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For I maun crulh amang the sioure
Thy flender stem:
Thou bonie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor fweet,
Wi' fpreckl'd breast,
The purpling East.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Amid the storm,
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High ihelt'rtng woods an' wa's maun thield But thou, beneath the random bield
O' clod or flane, Adorns the hiilie stibble sield,
There, in thy fcanty mantle clad.
In humble guife;
And low thou lies.
Such is the fale of artlefs Maid,
By love's simplicity betray'da
And guilelefs trust,
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of fimple Bard,
On life's rough ocean, lucklefs starrM!
Unlkilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore;
And whelm him o'er!
To Mis'ry's brink,
He, Tuin'd, sink.
Full on thy bloom,
Shall be thy doom.
TO SPRING. Tis past ; the iron North has fpent his rage;
Stern Winter now refigns the length'ning day; The stormy bowlings of the windi asfuage,
And warm o'er ether western breer.es play.
Oi genial heat and cheerful light the fource,
From fouthern climes, beneath another Iky, The fun, returning, wheels hU golden courfe;
Before his beams all noxious vapours fly.
Far to the north grim Winter draws his tram
W here thron'd on ice, he holds eternal reign;
Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempests roar.
Loos'd from the bands of frost, the verdant ground
Again puts forth her flowers; and all around,
Behold! the trees new-deck their wilherM boughs;
The taper elm, and lofty aih difclofe;
The blooming hawthorn variegatas the fcene.
The lity of the vale, of flowers the queen,
The birds on ground, or on the branches green,
Soon as o'er eaftern hills the morning pecis,
And, cheerful singing, up the air lhe fleers;
Still higii fhe mounts, still loud and fweet ihc singh
On the green furze, clothM o'er with golden blooms,
The linnet sits, and tricks his glossy plumes,
While the fun journeys down the western iky,
Along the greenfward, luark'd with Roman n;oand, Beneath the blithfome lhepherd's watchful eye,
The cheerfut lambkins dance and frilk around,
Now is the time for thofe who wisdom love,
Who love to walk in Virtue's siow'ry roar',
Thus Zoroaster studied Nature's laws;
Thus heaven-taught Plato trae'd th' Almighty caufe.
Thus Aihly gather' academic bays;
Thus gentle Thomfon, as the Seafons roll, Taught them to sing the great Creator's praife,
And bear their poet's name from pole to pole. Thus have I- walk'd along the dewy lawn;
My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn; Before the lark, I've fung the beauteous dawn,
And-gather'd health from all the gales of morn;
And, e'en, when Winter chill'd the aged year,
Though frosty Boreas warn'd me to forbear,
Then fleep my nights, and quiet blefs'd my days;
I fear'd no lofs, my mind was all my store; No anxious wilhes e'er disturb'd my eafe;
Heaven gave content and health—1 afle'd no more. JJow Spring returns;—but not to me returns
The vernal joy, my belter years have knows;
Dim in my hreast life's dying taper hurns,
And all the joys of life with health are flown. Starting and shiv'ring in th' inconftant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was. Beneath fome hlasted tree I He reclin'd,
And count the silent moments as they pafs: The winged moments, whofe unseating fpeed
No art can flop, or in their course arrest; Whofe flight shall shortly count me with the dead.
And lay me down in peace with them that re it.
Oft morning-drenms prefage approaching fate;
And morning-dreams, as poets tell, are true: Led hy pale ghosts, 1 enter Death's dark gate.
And hid the realms of light and life adieu.
I hear the helplefs wail, the shriek of woe;
I fee the muddy wave, the dreary more. The fluggifh streams that flowly creep helow,
Which mortals visit and return no more. FarcweJ, ye hlooming sields! ye cheerful plains!
Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound, Where Melancholy with still silence reigns,
And the rank grafs waves o'er the cheerlefs grounil.
There let me wander at the flmt of eve,
When fleep sits dewy on the lahourer's eyes, The world and all its hufy follies leave,
And talk with Wifdom where my Daphnis lies. There let me fleep forgotten in the clay,
When Death fhall fhut thefe weary, aching eyes, Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,
Tin' the last long night's gone, ami the last mom arifr.