To à LADY,

With a present of a pair of Drinking Glasses.

FAIR Empress of the Poet's soul,
And Queen of Poetesses;
Clarinda, take this little boon,
This humble pair of glasses.-

And fill them high with generous juice,
As generous as your mind;

And pledge me in the generous toast"The whole of human kind!"

"To those who love us!"-second fill; But not to those whom we love; Lest we love those who love not us! A third-" to thee and me, love!"

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

TRAGIC FRAGMENT.

IN my early years nothing less would serve me than courting the tragic Muse.-I was, I think, about eighteen or nineteen when I sketched the outlines of a tragedy forsooth; but the bursting of a cloud of family misfortunes, which had for some time threatened us, prevented my farther progress. In those days I never wrote down any thing; except a speech or two, the whole has escaped my memory. The following, which I most distinctly remember, was an exclamation from a great character:-great in occasional instances of generosity, and daring at times in villainies. He is supposed to meet with a child of misery, and exclaims to himself

"All devil as I am, a damned wretch,

"A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain,
"Still my heart melts at human wretchedness;
"And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs,
"I view the helpless children of distress.
"With tears indignant I behold th' oppressor
"Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction,
"Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.
"Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you;
"Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity:
"Ye poor, despis'd, abandon'd vagabonds,
"Whom vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to ruin.
"O, but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends,
“I had been driven forth like you forlorn,

The most detested, worthless wretch among you!"",

THE VOWELS-A TALE.

'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd,

The noisy domicile of pedant pride;

Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws,
And cruelty directs the thickening blows;
Upon a time, Sir Abece the great,
In all his pedagogic powers elate,
His awful chair of state resolves to mount,
And call the trembling vowels to account.
First enter'd A, grave, broad, solemn wight,
But ah! deform'd, dishonest to the sight!
His twisted head look'd backward on his way,
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai!
Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race
The justling tears ran down his honest face!
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own,
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne!
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound;
And next the title following close behind,
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd.

The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y!
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply:
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round,
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground!
In rueful apprehension enter'd O,
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe;
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert,
Might there have learnt new misteries of his art:
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U,
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!

As trembling U stood staring all aghast,
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast,
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right,
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight.

The following sketch seems to be one of a Series intended for a projected work, under the title of "The Poet's Progress." This character was sent as a specimen, accompanied by a letter to Professor Dugald Stewart, in which it is thus noticed. "The fragment beginning, "A little, upright, pert, tart, &c." I "have not shewn to any man living, 'till now I send it to you. "It forms the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, "which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights "This particular part I send you merely as a sample of my "hand at portrait sketching."

SKETCH.

A little, upright, pert, tart, trippling wight,
And still his precious self his dear delight:
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets;
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets.
A man of fashion too, he made his tour,
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive l'amour;
So travell'd monkies their grimace improve,
Polish their grin, nay sigh for ladies' love.
Much specious lore but little understood;
Fineering oft outshines the solid wood:
His solid sense-by inches you must tell,
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell;
His meddling vanity a busy fiend,

Still making work his selfish craft must mend.

SCOTS PROLOGUE,

For Mr. Sutherland's Benefit Night, Dumfries..

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on,
How this new play an' that new sang is comin?
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported?
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame?
For comedy abroad he need na toil,

A fool and knave are plants of every soil;

Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece
To gather matter for a serious piece;

There's themes enough in Caledonian story,
Would shew the tragic muse in a' her glory.—

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless, fell?
Where are the muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce;

How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord;
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing,
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin ?
O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene,

To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!
Vain all the omnipotence of female charms
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms.
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman :
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil,
As able and as cruel as the Devil!

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page,
But Douglases were herces every age:
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life,
A Douglas followed to the martial strife,
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right succeeds,
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land
Would take the muses' servants by the hand;
Not only here, but patronize, befriend them,
And where ye justly can commend, commend them;
And aiblins when they winna stand the test,
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their best!
Would a' the land do this, then I 'll be caution
Ye 'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation,
Will gar flame blaw until her trumpet crack,
And warsle time an' lay him on his back!

For us and for our stage should ony spier,
Whose aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here?"