Where are your lyres, ye sons of song ? And consecrate to this blest theme your lays: And has no energetic tongue Charm'd Virtue's ear with good LAS CASA's praise? In that mild region of the sky, Where dove-ey'd Pity dwells on high, From golden harps his praise melodious flows; Of Responsive catch the heavenly song, power to soothe even slavery's bitter woes? Yes! from thy banks dear native Clyde, Nor think they wept and bled in vain, Their matchless woes, and blest CHIAPA's praise! ANSWER ΤΟ Α POETICAL APOLOGY SENT BY PROFESSOR M'LEOD OF GLASGOW, TO SOME LADIES WHO HAD INVITED HIM TO AN OYSTER FEAST. "Thus sung the uncouth nymph to th' oaks and rills.” MILTON, WHEN FINGAL dwelt in windy halls, As mournful OSSIAN tells, Each tuneful bard and warlike chief Where music, sorrow's best relief, The soft harp's many-sounding strings, Could melt the iron hearts of kings, Excluded from the hero's feast, Dark anguish prey'd on ALDO's breast, Nor war nor hunting more could please, Blest days, when Nature rul'd supreme, Uncheck'd by frozen art, And love and fancy's blended beam When hungry herocs sprung with joy To heighten Nature's bloom. Their heavy locks that wont to fly Their blushing cheek and downcast eye With more coercive force could sway Alas! a mournful proof appears MACALPINE, NEPTUNE's faithful priest, Well known to beaux and belles, Thrice bow'd adoring to the east, Then spread the feast of shells: There sportive maids, and festive swains, Attend the hallow'd rite, And weave to Music's sprightly strains The dance in mazes light. T Ye echoes hold your tattling tongues, Else busy fame, with brazen lungs The bard of Celtic race renown'd Rude blasts from EoL's airy hall Pierc'd thro' each tender form, While snug behind his cloister'd wall, He laugh'd to see the storm. Secure, his adamantine heart Had he like ALDO no repast, But what his bow supplied, He'd dare well pleas'd the wint'ry blast When shells were smoking wide. |