The swain goes whistling to his toil; Than that of Luxury's revelling throng. The farmer, yawning, now comes forth Here, in their silent beds of death, Dear scenes of youth! the time is come But though I to a distance go, Acquaintances, and friends-farewell! Like brethren you together live, If any should his neighbour rail, Sooner shall Ythan stream stand rock, Then fare ye well! I must begone, * Horror is a wild banging rock, in the brae opposite to the ruins of Gight Castle. At the top of the rock there is the entrance of a cave, where, in olden times, "Coffins stood round, like open presses, That show'd the dead in their last dresses ;" and where, even yet, "Ghaists and houlets nightly cry." LINES. O, WHAT a silly creature's man! For these he'll cross the mountain wave, And ardent suns in Afric brave; Or shiver in the frigid zone, Where summer's warmth is never known. More-human kind must be his prey In slavery's chains; without a ray Of pity from his frozen breast, His brother's used worse than a beast. Nor thinks of ought he has to fear, Strike him his awful final blow! What serves the wealth for which he toil'd? From it, for aye, he is exiled. LINES, TO A LADY. How dull and dreary was the day The sounds which oft before had pleased, ANNA. WITHIN Yon time-worn mossy walls, The modest rose is sweet to view, Care flies like ghosts from morning's chase. I'll live in love, and let them jeer. |