No chains of slavery he wore, No tyrant's call obey'd;
The bonds himself he sought he bore; And in a garb array'd
That might his willing office tell,
He serv'd a gentle master well.
But change of climate never can Drive nature from the mind:
Soon thro' the plains in dreams he ran, And woods he left behind:
There with his comrades would rejoice, And-started at his mother's voice.
Short was the solace then he found In his own hills and dales; And to the melancholy sound Of dashing waves and sails, Arous'd from that delusive sight, He, list'ning, wore away the night.
So to his shudd'ring dreams awhile, And to his hopeless days, He neckly bent, and with a smile Could e'en on England gaze: For tho' despair was all around, His heart it's liberty had found.
Not the deep shades of night he chose To veil his purpos'd deed;
But the bright morning;-from his woes For ever to be freed-
He from the vessel's lofty side
Plung'd far into the foaming tide.
Nor plung'd unseen; nor him the wave Swept from the aching view So swiftly but perforce to save The fearless seamen flew:
But, shunning aid of cord or plank, With calm complacent mien he sank.
So he again a mother sought
In his own home to view; For the wild faith he there was taught Was all of death he knew:
And she, for whom his heart had pin'd, Altho' a Hottentot-was kind!
VRITTEN IN THE CHAPEL OF ROSLIN. THROUGH the cold twilight of the haunted aisle And the low winds, like whispering voices, steal The lunar beam of shadowy Autumn falls, Thro' the arch'd casements of the gothic walls.
And ghastly, mid the visionary gloom, The awful phantoms of forgotten years Bend o'er the slumbering warrior's ruin'd tomb, And bathe the marble with unearthly tears.
Hark in the deep pause of the fitful storm Celestial music warbles to the night; And tranced Fancy views a lovely form, On yon proud battlements'
Her white robes flutter in the eddying air, Love's holiest lustre lights her humid eye, The dewy ringlets of her golden hair
Stream in the blast, that thunders thro' the sky.
To catch the first glimpse of the polished helm, That binds her absent warrior's kingly brow, Alone she watches, tho' the tempests whelin The waving woods, and trembling cliffs below.
Ah! little dream'd she the Iberian gales,
That shook the blossoms of the orange grove, Far far from her and Roslin's fairy vales,
Blew o'er the cold grave of her murdered love t.
And still when falls the pale autumnal even, The lone Enthusiast lingers in the dell, To hear soft mingling with the breath of Heaven The widow'd mourner's aerial vespers swell. Edinburgh.
In allusion to St. Clair of Roslin who undertook a pilgrimage to the Holy Land with the heart of Robert Bruce, but was driven by contrary winds upon the coast of Spain, and engaging in the service of the Spanish King, was slain in a battle with the Moors.
OCCASIONED BY READING AN ODE TO DR. PERCY BISHOP OF DROMORE.
BY THE LATE WILLIAM PRESTON, ESQ.
How sweet the praise that Percy gains, From lips of Truth in tuneful strains! Such praise, when he from earth retires, Awaits him in seraphic choirs: A praise on earth, alas, too rare, Giv'n by the innocent and fair, And all unlike the venial meed Sold to the base or bloody deed: An incense truly worthy heaven, By Virtue wreath'd to Virtue giv❜n. A Percy's genius well may find The wreath, by fairy fingers twin'd, The virtues, that inform his heart, The applauses coral lips impart. But sooth to say, respected sage, These studies well thy cares engage, Their converse suits thee well, ere long Ordain'd to join the shadowy throng: But alien from the youthful ears The music of departed years.
Why fair enthusiast, art thou led, To change the living for the dead? When Fancy's torch would guide thy feet To Melancholy's chill retreat,
The cloister's damp, the vaulted gloom, Where sleep the tenants of the tomb; "Tis like some false Magician's light, That dames misled, and prowest Knight, Far from the cheerful ways of men To brazen tower, or dragon's den. Thy sex and age are wont to prove The praise of beauty, lays of love. Why then do chivalry and arms, Why boast the dead, for thee such charms? Go join the sportive and the young By youths be lov'd, by Bards be sung; The fair enthusiast shall inspire The sportive reed, the serious lyre. The times of old, by Fancy drest, With admiration fill thy breast. Yet, trust the muse, our modern days Deserve, at least, their share of praise. Not fated were our sires to find The fairest grace of female mind; Genius and taste our joys refine, By polish female virtues shine; And oft in private life we know What scarce a realm or age could show. And northern climes and modern days, Can emulate the Grecian praise ; Nor hear we Sappho's love-sick song, But numbers like the Alcaic strong, That scorn the dance and myrtle bower For solemn themes, and virtue's power.
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