Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi's fpreckl'd breast,

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

The purpling East.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting North

Upon thy early, humble birth;

Yet chearfully thou glinted forth

Amid the ftorm,

Scarce rear'd above the Parent-earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our Gardens yield, High-fhelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield, But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or ftane,

Adorns the histie ftibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy fcanty mantle clad, Thy fnawie bofom fun-ward spread,

Thou lifts thy unaffuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural fhade! By Love's fimplicity betray'd,

And guileless truft,

Till fhe, like thee, all foil'd, is laid

Low i' the duft.

Such is the fate of fimple Bard,

On Life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!

Unfkilful he to note the card

Of prudent Lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n

To Mif'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of ev'ry ftay but HEAV'N,

He, ruin'd, fink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'ft the Daify's fate,

That fate is thine

-no diftant date;

Stern Ruin's plough-fhare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!

TORU I N.

A

I.

LL hail! inexorable lord!

At whose destruction-breathing word,

The mightieft empires fall!

Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,

The minifters of Grief and Pain,

A fullen welcome, all!
With ftern-refolv'd, defpairing eye,

I fee each aimed dart;

For one has cut my dearest tye,

And quivers in my heart.

Then low'ring, and pouring,

The Storm no more I dread;

Tho' thick'ning, and black'ning,
Round my devoted head.

II.

And thou grim Pow'r, by Life abhorr'd,

While Life a pleasure can afford,
Oh! hear a wretch's pray'r!
No more I fhrink appall'd, afraid
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,

To close this scene of care!

;

When shall my foul, in filent peace,
Refign Life's joyless day?

My weary heart it's throbbings cease,

Cold-mould'ring in the clay?

No fear more, no tear more,
To ftain my lifeless face,
Enclafped, and grasped,

Within thy cold embrace!