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While praising, and raising
His thoughts to Heav'n on high,
He views the solemn sky.
Than I no lonely hermit plac'd
Less fit to play the part ;
With self-respecting art:
Which I too keenly taste,
Or human love or hate,
At perfidy ingrate !
Oh! enviable, early days,
To care, to guilt unknown !
Of others, or my own!
Like linnets in the bush,
That active man engage !
Of dim declining age!
As I stood by yon roofless tower,
Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care :
The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky; The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant-echoing glens reply.
The stream, adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's.
The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' bissing eerie din ; Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like Fortune's favours, tint as win.
By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,
And by the moon-beam shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.
Had I a statue been o'stane,
His darin' look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain,
The sacred posie--LIBERTIE!
And frae his harp sic strains did flow,
Might rous'd the slumbering dead to hear; But ob, it was a tale of woe,
As ever met a Briton's ear!
He sang wi' joy his former day,
He weeping wall’d his latter times ; But what he said it was nae play,
I winna venture 't in my rhymes.
TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire !
Was nursed in whirling storms,
And cradled in the winds. Thee when young Spring first question'd Winter's sway And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,
Thee on this bank he threw
To mark his victory.
Unnoticed and alone,
Thy tender elegance.
Of life she rears her head,
While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,
And hardens her to bear
SONNET.-“ GIVE ME A COTTAGE."
Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,
Where, far from cities, I may spend my days; And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,
May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways,
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,
I shall not want the world's delusive joys; But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,
Shall think my lot conplete, nor covet more ;
I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,
SONNET.—" WHAT ART THOU, MIGHTY ONE."
What art thou, Mighty ONE! and where thy seat ?
Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands,
And thou dost bear within thine awful hands
Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dread noon,
Or on the red wing of the fierce Monsoon,
Dost thou repose ? or in the solitude
Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood ?
COME, pensive sage, who lov'st to dwell
I will meet thee on the hill, Where, with printless footsteps' still, The morning in her buskin gray. Springs upon her eastern way : While the frolic zephyrs stir. Playing with the gossamer, And, on ruder pinions borne, Shake the dew drops from the thorn. There, as o'er the fields we pass, Brushing with hasty feet the grass, We will startle from her nest The lively lark with speckled breast, And hear the floating clouds among, Her gale transported matin song, Or on the upland stile embower'd With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd, Will sauntering sit, and listen still To the herdsman's oaten quill, Wafted from the plain below; Or the heifer's frequent low: Or the milkmaid in the grove, Singing of one who died for love. Or when the noontide heats oppress, We will seek the dark recess, Where in th' embower'd translucent stream, The cattle shun the sultry beam, And o'er us on the marge reclin'd, The drowsy fly her horn shall wind, While Echo, from her ancient oak, Shall answer to the woodman's siroke; Or the little peasant's song, Wandering lone the glens among, His artless lip with berries dyed, And feet through ragged shoes descried.
But oh! when evening's virgin queen