Call'd thine and Freedom's Eden in the west!
Then hymns to Love arose from every glen,
Each British cottage was thy temple then.
But now what Demon blasts thy happiest land,
And bids thine exiled offspring crowd the strand?
Or pens in festering towns the victim swain,
And sweeps thy cot, thy garden, from the plain?
Lo, where the pauper idles in despair,

Thy Eden droops, for blight and dearth are there!
And like an autumn flowret, lingering late,
Scarce lives a relic of thy happier state,

A wreck of peace and love, with sadness seen,
That faintly tells what England once hath been!
Amid coeval orchards, gray with age,

Screen'd by memorial elms from winter's rage,
Scarce stands a shed, where virtue loves to be,
A hut of self-dependent poverty,

Where want pines proudly, though distress and fear
Stain thy mute votary with too sad a tear;
And yet I feel thine altar still is here—
Here, where thy Goldsmith's too prophetic strain,
'Mid the few ruins that attest thy reign,
Deplored the sinking hind, the desecrated plain.

Alas, sweet Auburn !-since thy Bard bewail'd
"Thy bowers, by Trade's unfeeling sons assail'd,"
How many a village, sweet like thee, hath seen
The once bless'd cottage joyless on the green!
Now, e'en "the last of all thy harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain,"
Now, "e'en that feeble, solitary thing”
Hath ceased "to bend above the plashy spring ;"
And her fall'n children breathe their curses deep,
Far from that home of which they think and weep.
Where myriad chimneys wrap their dens in shade,
They rob the night to ply their sickly trade,
And weekly come, with subjugated soul,
Degraded, lost, to ask the workhouse dole.
Slow seems the gloomy Angel, slow, to bring

His opiate cold to hopeless suffering;

And when in death's long sleep their eyes shall close,
Not with their fathers shall their dust repose,

By hoary playmates of their boyhood laid,
Where never corse-thief plied his horrid trade :
Not in the village church-yard lone and green,
Around their graves shall weeping friends be seen;
But surly haste shall delve their shallow bed,
And hireling hands shall lay them with the dead,
Where chapmen bargain on the letter'd stone,
Or stumble, careless, o'er the frequent bone.

How long, O Love! shall loveless Avarice sow
Despair and sloth, and ask why curses grow?
Or dost thou give thy choicest gifts in vain,

And mock with seeming good the heir of pain?
God! where thy image dwells, must sorrow dwell?
Must Famine make thy earth her hopeless heil ?
Did thy uplifted axe, Napoleon! find,

In manless deserts, barren as the wind,
Food? or, when black depopulation shed
Hunger o'er Moscow, were Gaul's armies fed?
Why do the clouds cast fatness on the hills?
Why pours the mountain his unfailing rills?
Why teems with flowers the vale, with life the sky
Why weds with loveliness utility ?

Why woos the foodful plain, in blessing bless'd,
The sons of labour to her virgin breast?

Why is the transcript of thy Heaven so fair,

If man, poor victim! lives but to despair?

Oh, Thou. whose brightning wing is plumed with light,

At once that pinion's beauty and its might;

Thou true Prometheus, by whose lore we're taught
To fix on adamant the fleeting thought,

Star-ruling science, calculation strong,

The march of letters, and the array of song!
Twin-born with Liberty, and child of Love,

Woe-conqu❜ring Knowledge! when wilt thou remove
Th' opprobrium of the earth—the chained in soul?
When wilt thou make man's deadliest sickness whole?
Lo! while our "Bearers of glad tidings" roam

To farthest lands, we pine in gloom at home!
And still, in thought, I hear one whirlwind past !
Still hurtles in my soul the dying blast,

The echo of a hell of sound, that jarr'd

The ear of Heav'n, as when his angels warr'd!
Terrific drama! and the actors men;
But such may shuddering earth ne'er see again;
Unlike her children, less than fiends or more!
And one, of scarcely human grandeur, bore
World-shaking thunder on his sightless wing;
But when thy spear assail'd his brandish'd sting,
He waked to half a Cæsar. Him the frown
Of ruin dash'd beneath thy axle down

Then horror shook him from his death-like sleep;
Then vengeance cast him o'er the troubled deep;
And on the winds of retribution hurl'd,

His demon shadow still appals the world!

When, Knowledge, when will mortals learn thy lore?
They plant thy tree, and water it with gore.

When wilt thou, when, thy power almighty prove,

And bind the sons of men in chains of love?

Rise, hope of nations, and assuage their ills!
This wills thy Teacher, this thy Parent wills.
For this, Love taught thy childhood in her bower,
And bade thee syllable her words of power,
Till brighten'd on thy brow sublimest thought,

*And she, thy teacher, wonder'd as she taught.

Oh, rise, and reign, bless'd power that lov'st to bless;
Queen of all worlds, best name of mightiness!
Thy book of life to Labour's children give:
Let Destitution learn to read and live;
And Independence, smiling on thy brow,
Sing hymns to Love and Plenty, o'er the plough!
Thy kingdom come! on earth let discord cease ;
Come thy long sabbath of bless'd love and peace!
No more let Famine, from her idle hell,
Unwonted guest, with Love and Labour dwell,
Till Death stares ghastly wild in living eyes,
And at Pride's bloated feet his feeder dies,
While Luxury, hand in hand with Ruin, moves,
To do the Devil's work and call it Love's.
What whirlwind, in his dread magnificence,
What Samiel blasts, like hopeless indolence?
And man, when active most, and govern'd best,
Hath ills enough, insatiate, to molest

His fragile peace-some strong in evil will,
But weak in act; and others arm'd to kill,

Or swift to wound :-Revenge, with venomous eyes;
Distrust, beneath whose frown Affection dies;
Scorn, reptile Scorn, that hates the eagle's wing;
Mean Envy's grubs, that stink, and long to sting;
Mischance, Disease, Detraction's coward dart,
And the long silence of the broken heart;
Nor only these. Tradition is the sigh
Of one who hath no hope; and History
Bears, like a river deep, tumultuous, wide,
Gloom, guilt, and woe, on his eternal tide.
Nor need we read of regal wrath and hate,
Troy lost by Love and army-scatt❜ring Fate.
The humblest hamlet's annals wake a sigh ;
And could yon cot, hoar with antiquity,

Relate what deeds within it have been done,
What hopeless suffering there hath cursed the sun,
The tale might draw down Pride's parch'd cheek severe,
From Power's hard eye, e'en Pluto's iron tear.

[JAMES BEATTIE was born at Lawrencekirk, Kincardineshire, in 1735. He was the son of a small farmer; and received his early education in the village school. He entered the Marischal College, Aberdeen, in 1749; and, having passed through the humbler steps of a village schoolmaster, and usher to the Grammar School of Aberdeen, was appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic in the Marischal College in 1760. His chief work, as a metaphysician, is his Essay on Truth.' His Minstrel' will give him an enduring place amongst the best of the Minor Poets. In 1773 he received the degree of D.C.L. from the University of Oxford, and obtained a pension from the Crown. He died in 1803.]

6

There is a certain style of melody peculiar to each musical country, which the people of that country are apt to prefer to every other style. That they should

prefer their own is not surprising; and that the melody of one people should differ from that of another is not more surprising, perhaps, than that the language of one people should differ from that of another. But there is something not unworthy of notice in the particular expression and style that characterize the music of one nation or province, and distinguish it from every other sort of music. Of this diversity Scotland supplies a striking example. The native melody of the Highlands and Western Isles is as different from that of the southern part of the kingdom as the Irish or Erse language is different from the English or Scotch. In the conclusion of a discourse on music, as it relates to the mind, it will not perhaps be impertinent to offer a conjecture on the cause of these peculiarities; which, though it should not-and indeed I am satisfied that it will not-fully account for any one of them, may, however, incline the reader to think that they are not unaccountable, and may also throw some faint light on this part of philosophy.

Every thought that partakes of the nature of passion has a correspondent expression in the look and gesture; and so strict is the union between the passion and its outward sign, that, where the former is not in some degree felt, the latter can never be perfectly natural, but, if assumed, becomes awkward mimicry, instead of that genuine imitation of nature which draws forth the sympathy of the beholder. If therefore there be, in the circumstances of particular nations or persons, anything that gives a peculiarity to their passions and thoughts, it seems reasonable to expect that they will also have something peculiar in the expression of their countenance and even in the form of their features. Caius Marius, Jugurtha, Tamerlane, and some other great warriors, are celebrated for a peculiar ferocity of aspect, which they had no doubt contracted from a perpetual and unrestrained exertion of fortitude, contempt, and other violent emotions. These produced in the face their correspondent expressions, which, being often repeated, became at last as habitual to the features as the sentiments they arose from were to the heart. Savages, whose thoughts are little inured to control, have more of this significancy of look than those men who, being born and bred in civilized nations, are accustomed from their childhood to suppress every emotion that tends to interrupt the peace of society. And while the bloom of youth lasts, and the smoothness of feature peculiar to that period, the human face is less marked with any strong character than in old age. A peevish or surly stripling may elude the eye of the physiognomist; but a wicked old man, whose visage does not betray the evil temperature of his heart, must have more cunning than it would be prudent for him to acknowledge. Even by the trade or profession the human countenance may be characterized. They who employ themselves in the nicer mechanic arts, that require the earnest attention of the artist, do generally contract a fixedness of expression suited to that one uniform sentiment which engrosses them while at work. Whereas other artists, whose work requires less attention, and who may ply their trade and amuse themselves with conversation at the same time, have, for the most part, smoother and more unmeaning faces: their thoughts are more miscellaneous, and therefore their features are less fixed in one uniform configuration. A keen penetrating look indicates thoughtfulness and spirit: a dull torpid countenance is not often accompanied with great sagacity.

This, though there may be many an exception, is in general true of the visible signs of our passions; and it is no less true of the audible. A man habitually peevish, or passionate, or querulous, or imperious, may be known by the sound of his voice, as well as by his physiognomy. May we not go a step farther, and say that if a man, under the influence of any passion, were to compose a discourse, or a poem, or a tune, his work would in some measure exhibit an image of his mind?

I could not easily be persuaded that Swift and Juvenal were men of sweet tempers; or that Thomson, Arbuthnot, and Prior were ill-natured. The airs of Fenton are so uniformly mournful, that I cannot suppose him to have been a merry or even a cheerful man. If a musician, in deep affliction, were to attempt to compose a lively air, I believe he would not succeed: though I confess I do not well understand the nature of the connection that may take place between a mournful mind and a melancholy tune. It is easy to conceive how a poet or an orator should transfuse his passions into his work; for every passion suggests ideas congenial to its own nature; and the composition of the poet or the orator must necessarily consist of those ideas that occur at the time he is composing. But musical sounds are not the signs of ideas; rarely are they even the imitations of natural sounds; so that I am at a loss to conceive how it should happen that a musician, overwhelmed with sorrow, for example, should put together a series of notes whose expression is contrary to that of another series which he had put together when elevated with joy. But of the fact I am not doubtful; though I have not sagacity or knowledge of music enough to be able to explain it. And my opinion in this matter is warranted by that of a more competent judge, who says, speaking of church voluntaries, that if the organist "do not feel in himself the divine energy of devotion, he will labour in vain to raise it in others. Nor can he hope to throw out those happy instantaneous thoughts which sometimes far exceed the best concerted compositions, and which the enraptured performer would gladly secure to his future use and pleasure, did they not as fleetly escape as they rise." A man who has made music the study of his life, and is well acquainted with all the best examples of style and expression that are to be found in the works of former masters, may, by memory and much practice, attain a sort of mechanical dexterity in contriving music suitable to any given passion; but such music would, I presume, be vulgar and spiritless compared to what an artist of genius throws out when under the power of any ardent emotion. It is recorded of Lulli, that once when his imagination was all on fire with some verses descriptive of terrible ideas, which he had been reading in a French tragedy, he ran to his harpsichord, and struck off such a combination of sounds that the company felt their hair stand on end with horror.

Let us therefore suppose it proved, or, if you please, take it for granted, that different sentiments in the mind of the musician will give different and peculiar expressions to his music; and upon this principle it will not perhaps be impossible to account for some of the phenomena of a national ear.

The Highlands of Scotland are a picturesque, but in general a melancholy country. Long tracts of mountainous desert, covered with dark heath, and often obscured by misty weather; narrow valleys, thinly inhabited, and bounded by precipices resounding with the fall of torrents; a soil so rugged and a climate so dreary as in many parts to admit neither the amusements of pasturage nor the labours of agriculture; the mournful dashing of waves along the firths and lakes that intersect the country; the portentous noises which every change of the wind and every increase and diminution of the waters is apt to raise in a lonely region, full of echoes, and rocks, and caverns; the grotesque and ghastly appearance of such a landscape by the light of the moon. Objects like these diffuse a gloom over the fancy, which may be compatible enough with occasional and social merriment, but cannot fail to tincture the thoughts of a native in the hour of silence and solitude. If these people, notwithstanding their reformation in religion, and more frequent intercourse with strangers, do still retain many of their old superstitions, we need not doubt but in former times they must have been more enslaved to the horrors of imagination, when beset with the bugbears of Popery and the darkness of Paganism. Most of their superstitions are of a melancholy cast. That second sight, wherewith some