spires ascend,
The domes swell up, the widening arches bend,
The growing towers like exhalations rise,
And the huge columns heave into the skies.
The eastern front was glorious to behold,

With diamond flaming, and Barbaric gold.
There Ninus shone, who spread th' Assyrian fame,
And the great founder of the Persian name:
There in long robes the royal Magi stand,
Grave Zoroaster waves the circling wand:
The sage Chaldæans, robed in white appeared,
And Brahmins, deep in desert woods revered.

These stopped the Moon, and called th' unbodied shades

To midnight banquets in the glimmering glades;

Made visionary fabrics round them rise,

And airy spectres skim before their eyes.

Of talismans and sigils knew the power,
And careful watched the planetary hour.
Superior, and alone, Confucius stood,
Who taught that useful science-to be good.
But on the south, a long majestic race
Of Egypt's priests the gilded niches grace,
Who measured Earth, described the starry spheres,
And traced the long records of lunar years.
High on his car Sesostris struck my view,
Whom sceptred slaves in golden harness drew :
His hands a bow and pointed javelin hold;
His giant limbs are armed in scales of gold.
Between the statues obelisks were placed,
And the learned walls with hieroglyphics graced.
Of Gothic structure was the northern side,
O'erwrought with ornaments of barbarous pride.
There huge Colosses rose, with trophies crowned,
And Runic characters were graved around.
There sat Zamolxis with erected eyes,

And Odin here in mimic trances dies.

There on rude iron columns, smeared with blood,
The horrid forms of Scythian heroes stood,
Druids and bards (their once loud harps unstrung),
And youths that died to be by poets sung.
These and a thousand more of doubtful fame,
To whom old fables gave a lasting name,
In ranks adorned the temple's outward face;
The wall in lustre and effect like glass,
Which, o'er each object casting various dyes,
Enlarges some, and others multiplies:
Nor void of emblem was the mystic wall,
For thus romantic Fame increases all.

POPE.

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