And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair,
Despising worlds with all their wealth
As empty, idle care.

The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms,
The hour of heav'n to grace,
And birks extend their fragrant arms,
To screen the dear embrace.

Here haply too, at vernal dawn,
Some musing Bard may stray,
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,
And misty mountain, gray;
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,
Mild chequ❜ring thro' the trees,
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream,
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their shadows' wat'ry bed;
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest
My craggy cliffs adorn;
And, for the little songster's nest,
The close embow'ring thorn.

So may old Scotia's darling hope,
Your little angel band,

Spring, like their father's, up to prop
Their honour'd native land.

So may thro' Albion's farthest ken,
To social flowing glasses,

The grace be-" Athole's honest men,
"And Athole's bonie lasses!"

LINES

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,

fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view

The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides;
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills;
The Tay, meand'ring sweet, in infant pride,
The palace rising on his verdant side;

The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste;
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste;
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream;
The village, glittering in the noon-tide beam-

.......

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Lone, wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell :
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods-

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
And look thro' Nature with creative fire;
Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild;
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to sooth her bitter, rankling wounds;
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'n-ward stretch her
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.

LINES

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING BY THE FALL OF
FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS.

AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods;
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,

Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream resounds.
As high in air the bursting torrents flow,

As Jeep recoiling surges foam below,

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,
And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends.

Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show'rs
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs.
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils,
And still, below, the horrid caldron boile-

BOOK III.

FAMILIAR AND EPISTOLARY.

TO MISS I.

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787.

AGAIN the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driv'n,
And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer heav'n.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;

I send you more than India boasts
In Edwin's simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless love

Is charg'd, perhaps too true;

But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you.

TO MISS CRUICKSHANKS,

A VERY YOUNG LADY,

Written on the blank leaf of a Book, presented to her by the
Author.

BEAUTEOUS rose-bud, young and gay,
Blooming on thy early May,

Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r,

Chilly shrink in sleety show'r!

Never Boreas' hoary path,

Never Eurus' pois'nous breath,
Never baleful steller lights,
Taint thee with untimely blights!

Never, never reptile thief

Riot on thy virgin leaf!

Nor even Sol too fiercely view
Thy bosom blushing still with dew!

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Richly deck thy native stem;
Till some evening, sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings;
Thou amid the dirgeful sound,
Shed thy dying honours round,
And resign to parent earth

The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

VERSES

ON A YOUNG LADY,

Residing on the banks of the small river Devon, in Clackmannanshire, but whose infant years were spent in Ayrshire.

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon,

With green spreading bushes, and flow'rs blooming fair; But the boniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing flower, In the gay, rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew! And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,

With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn!
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn.
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,

And England triumphant display her proud rose;
A fairer than either adorns the green vallies
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

a

VERSES

TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS.
HERE, where the Scottish muse immortal lives,
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd
Accept the gift; tho' humble he who gives,
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.
So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among;
But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest,
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song:

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears,

As modest want the tale of wo reveals;
While conscious virtue all the strain endears,
And heav'n-born piety her sanction seals.

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF HIS POEMS, PRESENTED TO A LADY, WHOM HE HAD OFTEN CELEBRAT ED UNDER THE NAME OF CHLORIS.

"Tis Friendship's pledge, my young fair friend,

Nor thou the gift refuse,

Nor with unwilling ear attend

The moralizing muse.

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms,
Must bid the world adieu,

A world 'gainst peace in constant arms)
To join the friendly few.

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast,
Chill came the tempest's lower;
And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast

Did nip a fairer flower.)

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more,

Still much is left behind;

Still nobler wealth hast thou in store,

The comforts of the mind!

Thine is the self-approving glow,
On conscious honour's part;
And, dearest gift of Heaven below,
Thine friendship's truest heart.