If thou hast known false love's vexation,
Or hast been exiled from thy nation,
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,
And makes thee pine,
Oh, how must thou lament thy station,
And envy mine!
THOU bed, in which I first began
To be that various creature-Man!
And when again the Fates decree,
The place where I must cease to be;-
When sickness comes, to whom I fly,
To soothe my pain, or close mine eye;—
When cares surround me, where I weep,
Or lose them all in balmy sleep ;-
When sore with labor, whom I court,
And to thy downy breast resort;-
Where, too, ecstatic joys I find,
When deigns my Delia to be kind-
And full of love, in all her charms,
Thou giv'st the fair one to my arms.
The centre thou-where grief and pain,
Disease and rest, alternate reign.
Oh, since within thy little space
So many various scenes take place;
Lessons as useful shalt thou teach,
As sages dictate-churchmen preach;
And man, convinced by thee alone,
This great important truth shall own: --
"That thin partitions do divide
The bounds where good and ill reside;
That naught is perfect here below;
But BLISS still bordering upon wOE."
THE TREE OF LIBERTY.
HEARD ye o' the tree o' France,
I watna what's the name o't;
Around it a' the patriots dance,
Weel Europe kens the fame o't.
It stands where ance the Bastile stood,
A prison built by kings, man,
When Superstition's hellish brood
Kept France in leading-strings, man.
Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit,
Its virtues a' can tell, man;
It raises man aboon the brute,
It maks him ken himsel', man.
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit,
He's greater than a lord, man,
And wi' the beggar shares a mite
O' a' he can afford, man.
This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth,
To comfort us 'twas sent, man;
To gie the sweetest blush o' health,
And mak us a' content, man.
It clears the een, it cheers the heart,
Maks high and low gude friends, man;
And he wha acts the traitor's part,
It to perdition sends, man.
My blessings aye attend the chiel
Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man,
And staw'd a branch, spite o' the deil,
Frae yont the western waves, man.
Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care,
And now she sees wi' pride, man,
How weel it buds and blossoms there,
Its branches spreading wide, man.
But vicious folk aye hate to see
The works o' Virtue thrive, man; The courtly vermin 's bann'd the tree, And grat to see it thrive, man; King Loui' thought to cut it down, When it was unco sma', man;
For this the watchman crack'd his crown,
Cut aff his head and a', man.
A wicked crew syne, on a time,
Did tak a solemn aith, man,
It ne'er should flourish to its prime,
I wat they pledged their faith, man;
Awa they gaed wi' mock parade,
Like beagles hunting game, man,
But soon grew weary o' the trade,
And wish'd they'd been at hame, man.
For Freedom, standing by the tree,
Her sons did loudly ca', man;
She sang a sang o' liberty,
Which pleased them ane and a', man.
By her inspired, the new-born race
Soon drew the avenging, steel, man;
The hirelings ran-her foes gied chase,
And bang'd the despot weel, man.
Let Britain boast her hardy oak,
Her poplar and her pine, man,
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,
And o'er her neighbors shine, man:
But seek the forest round and round,
And soon 'twill be agreed, man,
That sic a tree cannot be found
'Twixt London and the Tweed, man.
Without this tree, alake! this life
Is but a vale o' woe, man;
A scene o' sorrow mix'd wi' strife,
Nae real joys we know, man.
We labor soon, we labor late,
To feed the titled knave, man;
And a' the comfort we 're to get,
Is that ayont the grave, man.
Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow,
The warld would live in peace, man;
The sword would help to mak a plough,
The din o' war wad cease, man.
Like brethren in a common cause,
We'd on each other smile, man;
And equal rights and equal laws
Wad gladden every isle, man.
Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat
Sic halesome dainty cheer, man;
I'd gie my shoon frae aff my feet,
To taste sic fruit, I swear, man.
Syne let us pray, auld England may
Sure plant this far-famed tree, man;
And blythe we'll sing, and hail the day
That gave us liberty, man.
ON THE DEATH OF THE POET'S DAUGHTER.
These tender lines were written, it is said, on the death of his child, in 1795.
Он sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave,
My dear little angel, forever;
Forever-oh no! let not man be a slave,
His hopes from existence to sever.
Though cold be the clay where thou pillow'st thy head,
In the dark silent mansions of sorrow,
The spring shall return to thy low narrow bed,
Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow.
The flower-stem shall bloom like thy sweet seraph form,
Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom,
When thou shrunk frae the scowl of the loud winter storm,
And nestled thee close to that bosom.
Oh still I behold thee, all lovely in death,
Reclined on the lap of thy mother,
When the tear trickled bright, when the short stifled breath,
Told how dear ye were aye to each other.
My child, thou art gone to the home of thy rest,
Where suffering no longer can harm ye,
Where the songs of the good, where the hymns of the blest,
Through an endless existence shall charm thee.
While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn,
Through the dire desert regions of sorrow,
O'er the hope and misfortune of being to mourn,
And sigh for this life's latest morrow.
HERE lies a rose, a budding rose,
Blasted before its bloom;
Whose innocence did sweets disclose
Beyond that flower's perfume.
To those who for her loss are grieved,
This consolation 's given-
She's from a world of woe relieved,
And blooms a rose in heaven.
VERSES ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS
NEAR DRUMLANRIG.
"The Duke of Queensberry stripped his domains of Drumlanrig in Dumfriesshire, and Neidpath in Peeblesshire, of all the wood fit for being cut, in order to enrich the Countess of Yarmouth, whom he supposed to be his daughter, and to whom, by a singular piece of good fortune on her part, Mr. George Selwyn, the celebrated wit, also left a fortune, under the same, and probably equally mistaken impression " Chambers.
As on the banks o' wandering Nith,
Ae smiling simmer morn I stray'd,
And traced its bonnie howes and haughs,
Where linties sang and lambkins play'd,
I sat me down upon a craig,
And drank my fill o' fancy's dream,
When, from the eddying deep below,
Uprose the Genius of the stream.
Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow,
And troubled, like his wintry wave,
And deep, as sughs the boding wind
Amang his caves, the sigh he gave—
"And came ye here, my son," he cried,
"To wander in my birken shade?
To muse some favorite Scottish theme,
Or sing some favorite Scottish maid?
“There was a time, it's nae lang syne,
Ye might hae seen me in my pride,
When a' my banks sae bravely saw
Their woody pictures in my tide;
When hanging beech and spreading elm
Shaded my stream sae clear and cool;
And stately oaks their twisted arms
Threw broad and dark across the pool:
"When, glinting through the trees, appear'd
The wee white cot aboon the mill,
And peacefu' rose its ingle reek,
That slowly curled up the hill.
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