YE hills sublime that o'er the landscape wild
Frown in terrific grandeur wide and drear;
Thou chrystal Tay that roll'st in cadence mild;
I come to soothe my childish sorrows here.
Tho' here secluded from the temperate ray
Of friendship formed in youth's delicious reign,
Bright genius gilds the genial summer day,
And bids me hail the sweet and simple strain * That charms the woodland and romantic glade; And bids me mark with plastic touch the scene, Where gleams of streaming light o'er mountains fall, Obscured in shadow's dim and dubious hue;
Or where it gilds the abbey's ivied wall,
Here rising o'er the stream of clearest blue. From the tall woods that stretch their beauties wide, The yellow tints of gaudy day-light fade,
And grey appears the clear and chrystal tide.
TO THE TRAGEDY OF ANTONIO.
THE proud Iberians, who with hopeless eye,
On Calpe's rock, see English banners fly,
Were, ere in slothful bigotry they lost
Their warlike spirit-glory's proudest boast.
The sacred cross to Asia's realms they bore,
And, in their own deep woods, the invading Moor-
Met in dread conflict. Each undaunted son
Of both Castiles, or nobler Arragon,
Or they, who on Biscaya's stormy shore,
Heard on their cliffs the vast Atlantic roar;.
All by the fire of martial honour led,
Beneath her crimson standard fought and bled:
High beat each heart in her imperious cause,
And, owning her's, disdained all other laws.
The torch of love, no more a lambent flame
Served but to light them to their idol-Fame.
While all that soothes our age, or charms our youth,
In female tenderness, or female truth,
Bliss, that to all but man high Heaven denies,
Home-born delights-domestic charities,
They tasted not-nor knew they to rejoice,
That reason-sweetest in a woman's voice,
Still bids the lover, husband, friend, adore,
When transient beauty fascinates no more.
From prototypes like these, who lived, we know,
And fought and died three hundred years ago,
Our Poet of to-night his hero draws,
The proud vindictive slave of Honour's laws;
By softer passions moved, to nature true,
His lovely heroine he describes from you,
Women of these fair Isles!-Oh, formed to prove
How mental excellence ennobles love,
'Tis yours by praise to animate the bard,
At once his inspiration and reward;
And yours to bid true honour's heart expand,
With patriot fondness, for his native land.
Shall then that country, the illustrious earth,
Which gave the boast of nature-Shakspeare, birth,
Dramatic fame on foreign structure raise,
And England, on exotics, graft her bays?
Oh, no!-excite anew the native lyre,
Encourage native genius to aspire;
So in the land for arts renowned and arms,
Shall genuine Tragedy resume its charms.
A candidate, ambitious, though unknown,
Hazards, to-night, a fiction all his own:
And, if the daring votary appears
Not unaccepted by the Queen of Tears-
If passion, pathos, elevated thought,
(As friendship trusts) the enthusiast has caught;
For approbation may he not appeal
To heads and hearts like yours-that think and feel?
From party free, he draws no aid from thence,
But rests his claim on nature, truth, and sense;
And in an audience sanguinely confides,
Where British candour liears, and British taste decides.
ON HIS COMING TO THE AUTHOR'S FIRE-SIDE IN A STORM, DEC. 13, 1800.
POOR, shiverin' Burdie! welcome here:
How terrified thy looks appear!
Thou to the fire wad fain draw near,
Yet daurna venture:
Trouth thou hast little thing to fear;
Sae bauldlie enter.
Nae serlie thou'rt wi' fear oppressed;
Thy little heartie canna rest,
But pittie, pattie, 'gainst thy breast
It quiverin plays!--
A's strange an' unco, little guest!
That thou surveys.
Thou kens fu weel that man's thy fae
But fear na;-I am nane o' thae
Wha wad thy freedom tak away
Come, tak thy dinner ;-then, gude day;
Like friends we'll part.
Weel daubit, Robin! there's some mair
Baith groats an' barley dinna spare:
What, startin!-dinna blate nor scare
At aught about me!
Your wilie, sclentin een declare
Ye ha' flins doubt me.
Curse on that wretch! wha wad thee wrang
In cruel cage! may mirth an sang
Ne'er soothe his saul, his friends amang,
In ale-house snug:
But matrimonial discord twang,
An' rive his lug!
Stern Winter, wi' tyrannic sway,
Has doft a' Nature's cleathin gay;
The flowers are dead which crowned the May,
An' breathed perfume:
Lang is the night, an' short the day,
Wi' heavie gloom.
The faulded sheep scarce mak a shift :
The bitter, blindin, whirlin drift,
Thro' ragged skeu, or chimlie rift,
The cottage fills;
The lowrin Sun, far south the lift,
Leans on the hills.
Nae mair the heights poor Maukin gains,
But cowrin near kail-yards remains ;
Nae mair the woods resound the strains
O' Melodie;
But Desolation stauks the plains,
Wi' ruthless 'ee!
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