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STREPHON'S PICTURE.

Ye gods! was Strephon's picture blest
With the fair heaven of Chloe's breast?
Move softer, thou fond flutt'ring heart,
Oh, gently throb—too fierce thou art.
Tell me, thou brightest of thy kind,
For Strephon was the bliss design'd?
For Strephon's sake, dear charming maid,
Didst thou prefer his wand'ring shade?

And thou, bless'd shade, that sweetly art
Lodged so near my Chloe's heart,
For me the tender hour improve,
And softly tell how dear I love.
Ungrateful thing! it scorns to hear
Its wretched inaster's ardent pray'r,
Ingrossing all that beauteous heav'n,
That Chloe, lavish maid, has given.

I cannot blame thee: were I lord
Of all the wealth those breasts afford,
I'd be a miser too, nor give
An alms to keep a god alive.
Oh smile not thus, my lovely fair,
On these cold looks, that lifeless are ;
Prize him whose bosom glows with fire,
With eager love and soft desire.

'Tis true thy charms, O powerful maid !
To life can bring the silent shade:
Thou canst surpass the painter's art,
And real warmth and flames impart.
But oh! it ne'er can love like me,
I've ever loved, and loved but thee:
Then, charmer, grant my fond request,
Say thou canst love, and make me blest.

This is another of the happy complimentary lyrics of Hamilton of Bangour: it contains a passionate burst of fancy such as he has seldom equalled, for he is in general neat, and elegant, and tender, rather than impassioned :

I cannot blame thee: were I lord
Of all the wealth those breasts afford,
I'd be a miser too, nor give
An alms to keep a god alive.

It was the pastoral affectation of the times to indulge in such names as Chloe and Strephon-names which hurt the charm of the finest lyric composition; for we cannot well persuade ourselves that such personages were ever endowed with flesh and blood. The song was written to the tune of the “ Fourteenth of October," the day of St. Crispin, in whose honour, or derision, a lyric bearing that name anciently existed. Chloe was probably Jeanie Stewart, of whose rigour he complains to Mr. Home, and complains unjustly, since the lady was willing and ready to reward him.

WHEN SUMMER COMES.

When summer comes, the swains on Tweed

Sing their successful loves; Around the ewes and lambkins feed,

And music fills the groves.

But my loved song is then the broom

So fair on Cowden-knowes ; For sure, so sweet, so soft a bloom

Elsewhere there never grows.

There Colin tuned his oaten reed,

And won my yielding heart;
No shepherd e'er that dwelt on Tweed

Could play with half such art.

He sung of Tay, of Forth and Clyde,

The hills and dales all round,
Of Leader haughs, and Leader side-

Oh! how I bless'd the sound.

Yet more delightful is the broom

So fair on Cowden-knowes;
For sure, so fresh, so bright a bloom

Elsewhere there never grows.

Not Tiviot braes, so green

and

gay, May, with this broom compare; Not Yarrow banks in flow'ry May,

Nor the bush aboon Traquair.

More pleasing far are Cowden-knowes,

My peaceful happy home,
Where I was wont to milk my ewes,

At e'en, amang the broom.

Ye powers that haunt the woods and plains

Where Tweed or Tiviot flows,
Convey me to the best of swains,

And my loved Cowden-knowes.

William Crawford wrote this song to the favourite air of Cowden-knowes, and though not one of his sweetest productions, he has graced his verse by introducing, in a very natural and pleasing way, the names of various places famous in story and song. The far-famed Cowdenknowes (if I may seek an earthly habitation for a place which seems to have an aërial locality, and to move at the will of the poet like the island of Laputa) are said to be near Melrose, on the river Leader. The old

which celebrates Leader haughs and Yarrow as the residence of the Homes and Scotts, dwells on the loveliness of the place. I can prophesy that, for many a century, pilgrimages will be made to that neighbourhood ; and that all the celebrity which ancient song has conferred will fade away before the splendour which mightier works shed around the place. Our descendants will make relics of the woods of Abbotsford; and opulent antiquaries will carry away the mansion, roof, and rafter, like the miraculous church of Loretto.

song,

THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY.

The smiling morn, the breathing spring,
Invite the tuneful birds' to sing,
And while they warble from each spray,
Love melts the universal lay.
Let us, Amanda, timely wise,
Like them improve the hour that flies,
And in soft raptures waste the day
Amang the birks of Invermay.

For soon the winter of the

year,
And age, life's winter, will appear;
At this, thy living bloom will fade,
As that will nip the vernal shade.
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er,
The feather’d songsters are no more;
And when they droop, and we decay,
Adieu the birks of Invermay.

The laverock now and lintwhite sing,
The rocks around with echoes ring;

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