Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay, the welkin rose the day,

Till up

Then deem'd the dole was o'er :

But wot ye well his harder lot?

His feely back the bunch had got
Which Edwin loft afore.

This tale a Sybil-nurse ared;

She foftly strok'd my youngling head,
And when the tale was done,

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180

"Thus fome are born, my fon (fhe cries)

"With base impediments to rife,

"And fome are born with none.

"But virtue can itself advance

"To what the fav'rite fools of chance

By fortune feem'd defign'd;

"Virtue can gain the odds of fate,

"And from itself shake off the weight

"Upon th' unworthy mind."

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190

RONALD AND DORNA;

BY A HIGHLANDER, TO HIS MISTRESS.

FROM A LITERAL TRANSLATION

OF THE ORIGINAL.

BY AARON HILL, ESQ.*

I.

COME, let us climb Skorr-urran's fnowy top;

Cold, as it feems, it is lefs cold than

you:

Thin, thro' its fnow, thefe lambs its heath-twigs crop; Your fnow, more hoftile, starves, and freezes, too.

II.

What, tho' I lov'd, of late, in Skey's fair ifle, And blufh'd--- and bow'd --- and fhrunk from

Kenza's eye!

All, she had pow'r to hurt with, was her fmile; But 'tis a frown of yours, for which I die.

III.

Afk, why thefe herds, beneath us, rush, so fast, On the brown fea-ware's stranded heaps, to feed? Winter, like you, with-holds their wish'd repast, And, robb'd of genial grafs, they brouze on weed.

IV.

Mark, with what tuneful hafte Sheleila flows,

To mix its wid'ning stream in Donnan's lake! Yet should some dam the current's course oppose, It muft, per-force, a less-lov'd passage take. 16

V.

Born, like your body, for a fpirit's claim,

Trembling, I wait, unfoul'd, till you inspire: God has prepar'd the lamp, and bids it flame, But you, fair Dorna, have with-held the fire.

VI.

High, as yon pine, when you begin to speak,

My light'ning heart leaps, hopeful, at the found, But, fainting at the fenfe, falls, void, and weak, And finks, and faddens, like yon moffy ground.

VII.

All that I tafte, or touch, or fee, or hear,

Nature's whole breadth reminds me but of

25

you:

Ev'n heav'n itself would your fweet likeness wear,

If, with its pow'r, you had its mercy too.

THE MESSENGER.

BY THE SAME.

Go, happy paper! gently steal,
And, foft, beneath her pillow, lie:
There, in a dream, my love reveal,
A love, that awe must, else, conceal,
In filent doubt, to die.

5

Should fhe, to flames, thy hope confign,
Thy fuff'ring moment foon expires;
A longer pain, alas! is mine,
Condemn'd, in endless woe, to pine,
And feel unflack'ning fires.

But, if inclin'd to hear, and blefs,
While, in her heart, foft pity ftirs;
Tell her her beauties might compel
A hermit to forfake his cell,

10

And change his heav'n for hers. 15

Oh! tell her-were her treasures mine,
Nature and art would court my aid;
The painter's colours want her shine;
The rainbow's brow not half fo fine
As her sweet eye-lids shade!

20

By day, the fun might spare his rays;
No ftar make ev'ning bright;
Her op'ning eyes, with fweeter blaze,
Should measure all my fmiling days,
And, if the flept, 'twere night.