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FOR

A GARDEN SEAT:

SACRED

TO THE REMEMBRANCE OF A BELOVED FRIEND,

MISS A. O****.

FORT-AUGUSTUS, APRIL 29. 1774.

SACRED to thee and friendly love,

I consecrate this humble seat,
Hither shall my weary feet

Oft at sober ev'ning move:

And when thou'rt far remov'd from me,
Here sadly sitting, oft I'll muse on thee!

When the silver queen of night,
With her mildly pleasing beams,

Cheers the surface of the streams,

Or darts thro' dusky shades a visionary light :

Here Fancy shall exert her magic power,
And with thy image glad the solitary bow'r.

Fate soon will bear thee to some happier clime,
Yet that kind heart, that generous mind,
By truth and tenderness combin'd,

Adorn'd with charms beyond the reach of time:
Here oft shall mem'ry to my aid restore,

While I with fruitless sighs my loss deplore.

ON READING

MANUSCRIPT POEMS

BY

A YOUNG LADY,

NOT IN THE MANNER, BUT IN THE SPIRIT OF

COLLINS.

"Deep in

yon bed of whispering reeds

"Thy airy harp shall now be laid;

"That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds,

"May love thro' life the soothing shade."

COLLINS.

WHEN THOMSON'S harp of charming tone

Giv'n to the favour'd bard alone,

(Its tuneful master snatch'd away), 'Midst whispering reeds impervious lay; The winds awak'd its mournful swell, The wood-nymphs join'd, the solemn knell. Her yellow locks mild Autumn tore,

Wild Winter mourn'd in mantle hoar.

Sweet Spring in weeping buds was drest,
And Summer rent her flow'ry vest;

Sad Nature caught th' Æolian strain,
And bade it echo thro' the plain;

And Fate proclaim'd, no daring hand
Should THOMSON's sacred harp command:
While COLLINS sooth'd the mourners round,
With magic lyre of dulcet sound :
But when the Bard by Arun's stream,
Indulg'd each sadly tender theme,
And with enchantment wild combin'd,
The countless " shadowy tribes of mind;"
Or wept o'er valour's early tomb,
Bedeck'd with wreaths of freshest bloom:
Or bade the pictur'd passions rise,
In fancy'd forms to human eyes,-
The fair creation rose confest,
And dazzled reason sunk opprest:
No more he feels the Muse inspire,
In slumber lay the magic lyre;
Again he lifts his languid eyes,

To wake its strain in vain he tries;
Then ere he sought th' Elysian plain,
Resign'd the magic lyre to JANE !

WRITTEN IN ONE OF THE

DUKE OF ATHOLE'S WALKS

AT BLAIR,

AFTER MAKING A CLANDESTINE ENTRANCE THROUGH THE RIVER TILT, THEN VERY LOW:

SUMMER 1796.

"There I suck the liquid air,

"All amidst the gardens fair."

MILTON.

YOUR jealous walls, great Duke, in vain

All access would refuse;

What walls can Highland steps restrain ?

What bars keep out the Muse?

Where'er I go I bring with me

"That mountain-nymph, sweet LIBERTY!"

Would you engross each breathing sweet

Yon violet banks exhale ?

Or trees with od'rous blooms replete,

That scent th' enamour'd gale:

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