Heaven only to the rural state bestows Conquest o'er life, and freedom from its woes: Secure alike from envy and from care, Nor raised by hope, nor yet depressed by fear; Nor want's lean hand its happiness constrains, Nor riches torture with ill-gotten gains. No secret guilt its steadfast peace destroys, No wild ambition interrupts its joys. Blest still to spend the hours that Heaven has lent, In humble goodness, and in calm content: Serenely gentle, as the thoughts that roll, Sinless and pure, in fair Humeia's soul. But now the rural state these joys has lost; The friend no more upon the friend relies, Oh! Happiness, from human search retired, Where art thou to be found, by all desired? Nun, sober and devout, why art thou fled, To hide in shades thy meek contented head? Virgin! of aspect mild, ah! why, unkind, power, Still musing silent at the morning hour? May we thy presence hope in war's alarms, In Stair's wisdom, or in Erskine's charms? In vain our flattering hopes our steps beguile, And envy, grieving at another's state; When these are in the human bosom nursed, Can peace reside in dwellings so accursed! Unlike, O Eglinton! thy happy breast, Calm and serene, enjoys the heavenly guest; From the tumultuous rule of passions freed, Pure in thy thought, and spotless in thy deed: In virtues rich, in goodness unconfined, Thou shin'st a fair example to thy kind; Sincere and equal to thy neighbour's name, How swift to praise! how guiltless to defame! Bold in thy presence Bashfulness appears, And backward Merit loses all its fears. Supremely blessed by Heaven, Heaven's richest grace Confessed is thine-an early blooming race; Meanwhile, peruse the following tender scenes, And listen to thy native poet's strains: In ancient garb the home-bred Muse appears, To thee, in whom it is well-pleased, has given, THE MAID OF GALLOWSHIELS. (EXTRACT.) Now in his artful hand the bagpipe held, Elate, the piper wide surveys the field. O'er all he throws his quick discerning eyes, And views their hopes and fears alternate rise. Old Glenderule, in Gallowshiels long fam'd For works of skill, the perfect wonder fram'd; His shining steel first lopp'd, with dexterous toil, From a tall spreading elm the branchy spoil. The clouded wood he next divides in twain, And smoothes them equal to an oval plane. Six leather folds in still connected rows To either plank conformed, the sides compose; The wimble perforates the base with care, A destin'd passage opening to the air; But once inclosed within the narrow space, The opposing valve forbids the backward race. Fast to the swelling bag, two reeds combin'd, Receive the blasts of the melodious wind. Round from the twining loom, with skill divine Embost, the joints in silver circles shine; In secret prison pent, the accents lie, Until his arm the lab'ring artist ply: Then duteous they forsake their dark abode, Fellows no more, and wing a sep'rate road. These upward through the narrow channel glide In ways unseen, a solemn murmuring tide; Those thro' the narrow part, their journey bend Of sweeter sort, and to the earth descend. O'er the small pipe at equal distance, lie Eight shining holes o'er which his fingers fly. From side to side the aerial spirit bounds: The flying fingers form the passing sounds, That, issuing gently thro' the polish'd door, Mix with the common air, and charm no more. This gift long since old Glenderule consign'd, The lasting witness of his friendly mind, To the fam'd author of the piper's line. Each empty space shone rich in fair design: Himself appears high in the sculptur'd wood As bold in the Harlean field he stood. Serene, amidst the dangers of the day, Full in the van you might behold him play; There in the humbler mood of peace he stands, The bursting sounds in narrow prison pent, Rouse, in their cells, loud rumbling for a vent. Loud tempests now the deafen'd ear assail; But as she flies, she shapes to smoother pace WHY HANGS THAT CLOUD? Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow, That beauteous heav'n, erewhile serene? Whence do these storms and tempests blow, What may this gust of passion mean? And must then mankind lose that light Which in thine eyes was wont to shine, And lie obscure in endless night, For each poor silly speech of mine? Dear maid, how can I wrong thy name, Since 'tis acknowledged, at all hands, That could ill tongues abuse thy fame, Thy beauty can make large amends. Or if I durst profanely try Thy beauty's powerful charms t' upbraid, Thy virtue well might give the lie, Nor call thy beauty to its aid. For Venus, every heart t' ensnare, With all her charms has deck'd thy face, And Pallas, with unusual care, Bids wisdom heighten every grace. Who can the double pain endure? Or who must not resign the field To thee, celestial maid, secure With Cupid's bow and Pallas' shield? ALAS! THE SUNNY HOURS ARE PAST. Alas! the sunny hours are past; His grisly hands, in icy chains, Frequenting now the streams no more, Ah! when the lovely white and red Lay in good sense with timeous care, YE SHEPHERDS OF THIS PLEASANT VALE. Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale, Where Yarrow streams along, Forsake your rural toils, and join She grants, she yields; one heavenly smile One happy minute crowns the pains Of many suffering days. Raise, raise the victor notes of joy, No doubtful hopes, no anxious fears, The sun with double lustre shone The gales their gentle sighs withheld, The hills and dales no more resound The lambkins' tender cry; Without one murmur Yarrow stole In dimpling silence by: All nature seemed in still repose Her voice alone to hear, That gently rolled the tuneful wave She spoke, and blessed my ear. Take, take whate'er of bliss or joy You fondly fancy mine; Whate'er of joy or bliss I boast, Love renders wholly thine: The woods struck up to the soft gale, The hills and dales again resound Above, beneath, around, all on Was verdure, beauty, song; I snatched her to my trembling breast, All nature joyed along. JOHN ARMSTRONG. BORN 1709 DIED 1779. JOHN ARMSTRONG, M. D., author of the wellknown poem "The Art of Preserving Health," was born, it is believed, in 1709, in the parish of Castleton, Roxburghshire. He completed his education at the University of Edinburgh, and having chosen the medical profession, he took his degree as physician in 1732, and soon after repaired to London, where he became known by the publication of several fugitive pieces and medical essays. In 1735 he pub lished " An Essay for Abridging the Study of Medicine," being a humorous attack on quacks and quackery, in the style of Lucian. Two years afterwards appeared "The Economy of Love," for which poem he received £50 from Andrew Millar, the bookseller. It was an objectionable production, and greatly interfered with his practice as a physician. He subsequently expunged many of the youthful luxuriances with which the first edition abounded. In 1744 his principal work was published, entitled "The Art of Preserving Health," one of the best didactic poems in the English language, and the one on which his reputation mainly rests. It is certainly the most successful attempt in the English language to incorporate material science with poetry. In 1746 Armstrong was appointed physician to the Hospital for Sick and Lame Soldiers, and in 1751 he published his poem on "Benevolence," followed by an 'Epistle on Taste, addressed to a Young Critic." His next work, issued in 1758, was prose,-"Sketches or Essays on Various Subjects, by Lancelot Temple, Esq.," in two parts, which evinced considerable humour and knowledge of the world. Its sale was wonderful, owing chiefly to a fable of the day, that the celebrated John Wilkes, then in the zenith of his popularity, had assisted in its production. In 1760 Dr. Armstrong received the appointment of physician to the army in Germany, where in 1761 he wrote "Day, a Poem, an epistle to John Wilkes, Esq.," his friendship for whom did not long continue, owing to his publishing the piece, which was intended for private perusal. Having in two unlucky lines happened to hit off the character of Churchill as a "bouncing mimic" and "crazy scribbler," the author of the "Rosciad" resolved to be revenged, and in his poem called "The Journey," thus retaliated on the doctor, by twenty stabs at the reputation of a man whom he had once called his friend, and had joined with all the world in admiring as a writer: "Let them with Armstrong, taking leave of sense, At the peace of 1763 Armstrong returned to London, and resumed his practice, but not with his former success. In 1770 he collected and published two volumes of his "Miscellanies," containing the works already enumerated; the Universal Almanack," a new prose piece; and the "Forced Marriage," a tragedy. The year following he took "a short ramble through some parts of France and Italy," in company with Fuseli the painter, publishing on their return an account of their journey, entitled "A Short Ramble, by Lancelot Temple." His last publication was his Medical Essays, in 1773. Dr. Armstrong died September 7, 1779, in the seventieth year of his age. In Thomson's "Castle of Indolence," to which Armstrong contributed four stanzas, describing the diseases incidental to sloth, he is depicted as |