POEMS,

BY

MARGARET CHALMERS,

NEWCASTLE:

PRINTED BY S. HODGSON, UNION-STREET.

1813.

PREFACE.

THE Author most respectfully offers her grateful acknowledgements to the generous benefactors whose names have enabled her to accomplish her necessary undertaking.

Impelled, as she was, by circumstances of severe domestic affliction, to obtrude her claims upon their notice, it is with emotions of the most lively and lasting gratitude she has to acknowledge, that her appeal has not been made in vain, and that she has experienced the encouragement and support which she took the liberty of soliciting.

Might she indulge the hope that the following poems shall, in any degree, contribute to their amusement, it would happily unite her pleasure and her interest.

She has drawn the principal part of the imagery and scenery from the objects around her; and, although such a field is not the best

calculated to give scope for the display of poetical talent, she has endeavoured to employ the materials presented to her in such a manner as she trusts may not prove unacceptable to those more immediately connected with Zetland, while the novelty may possibly excite some interest in the general reader.

A variety of untoward occurrences, which it is needless to enumerate, have, to her extreme regret, delayed the publication till the present period. Could her anxious wishes and endeavours have prevailed, the work would long ere now have been in the hands of the subscribers. While, therefore, she begs leave to apologize on this account to those who have so kindly patronized her, she assures them in perfect sincerity and truth, that the difficulties which have arisen were not imputable to her, but have been such as she could neither foresee nor countroul.

CONTENTS.

• ODE for the Morning of the British Jubilee, 1809   1
• Congratulatory Lines on the Jubilee, humbly addressed
       to his Majesty   4
• Verses on the Jubilee Night at Lerwick   8
• The Author's Address to the Critics   12
• On the expected Return of Lord Collingwood to England   15
• Lines addressed to the Princess Elizabeth   18
• The Rose of the Rock   21
• On the Banks of the Esk   26
• The Sufferings of Faro--Part I.   31
• ----------Part II.   34
• To the Muses   38
• To Eliza   39
• Verses in humble Imitation of Burns   44
• Johnsmas   51
• To Walter Scott, Esq. on the Lady of the Lake   66
• A Fireside Vocal Concert   68
• On the Death of the Princess Amelia   74
• To the autumnal Equinox   77
• A Summer Sabbath Morn   80
• To a Friend of the Author's   86
• The Fourth of June   88
• Lines on the Drawing Room of an intimate Friend of the
       Author's   90

  ---

  Page viii

• Address to the Evening Star   95
• To the Memory of Lord Collingwood   98
• Description of Sound, near Lerwick   102
• Lines to Lady Monat Keith   114
• Foula   116
• Song   122
• Lines, on seeing an Infant, whose Mother had died in
       Child-bed, presented at Church for Baptism   124
• On an ancient Obelisk   126
• To a Niece of the Author's on her Birth Day   130
• Lines, written on the Occasion of a Boat, with six Men,
       being lost, while prosecuting the Fishery   135
• To the Zetland patriotic Society   138
• To the united Trades' Society of Lerwick   140

ERRATA.

• Page 33, line 9, for does read doth .
• Page 66, line 2, for can read canst .

POEMS.

ODE

WELCOME , auspicious morn,
Aurora fair adorn
        Thy rising bright;
Let our proud banners stream,
Grac'd by lov'd Charlotte's* name,
And cannon loud proclaim,
        Loyal delight.

* The fort at Lerwick is named after her Majesty.

Sol, shine with genial ray,
Smile on the happy day,
        Banish each frown;

For, in the fiftieth round,
Thou George the Third hast found,
With princely virtue crown'd,
        On Britain's throne.

Quick touch the viol's string,
Let us on Pleasure's wing,
        Gaily advance;
Let every nymph and swain,
Forming a joyful train,
To the enliv'ning strain,
        Trip in the dance.

Cease, dire Bellona, cease
Thy thund'ring voice to raise,
        Shaking the world;
Peace, wave thy olive wand
Over our happy land,
Be, at thy mild command,
        Banners unfurl'd.

But, if Fate's sovereign will
Bid war to thunder still,
        Awful and dread;
Here dwell a trusty band,
Faithful in heart and hand,
Ready, by sea and land,
        Britain to aid.

For, to bleak Thulè's swain,
Neptune's loud stormy reign,
        Courage imparts;
Tho', on our hills around,
No shady woods are found,
With the Oak graceful crown'd,
        We boast the Hearts .

CONGRATULATORY LINES

            HAPPY Britannia, favour'd Isle!
            Fate on thee delights to smile;
            Even amid the woes of war,
            Thund'ring dreadful from afar;
            Let no discordant voice complain,
    For, lo! we hail the Jubilee of George's reign.

Let each religion, every sect attend,
And, in their several temples, lowly bend,
Imploring blessings on the sacred head
Of him, who virtue's cause doth ever aid,
For he to all indulgent leave hath given
To seek, thro' various paths, the way to heaven.

Be Julius' towers exulting heard around,
And join'd throughout Britannia's circling bound,
Till royal Charlotte's* cannon echo back the sound.

Let every trophy grace this joyful day,
The hero's laurel and the poet's bay;
Each art, each science, each profession bring
Forward their emblems to salute their King.
Mysterious Masonry in social band,
In honour of the day "join hand in hand;"
The Royal Anthem every voice repeat,
With loyal ardour every bosom beat;
And when declining Sol withdraws his ray
Let blazing tapers shed an artificial day.

* Fort Charlotte, the most northern garrison of the Empire.

How blest the land to which indulgent heaven
Hath, in the monarch , an example given;
Ye, who with due delight his merits scan,
While ye revere the Prince , O imitate the Man .

The thought, perhaps, too daring may appear,
Yet, should these lines e'er reach the royal ear,
A Thulian muse, rude nursling of the blast,
Herself, doth thus, on thy indulgence cast:
In offering thee the tribute of a heart
Loyal, though simple in poetic art;
Reject not, royal Sire, the artless lay,
Although, unequal far, thy merits to display.

Those, who in mimicry of being great,
Themselves of Sabbath privileges cheat,
To soar above the vulgar vainly think;
But, 'stead of higher rising, lower sink:

All, who to join in public worship shun,
Must never plead example from the Throne.

When urg'd, alas, by baneful love of gold,
Man, tyrant man, his fellow-creature sold;
While Afric's injur'd sons bore slavery's load,
And liv'd and died beneath oppression's rod;
'Twas through the course of thy auspicious reign
Relief for them was sought--nor sought in vain:
This act which with humanity will ever shine,
Sweet Mercy's brightest trophy, was reserv'd for thine.

We hail the royal partner of thy state,
Kindly selected by indulgent fate;
Whose virtues even assist to line with down
The envied, weighty pressure of a crown.

Whether shall we our Sovereign most admire,
Or as the Public, or the Private Sire;
O may each prince of thy illustrious race
Imbibe thy virtues, and thy footsteps trace,
And may th' admiring world with pleasure see
Each son a mirror of his father be.

Full oft imagination's airy wand
Brings to my view the royal sister band,
Uniting gentle efforts to dispel
(While in the duteous struggle all excel)
Thy cares; for cares in every various state
Are wisely scatter'd by the hand of fate;

Nor, as I deem, most sparingly are sown
Around the splendid circle of a throne.
I leave it to the parent's heart to tell,
Whilst it with glowing tenderness doth swell,
The power of filial duty to assuage
The ills of life, and cheer declining age.
Deign to accept, ye royal, beauteous train,
My humble greeting, though in untaught strain,
On you may heaven its choicest gifts bestow,
And may that power, from whom all blessings flow,
Bid health on fair Amelia's cheek diffuse its glow.

To crown the annals of this joyful year,
Might white-rob'd Peace adorn'd in smiles appear,
And o'er contending nations wave her wand;
In concord lulling every warring land:
Would fate to this fond wish propitious be,
Extended wide would be the Jubilee.

May Hearts of Oak still guard fair Albion's coast,
Be Freedom still our charter and our boast;
And guardian angels sing their ancient strain,
"Britannia, rule, Britannia rule the main."

VERSES

[To those readers who are unacquainted with the situation of the place where the scene of these verses is laid, it may be necessary to observe, that the town of Lerwick is built very close to the shore of the west side of the fine harbour of Bressa Sound: so close, that when illuminations take place in the absence of the moon, the sea reflects the lights. On the happy evening here referred to, the moon being at the full, prevented the effect of the liquid mirror, but made ample amends by the pleasure which the sight of that beautiful luminary, holding her way through an unclouded sky, afforded.]

WHEN public occasions of general joy
    Give patriots a jovial night;
When loyalty reigns, and "Illumine's" the word,
    And Lerwick, all sparkling, shines bright,

Our good friend and neighbour, old Neptune, keeps watch,
    To see how we mean to behave;
Keeps his mind to himself, never saying a word,
    But peeps out now and then through a wave.

Then pleas'd to see Britons with true British hearts,
    And determin'd he'll not be behind;
For each taper we light, lights a thousand with speed,
    Is not Neptune, our friend, very kind?

But on the late ev'ning devoted to joy,
    Which yet animates every heart;
And to young and to old, to rich and to poor,
    Did true loyal pleasure impart,

He some how or other had pick'd up a hint,
    That Queen Cynthia intended to pay
Congratulings , and in regalia so bright,
    As would teach night to vie with the day.

Neptune said, with the gallantry of a true tar,
    He was glad she intended to grace
The joyous occasion, and with a low bow,
    To the lady politely gave place.

To politeness, frugality quickly succeeds,
    That Virtue he also must show;
"Sure, you good folks of Lerwick can never expect
    "Help both from above and below.

" 'Twere lighting the candle at both ends," he said,
    "And I no such example will give;
"Besides, with the lady who means to display,
    "I no interference will have."

So reserving his tapers till next happy time,
    If Cynthia no help should afford;
Said, on his assistance we then might depend,
    And he'll prove nothing worse than his word.

Then to Sea-Nymphs and Nereids, and that sort of folk,
    He gave orders, that close they should keep
Each billow and wave; nay, that not a stray breeze
    Should ruffle the face of the deep.

For he said, he was eager this mark of respect
    To great George and Britannia to pay;
And hop'd, they'd depend he would favour their right,
    Whenever it fell in his way.

Then said, he'd a mirror to Cynthia present,
    In which she might view her fair face;
For ladies to see themselves love, when they're dress'd
    And adorn'd with every grace.

And, lo! all in silver she made her entrée,
    I own she assisted the show;
Yet something self-confident hung on her mien,
    As she laugh'd at our twinkling below.

Which I thought very hard, we were joyful as she,
    And though not so splendidly drest;
Yet, with tapers and rockets and bonfires around,
    I'm sure we were doing our best.

For Neptune, good fellow, though blust'ring he's kind,
    And at heart he our welfare doth wish;
He favours our vessels, and give him his due,
    No niggard is he of his fish.

Though, when in bad humour, he gives us a growl,
    We should study his temper to hit;
And being near neighbours, we therefore should stoop,
    The buffet to take with the bit .

I dont much approve of Queen Cynthia's plan,
    At one time she's showing away;
At another, and often when needed the most,
    Quite sullen withdraws ev'ry ray.

If she take it in head, she deserts on a night
    When a bright illumination's decreed;
Then to work goes friend Neptune, quick trimming his lamps,
    And proves himself friend in our need.

THE AUTHOR'S ADDRESS
TO
THE CRITICS.

            Oh! do not break the Thulian lyre's rude strings;
            Nor clip the Pegasean poney's wings.

MUCH honour'd Gentlemen,--Allow
Your suppliant a word or two
        In self defence;
Though, to the meed of learning, she
        Makes slight pretence.

Since Scandinavia rul'd our Isles,
We ne'er have woo'd the muses' smiles;
        Yet own their power
Oft wheels away, in rapid course,
        The wint'ry hour.

Now in the pure Castalian rill
Dips the first British Thulian quill
        To fame addrest;
In slumber lull'd, the poet's art
        Long lay supprest.

But now, forbid it tuneful powers,
That you should answer, "So might your's
        For all we see;"
Oh! meliorate your dread awards
        With lenity.

And think, that in our clime so chill,
The spark borne from the muses' hill,
        Fanning requires;
Then do not, with a rigid frown,
        Blow out its fires.

In quenching this my feeble gleam,
You may repress a brighter beam
        And loftier lay;
I rest content to Helicon
        To point the way.

If on my simple strains you smile,
Some poet from our northern Isle,
        In future day,
More skilfully may touch the lyre,
        And gain the bay.

Tho' to our clime and soil unkind,
Nature, no niggard to the mind
        Of Thulian race,
Oft richly doth the mental field
        With flowers grace.

If wither'd by ungenial blight,
As they unfold their leaves to light,
        Lo, soon they close;
And on oblivion's tranquil lap
        Again repose.

ON THE
EXPECTED RETURN
OF
LORD COLLINGWOOD
TO ENGLAND .

WHILE every muse impatient waits
    To meet the hero on the strand,
And welcome Collingwood's return,
    Triumphant! to his native land,

Will he forgive a Thulian maid
    Her rude attempt, untaught to sing,
Who never trod Aonian mount,
    Nor ever sipp'd Pierian spring.

Stern Neptune, give thy sea-nymphs charge
    The stormy billows close to keep;
And guide thy gallant, favour'd son,
    In safety o'er the dangerous deep.

Ye gentle gales, auspicious blow,
    And waft the hero o'er the sea;
And, lo! he comes in happy time
    To join our British Jubilee.

On Trafalgar's victorious day,
    When warring navies shook the sea;
Humanely brave, thy valour shone,
    Th' eventful hour devolv'd on thee.

Great Nelson's shade, yet lingering near,
    Delay'd his bliss; well pleas'd to see
Thy gallant arm assume the charge,
    And Britain's hope revive in thee.

Nor only in the dreadful scene
    Of war's fell thunder, dost thou shine;
The gentler feelings of the heart,
    The social virtues too are thine.

'Tis thine to trace the claim of worth,
    Thine modest merit to descry;
'Tis thine to feel for those who mourn,
    And wipe the tear from sorrow's eye.

With earnest suppliance let us bend,
    Before Hygeia's crowded shrine;
And sue, that in the hero's wreath
    Of laurel, she her rose would twine.

For, ah! long tost on foreign seas,
    The glow of health begins to fade;
May native climate, scenes, and joys
    Combine, its wish'd return to aid.

With throbbing heart and bounding step,
    Thy gentle consort climbs the height;
Entranc'd the blissful moment flies
    Which gives thy vessel to her sight.

Now Britons hasten to the shore,
    With joyful shouts the hero greet;
Let martial strains salute his ear,
    And lay the laurel at his feet.

LINES,

HAIL , precious drops! may you relief impart
Unto the Royal Mourner's gentle heart.
Hail, precious drops! by nature kindly lent,
Grief's overpow'ring torrent to prevent.
Hail, precious drops! you flow from virtue's source,
And prove affection in its native force.

While touch'd thy heart with mingled feelings deep,
The child, the sister, and the princess weep.
In thy soft sorrows I can sympathize,
Shed tear for tear, and echo back thy sighs.

When erst with joy was hail'd June's sunny morn,
Health, smiling, did magnificence adorn.
When thou wert wont to meet the courtly train,
Thy Royal Father's presence grac'd the scene:
Now doth blank absence saddening gloom impart,
While thrilling memory presses on thy heart.

Royal Elizabeth thine ear incline,
'Twill lull thy griefs a while to list to mine.

'Tis thine, by bounty, to relieve distress;
'Tis mine--the generous impulse to repress:
Misfortune o'er each aim holds stern controul,
Well nigh to "freeze the current of the soul."

We mourn our much lov'd Monarch's weaken'd sight:
My aged mother hath not seen the light
Of fifteen annual suns, whose course have roll'd
Darkly to her, nor object did unfold.

Thy wrung imagination rapid flies
Towards the couch where lov'd Amelia lies;
Where every aid, which art and nature give,
Combine to bid the drooping fair revive.

The sister, who in all my feelings' shares,
Gilds my few pleasures, and allays my cares,
Is, by asthmatic struggles, nightly pain'd,
Her loaded breathing, short, convulsive strain'd.

One woe doth of another quick take place,
And, as the crystal drops each other chase,
The unclosed wounds of Cumberland now claim
The tears, which from so many sources stream.

O Trafalgar! I linger o'er thy wave,
My dear, my only Brother's early grave;
On that triumphant day, whose circling sun
Saw glorious Death, Renown, and Conquest won.

Bright, in his breast, glow'd the heroic flame,
He fell with NELSON, and that fate was fame.
From infant years his country was his boast,
And ardent in her cause his life he lost.
He cheer'd her victory with his latest breath,
And fell, exulting, in the arms of death.

Dire dispensation! fraught with stern distress;
A sister thou--'twere needless to express
A sister's sorrow on the sad decree,
For nature's feelings all seem known to thee.

Yet, 'midst our griefs, lo! we delighted see
Britain, exulting, hail her Jubilee.
Hark! mingling with the sound of dashing waves,
"The Jubilee," echoes thro' the Thulian caves.

May Heaven restore sweet Peace, with all her charms,
Or shield our country 'midst fell War's alarms.
And may Britannia and Neptune keep,
In union firm, their empire o'er the deep!

THE
ROSE OF THE ROCK.

            Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
            And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
--GRAY.

"THE summer blooms, let us a while exchange
"Lerwegian scenes for rural, calm delights:
"Come, let us skim the undulating wave,
"Inhale the balmy breeze from yonder mead,
"Which, gilded by the cheering sunny ray,
"Across the silvery bay allures the eye."

Hope's vivid promise well nigh realiz'd,
We Hangcliff's* steep and lofty summit gain,
Which o'er the deep in awful form projects;
And, in one wide and heart-dilating view,
Gives Thulè's utmost boundaries to the eye.

Eastward, beyond where keenest sight can pierce,
The German Ocean rolls his frequent wave
To Berga's coast remote. Far in the north,
Rise Vaalifield's high ridge and Saxaford;+

In yonder space, that points to Faro's Isles
And Iceland's lasting snows, towers Rona's Hill,*
Majestic 'midst his tributary mountains.
Turning thence the obedient eye to where
The setting sun gleams on Orcadian shores,
See cloud-girt Foula+ fam'd in classic lore;
Then circling still the penetrating gaze,
Lo! Fitful+ lifts on high his aged head;
While, far beyond the south extreme, appears
(Seen as an azure cloud) the lone Fair Isle.

The spot where now we stand, exhibiting
Nature's stupendous grandeur, strikes the mind
With solemn thought. Ye precipices rude!
Whose shagged tops usurp the airy reign,
Whose brinks abrupt a near approach forbid;
The dizzied head averts, the eye withdraws,
It seems a danger even to dare a glance;
Yet do you in magnific language speak,
And to the great Creator lift the soul.

The tranquil air is suddenly disturb'd
By wings innumerable rapid beat,

By harsh discordant screaming wildly pierc'd.
Forth from their homes the feather'd nations fly,
"Mix'd and evolv'd," whirling a thousand ways,
Scar'd at the sight of human visitants.

Fear not, ye fluttering parents, we nor wish,
Nor treacherous gun, with deadly metal charg'd,
Bring to destroy your callow, harmless brood;
Retire into your sedge-built, rocky homes,
Where, castled high, ye dwell amid the cliffs,
There, range o'er range, your varied plumage show.

The billows' rage, aiding the power of time
To which full oft yields even the solid rock,
Had, from the parent island, wide disjoin'd
A craggy cliff, whose deep resounding base
Was insulated by the circling wave.
Half way adown the bleak and rugged steep,
Secur'd from most intrepid schoolboy's reach,
Nature, amid a scene whose wild sublime
Might chill the blood and even to horror rouse,
Had dropt a lovely solitary flower,
As remembrancer of another style
Of beauty, by full contrast heighten'd seen.

Of the rose tribe its origin confest,
Full blown, all glowing, dazzling to the eye.
Surprize and admiration seize my mind,
As on the blooming stranger, pleas'd I gaze.
Yet 'twas an unimparted, miser's joy,

For caution's dictates instantly impose
Reluctant silence, since amongst the groupe
Was one whose childish, rash, impetuous years,
Less listen'd to the strict restraint of care,
Than curiosity's supreme impulse;
Which might have urg'd her giddy heedless steps
Toward the precipice, near view to gain
Of the fair blushing beauty of the rock.
This dread forbade participation; mute,
Lingering, absorp't, irresolute I stand.
Sweet Isle of Noss! a greater wonder far
Than rose-crown'd rock thy banks did then afford,
Since there a secret was by woman kept.

Now evening call'd our wandering party home,
And the discovery of the hidden flower
Becoming then the theme of our discourse,
With eager, keen, and deep reproachful looks,
The blooming traveller dejected stood;
The spoil of meads, the pride of fountain brink,
Unheeded dropt from her relaxing hand;
Not Eden's fair, amid the fragrant bowers,
More ardently desir'd forbidden fruit,
Than now, with disappointments arrow stung,
Her young descendant doth forbidden flower.

    "O wherefore spake you not. O why conceal
"From me a sight so beauteous and rare?
"Let us return, O let us quick return;
"For every flower will droop and wither soon."

    "Sure child, to day full many a verdant field,
"Where flower with flower vied, you wander'd through."
    "I did, and with delight; yet would I far,
"Far rather see the Rock Rose than them all."
    "Reflect, we either twice must cross the sea,
"And o'er two islands must retrace our steps,
"Or we must brave the surge 'round Bressa's Ord,
"And stem the impetuous force of Baarda stream,*
"Ere we can reach the spot from whence 'tis seen."
    "I care not, I would travel Zetland o'er,
"To see the Rose that grows amid the Rock."

* The Dutch name of Noss Head.

+ Vaalifield and Saxaford, two hills in the Island of Unst.

* The highest hill in Zetland.

+ Now generally allowed by the most intelligent modern historians and geographers, to have been the Thulè seen by the Roman fleet, that circumnavigated Britain, during the last campaign of Agricola.

+ Fitful Head, a lofty, precipitous cape, at the south western extremity of the country.

* The Ord and the Baard, two promontories on the south side of the island of Bressa.

ON
THE BANKS
OF
THE ESK.

WHILE Tweed's fam'd stream in numbers rolls along,
And Tay's meanders sweetly glide in song;
Thy windings Esk, in silence should not flow,
If the coy Nine would numbers fit bestow;
Fain would my humble muse thy beauties sing,
Would sing thy banks, thy groves, and silver spring;
Thy nymphs and swains, whose social converse gay
Beguil'd the winter's night, the summer's day.

Here hath kind heaven a chosen agent plac'd,
Noble Buccleugh, with every virtue grac'd,
Who, on exalted rank, a lustre throws
Brighter, than or from wealth or title flows.
Sorrow from thee full oft relief hath found,
While aid and comfort wide are spread around.
Thy dome, well known to all the wand'ring poor,
Who dread not being driven from thy door.
Approving angels on thy steps attend,
And round thy couch their sheltering wings extend,
Drawn from their skies by prayers of the distrest,
Whose griefs by thee have often been redrest.

Hail happiest spot of Caledonia's coast!
Is not fair Stuart* "thine, and nature's boast?"
And doth not lovely Scott+ thy bowers grace
Whose gentle virtues with delight we trace?
How oft, sweet friend, would we together stray,
Where Pinkie's milky turrets mark the way;
Or wander by the margin of the stream,
Through scenes which well might form Elysian dream,
While still by thee was fram'd each varying theme.

* Miss Mary Stuart, daughter of Mr. John Stuart, Surgeon, Musselburgh.

+Miss Helen Scott, now Mrs. Burn, West Bush, near Musselburgh.

O say, Helena say, when thou art by,
How dost thou teach the rapid hours to fly?
What rosy pinion dost thou lend the night
When each new moment brings some new delight?
'Tis Friendship's charm, exprest by lively sense,
Kindly uniting with benevolence;
These thro' thy converse reign, and round thee throw
Peace, pleasure, joy, and make a heaven below.

How swiftly wheels the social hour along,
If Smith+ consent to crown it with a song;
In soothing strains he softly sings of love,
Quick to the sound th' obedient feelings move:

Now fairer blooms the Broom when sung by thee,
And gliding thro' its birks sweet Yarrow's stream we see.

+ The Rev. Mr. William Smith, of the Episcopal Chapel, Musselburgh.

Anon! aloft the dancing spirits soar,
While we Lunardi's airy course explore;
His rapid progress we attend, and soon
With him arrive in safety at the moon.*

* Alluding to a song, composed during the balloon rage, "Lunardi's gone up to the Moon."

Fain would I sing the praise of gallant Hay,+
Did not the timid muse forbid th' essay,
Nor cross th' Atlantic dare to trust her way;
Unequal she to sing of camps and wars,
Or thee, the son of Neptune and of Mars.
And thou, O Wemyss,+ the generous and the brave,
Who, when attack'd upon the eastern wave,
By bands of swarthy pirates, fierce and strong,
To whom superior numbers did belong,
Thy steady courage and thy dauntless crew
Did soon the daring savages subdue.

+ Major George Hay, who served in the British army during the colonial war. The Major had, in early life, been an officer in the British navy.

+ Captain Francis Wemyss, of Carriston, in Fife. This worthy gentleman, as well as the next mentioned, are both deceased since the time this poem was written.

The Northern muse now feels a pleasing pride,
While she declares herself to Boyle* allied,
By ties of blood; ah, could she also claim
As kindred virtues those which grace his name.

* James Boyle, Esq. of Tullymurdoch.

Here, as I stray, fann'd by the evening breeze,
The spire arises, pointing o'er the trees,
Where Inveresk's time-shatter'd hallowed fane
"With venerable grandeur marks the scene;"
Where Carlyle,+ graceful 'midst the load of time,
Demonstrates moral truth in style sublime.

+ The venerable Pastor was alive when these lines were composed.

The ascending and descending crowds impart
Reflections various to the musing heart,
Each rising step seems nearer heaven to draw,
And strikes the advancing worshipper with awe
Saying to worldly cares, "Remain below,
While to God's hill and to his house we go."
And, in descent , the strengthen'd lighten'd mind
Feels, (by Devotion's exercise refin'd)
More apt in social duties to engage,
And meet the cares of life's still varying stage.

Here has full many a race successive rose,
In life they worshipp'd, and in death repose;
Sons o'er the ashes of their slumb'ring sires
Their homage pay to heaven,--the thought inspires

Solemnity, and gives devotion aid,
Drawn from the sacred relics of the dead.

The spot whereon this sacred pile is plac'd,
Is by the landscape's fairest features grac'd;
The view of such a structure, mark'd by time,
Awakes to contemplation all sublime!
Imagination traces with delight,
(As back it wanders thro' with rapid flight,)
The unnumber'd multitudes who did resort
To worship God, in this his outer court,
Now in the heavenly temple sing his praise,
And bear a part in everlasting lays.

Farewell, sweet Esk! thy lovely varying scenes
Demand the meed of higher warbled strains,
Than the weak effort of my untaught lyre,
Urg'd by the pleasure thy lov'd banks inspire;
Farewell, dear scenes! peace dwell amid your bowers,
And stamp'd with social comfort roll the hours;
May innocence and joy maintain their reign,
And Ceres' smiles adorn the happy plain;
And still to bless the country far around,
May Virtue's temple at Dalkeith be found!

THE
SUFFERINGS OF FARO.

The following lines were suggested by the circumstance of a boat, from the Faro Islands, stopping at Lerwick, on her way to Leith, in quest of a supply of provisions, the Islands being at the time under the calamity of famine.

PART I.

O YE , who bask where smiling nature pours
Her bounty, and with plenty crowns the hours;
Receive with gentle, kind humanity,
The famish'd, woe-worn wanderers of the sea;
Forc'd from their sterile home, by Want's command,
They seek relief, even in a hostile land,
Driven to accept it from the enemy's hand.
All enemies their piteous state disarms,
Subdues each heart, and gives a truce to arms.

Dire famine! how imperative thy call;
They leave their homes, their wives, their babes, their all,
And trust, in slender bark, the dangerous main,
In hopes some general succour to obtain;
Assail'd by want, they war and tempests brave,
Almighty Power! these struggling heroes save,

And land them safely on the British strand,
Where gladly opens every liberal hand,
As instruments, which Providence employs,
To bid these tenants of the rock rejoice.

To her, how tedious creeps the anxious day
At home who watches their uncertain stay;
Flung on the homely couch, she late repairs,
To court some respite from distracting fears.
If friendly slumber hover o'er her eyes;
Lo! terrifying visions round arise.
Her absent husband captive now appears
Amid the foe, and chains and fetters wears;
For 'tis the doom of human nature still
To weep the fancied as the real ill.
But, O! sad dame of Faro's lonely rock,
While thee vain images of horror shock,
Safe, cherish'd is the object thou dost mourn,
And fondly meditates a quick return.
Let not thy startled fancy Britain wrong,
Thou and thy joyful children shall, ere long,
And all the inhabitants of those bleak isles,
With countenances drest in sudden smiles,
Bless Albion's natives, bless her fertile fields
Which, to the miserable, succour yields.

Mutual anxieties the heart invade
Of him, who pants to view his lowly shed.
Who, like a wand'ring bird in quest of food,
Seeks succour to relieve the tender brood.

By fancy wafted, every danger past,
He treads his dear, his native shore at last,
With eager hands he opes the treasur'd hoards
Which British liberality affords;
O, blissful vision! feeds his darling child,
Each toil forgotten, every care beguil'd.
But, ah! awakening reason rallies all
Sad possibilities which may befal;
Impatient does imagination sweep,
Wafting the ample treasure o'er the deep,
Stung with the dread, (but O, forbid it Fate!)
The generous supply may reach too late.

O may this Ark, form'd in far slenderer mould
Than that which first essayed the deep of old;
Although the branch of Peace do not appear,
Yet may it home the Horn of Plenty bear!
But, soft--Britannia asks, where is the need
To prompt her children to the generous deed?

THE
SUFFERINGS OF FARO.

NOT yet seven weeks, their anxious cares had roll'd,
Ere travellers, from sea, the news unfold;
"A British vessel, bounding o'er the main,
"Seeks Faro's Islands, richly lade with grain."
What sudden transport vibrates through the heart,
While the delightful tidings they impart!
Well might the Thulian natives sympathize,
Well might our bosoms beat with heartfelt joys;
Our captur'd seamen, when to Norway bore,
Met generous treatment on the hostile shore.

Now borne on fleet imagination's wing,
The Muse, of Faro's lonely Isles would sing;
Where nigh extinguish'd Hope, quick at the sight
Of an approaching sail, rekindles bright.
Towards the shore the thronging natives pour,
To wait the issue of th' eventful hour.

The British ensigns, waving now appear,
Uncertain yet, if friendly terms they bear;
The mind still fluctuates 'twixt joy and grief,
This points to ruin, that towards relief.

With heightened tenderness is ardent prest
The infant to the mother's throbbing breast.

The British ensigns, as they nearer draw,
Steal strength from hope, and shed an anxious awe.
What renovation doth the sight induce,
When view'd, attemper'd, under sign of Truce!
Now grateful thanks in every bosom springs,
First to the Power who rules the heart of Kings,
Then to great George, the delegate of Heaven,
Whose generous aid, no sooner ask'd than given;
Favour'd by Him, whom winds and waves obey,
Had o'er the ocean quickly found its way.
The echoing caverns of the rocks around
With British generosity resound.

The new-born joy expires, a transient guest,
Sudden admitted and as soon represt,
Quick, on the varying cheek, the change appears,
Late flush'd with joy--now pale with ghastly fears;
For in the skiff advancing to the shore,
The eye, the well-known forms, fails to explore:
Wives, parents, children, through the crowded strand
Rush eager, and their relatives demand--
As when the brothers from the Egyptian road
Their asses led, sore bent beneath the load
Of dearly purchas'd, life-sustaining grain,
The Patriarch's eyes his darling sought in vain.
Such anguish now their care-worn bosoms rends,
"Here is relief--but where--oh where our friends?"

Some welcome hand straight to their sight reveals
The silent messengers--quick fly the seals;
The thought imparting page delight inspires,
"Warm from the heart, and faithful to its fires."
By these inform'd, their fears are soon assuag'd,
The objects, who their tender cares engag'd,
Only remain till the Necessity *
Refits, and is prepar'd to trust the sea.

* The appropriate name of the vessel in which they set out on their expedition.

O may they, safely, their lov'd home regain,
Ere wintry storms embroil the angry main;
Then, when the waning year, on ebon wings,
The Christian Festival returning brings,
While jocundly they sport, and laugh, and sing,
Fain would they drain a cup to Britain's King,
Though, by the pledge, their wish they must not show,
The grateful impulse, in the heart, will glow.

But, to return--A busy scene takes place,
Activity doth listless languor chase;
The flitting skiffs unload the welcome hoard,
The vacant granaries are amply stor'd;
Anticipated plenty, even beguiles
The present moment, sighs give way to smiles.
No more the heart-wrung mother, steep'd in tears,
Her infant's calls for food, in anguish hears.

What beauteous form on yonder cliff is seen
Bending, in fond attention, o'er the scene?
Britannia's Genius, full confest, appears,
Her cheek bedew'd with pleasure's precious tears,
And whispers, in self-gratulating meed,
"How prompt my children, to the generous deed!"

TO THE MUSES.

AVAUNT ! ye Nine; no more I sue
    For your capricious aid,
Since you could thus its power deny
    To an invoking maid.

So fair a vot'ry ne'er before
    Had breath'd Parnassian air,
Nor did Castalia's boasted stream
    E'er show a form so fair.

To see your shrine so highly grac'd,
    Quickly inflam'd your pride;
Confusion reign'd throughout the hill,
    And you the suit denied.

Mournful Melpomene declin'd
    Her tearful aid to lend;
And sage Historic Clio's brow
    No fav'ring smiles unbend.

When chearful Thalia, stepping forth,
    Cry'd "Sisters, why so shy?
"If fair Eliza will accept
    "My aid, her muse, am I."

TO ELIZA.

LET this acquaint my dearest friend,
That I to make a glove intend,
Or pair of gloves; and, therefore, I
For your directions must apply,
Hoping, you will to me impart
Some portion of your far-fam'd art.
Your charitable disposition,
I trust, will favour my petition.
You have been told it over and over,
Charity doth much evil cover;
And, where no virtue is amissing,
It surely is a double blessing.
Besides, what pleasure 'twill supply
To favour honest industry.

If fair Eliza do consent
Her aid, she shall it not repent,
For 'tis my wish and warm desire
To let my quill requite her wire,*
And, in the deathless rolls of fame,
Inscribe her merits and her name.

You startle at my enterprize,
Thinking, beyond my reach it lies;
Yet, in my plan, I will persist,
Wiles sometimes do the weak assist.

* The gloves, to which Eliza's assistance was solicited, were knit upon wires.

A favouring moment I will watch,
Some stray poetic spark to catch,
Which, when I feel begin to glow,
My tuneful pilgrimage I'll go.
And I intend, before I stop,
To climb renown'd Parnassus' top;
How many authors are, alas!
Content with visiting its base;
When to a point I set my face,
I love to do it with a grace.

I'll gather all the choicest flowers
Which bloom in the Parnassian bowers.
I'll drain Pieria's sacred spring,
(By halves I hate to do a thing,)
What, though it leave the channel dry
To the next comer, what care I;
We must our own occasions catch,
Let them look out who have the watch.
And while my flowery search thus leads
Amid the verdant, fragrant meads;
To you, I frankly do confess
(Friendship should mutual trust possess)
I'm not without a secret hope,
Which will my grateful efforts prop,

That, if in luck, chance in my way
May throw some straggling sprig of bay;
This for my own account I mean,
To show the world where I have been.
This gain'd, I may with you advise,
(You know I your opinion prize)
Whether you think it most becoming
(If that would not be too assuming)
Around the temples 'twere entwin'd;
Yet this, to those who are inclin'd
To censure, might a field present;
I, therefore, should be quite content
To give it o'er to time and chance,
Who often do the weak advance,
And may, the triumph to complete,
Yet bid it grace my statue's feet .
But here your prudence will suggest
Our native adage, that 'twere best
To let be fairly caught the fish,
Ere we divide it in the dish.*

* "Ere we divide it," &c. Alluding to the proverbial expression current amongst the Zetland fishermen, viz. "Do not divide the fish before it comes into the boat," is often applied, as in the present case, to check the progress of air-built castles.

It so may happen, that the Nine
To favour me may not incline,

For, I am told, they do not chuse,
At least none but the comic muse,*
To part with any of their skill,
I'll therefore lurk about the hill,
Until some fair occasion chance,
When, warily, I shall advance,
And, of their art, pick some small share,
'Tis what I want, and they can spare.

* "At least none but the comic muse," &c. The former poem, beginning "Avaunt! ye Nine," &c. was addressed to the Muses, on account of their treatment of the lady to whom this epistle is written.

Could I a happy moment catch,
Apollo's Lyre I fain would snatch,
And if I could my fear surmount,
Pegasus gladly would I mount;
But, being of a timid nature,
I do not chuse to trust this creature,
Who is, I'm told, a fiery steed,
And should he take it in his head
Adown the steepy hill to fly,
'Tis ten to one but I should cry,
Which might, perhaps, alarm Apollo,
Who, missing of his Lyre, would follow;
And should it rouse the angry Nine,
'Twere to be fear'd the worst were mine.
Melpomene takes back her tears,
Urania her fight avers,

And Thalia, tho' a lively lass,
I dont expect would let me pass,
But would re-take her sports and smiles,
With all her store of comic wiles;
And thus, when each their skill withdraw,
Your Poetess, like Æsop's daw,
Is left; unsung Eliza's praise
Remains, though claiming choicest lays;
My ardent gratitude represt,
To glow, in silence, in my breast;
And hence, apparently, ensues
Fit subject for the tragic Muse.

VERSES,

I beg it may not be supposed, that these Verses express my ideas respecting the information and intelligence of the Ayrshire Bard with regard to this country. But the thought striking me, that had he been alive, he might, perhaps, have been amused with the novelty of a poetic essay from a Zetland Authoress; my feeble attempt is made on the supposition of his giving the reins to his enlivening vein of raillery and burlesque. Well am I convinced, although I have attempted the Imitation , that he is inimitable . Why then embark in the vain pursuit of imitating the inimitable? I stand reproved.

WHAT will this warld come to belyve!
The rhyming trade does briskly thrive
It wad appear;
They're ane tane't now, ye sanna guess,
In seven year.

No as lang syne, whan now and then,
The tunefu' lasses lent the pen
To able hands;
And Shakespeare's, Milton's, Thomson's fame
Illustrious stands.

I wat I thought it was right fair,
Whan after muckle thought and care,
On cow'ring wing,
My ain wee muse, in hamely strain,
Ettled to sing.

There lies an Isle, north Johnnie Groat's,
They're hafflins Danes, and hafflins Scots,
I watna how,
But whether it be Christen'd land
I hardly trow.

An unco place, they ca' it Zetland,
For sailors wi' surprize, cried "Yet Land!"
When it they saw,
Ferlying to find baith stane and mold,
Sae far awa'.

But learned scholars ca' it Thulè,
A place whar darkness reigns in July,
By Sol forsook,
And naething there but frost and snaw,
A cauld rife nook.

To hear the limmer pertly carol,
Nae less than about Bay and Laurel,
'Twad vex a tike,
I trow, a doken scarce she'd ken
Alangst a dyke.

Some friend cries out, "what ails ye now,
"Ye hardly ken yoursel, I trow,
"What flyte ye at,
"Ravin about some far aff Isle,
"I watna what.

"Gin folk bide there they hae the skaith,
"But what need ye be in a wrath,
"Wha bienly beik
"On kindly Nature's smiling lap,
"Ye're no to seek."

But Argosie* does sae prevail,
I come back foremost wi' my tale,
Is't ony winner;
The like o' this wad vex a Saint ,
Forby a sinner .

* Anger.

Amang thae awfu' eerie rocks,
Whar selchies, otters, gang in flocks,
There dwalls a hizzie,
Wha has the pertness 'mang the Nine
To be right bizzie.

Fegs, madam Thulia, ye're no blate,
Ye want na for your ain conceit;
But now, gude sooth,
Ye're angry; weel, they're aft ill heard
That tell the truth.

But bide a wee, my Greenland Lady,
And tell me gif ye think ye're ready
For the review;
"Review? what's that?" ye'll may be ken
In time enow.

An yet ye may, gif ye're in luck,
Come better aff than better folk,
For truth to tell,
Ferlies, (and surely your book's ane,)
Aft bear the bell.

Besides, in a' that's done and said,
Allowances maun ay be made,
An it is own'd,
Whar other authors fa' a grain,
Ye claim a pound.

Sae they will, may be, let you pass,
But tak my word, my rhymin lass,
It's for the fun;
And it would hae sae mony fauts,
The task they'll shun.

I thought the Heliconian lasses,
And the gudeman of fam'd Parnassus,*
Mair wit had kend,
Than Pegasus, their dauted steed,
To you to lend.

* Apollo.

For wad it no be just as bonnie
To see you mounted on a poney
O' Zetland breed,
As flying on the wandering wings
O' that wild steed.

And wha tauld you about Apollo,
Urania, Thalia? a' maun follow,
In order due,
Melpomene comes greetin neist,
Led on by you.

As wha say "I'm a Poetess,"
It moves my anger, I confess,
It vexes folk,
'Twad set you better to clean fish,
Or knit your sock.

The Nine might better kent their worth,
Than venturing owre the Pentland Firth,
You to inspire,
An naething less can sair you than
Apollo's Lyre.

I've aften heard it said, "A Len
Should laugh when it gaes hame again,"
That's right and meet,
But fegs, I hae an unco fear,
The Lyre will greet.

For, whan it comes amang your damps,
And a' your plashy, miry swamps,
'Twill spoil the strings:
Feint care; let them that gae you't tak
The skaith it brings.

But, since ye maun hae tunefu' fame,
What need ye gang sae far frae hame,
Whan, at your hand,
Hangs the Æolian harp, well tun'd,
At your command.

An for the fam'd Pierian stream,
It's little mair than just a name,
Gif right ye wist;
Tak ye a drink o' Neptune's flood,
He'll never miss't.

And when wi' him to make a storm,
Æolus and Boreas, in a quorum,
Their help combine,
Gang ye a fleechin to the Three ,
Ne'er fash the Nine .

The Argument.

The Novelty and difficulty of the subject stated--Relations of England and Holland with respect to the fishery --Importance of the Dutch trade to Zetland--The joy manifested by all ranks on the first intelligence of the approach of the Herring fleet--The meeting of the natives and foreigners in Lerwick--Traffic--View of the fleet in the bay--Nature's present parsimony with regard to trees, contrasted with her former bounty--School holiday-- Riding scene--Dutch boys--their timidity and first attempts on horseback--Disputes between the riders and the guides--Approach of Evening--The Dance--Shortness of night--Morning--Unmooring of the fleet--Reflections on the feelings of a returning rural party--Apostrophe to Memory--Hope--Influence of Music--Concluding episode--Preparations in Holland for sending off the Herring fleet--Observance of a religious fast there, to propitiate Heaven on the undertaking--Engagement off Fair Isle, between the French and Dutch squadrons --Victory of the former--Burning of the Dutch Busses described--Dismay of the fishermen, and their melancholy departure.

JOHNSMAS.

A THEME , as yet unknown to poet's lay,
Rises to memory, and demands my song;
But how shall I the motley scene attempt,
The Aonian Maids no favouring ear incline,
Commercial interests, they all declare,
Are subjects "lying quite out of their way;"
Shall I, unaided, dare the bold essay?*

* The circumstances described in the following poem, form the only attempt made in Zetland towards a public Market or Fair. It is held upon rather a precarious tenure, as it depends on peace subsisting between England and Holland; and also upon the wind proving favourable for bringing the Dutch herring fleet in time to reach the annual sale of hosiery. It takes place at Midsummer, and on account of its happening about the time of the anniversary of St. John the Baptist, it is called Johnsmas. Bressa Sound being the appointed rendezvous of the fleet, Lerwick is the emporium.

When in the golden chains of smiling Peace,
Britannia and Batavia's sons are link'd,
'Tis given the latter from the British seas
To draw the finny treasure; but when war,
Between these nations, her dread trumpet sounds,
The lucrative indulgence is withdrawn,

Much injury thence do Thulian interests feel,*
And an important feather from the wing
Of female labour+ and of commerce, drops.
Advertive nature, as the climate cools,
Softens the fleece, imparting kindlier warmth,
First to the natural wearer, then to man,
"To needy man, that all dependent lord."
In this advantage Thulè liberal shares,
Nature the fleece affords, and industry
A ready purchaser was sure to find
(Brisk spur to useful toil) frown the Dutch fleet.

* Woollen stockings, gloves, &c. the staple articles of manufacture in the Zetland Islands, formed, at one time, a very profitable branch of trade, but, ever since the war has prevented the intercourse with the Dutch fishing vessels, or busses as they are termed, the demand has greatly diminished.

+ The stockings are all knit upon wires exclusively by the women.

A kind reception did the traveller meet,
Whose course, conducting over Southern hills,+
Made him the welcome herald to the town
Of the Batavian vessels' wish'd approach;
"The Fleet's in sight," each joyful voice exclaims,
Bright sparkle infant eyes, while lisping tongues
The fleet in sight announce, unconscious why
The general holiday. Even amongst those

Whom no pecuniary motives sway
"From heart to heart the sympathetic joy
"Flies rapid." Now the rural dwellings, quick
Deserted of their active inmates, stand,
While age and childhood hold their feeble reign,
And (as they can) domestic interests guide.
Along the hills the gathering groupes are seen,
Hope is in motion, and exertion prompts;
The young hope pleasure, and the old hope gain.
The trim-built barks, from points far distant seen,
Bounding the azure wave the harbour seek,
Spreading the swelling canvass to the breeze,
Exhibiting a beauteous spectacle,
Which every moment varies. Now arriv'd,
The native and the foreign travellers
Mingle on Lerwick's sudden crowded street.
Resolv'd on being pleas'd, all pleasure find,
Long absent friends from different quarters meet
In heartfelt greetings, at this general mart,
And gayly circulates the simple joke;
The merchant shows his gaudy tempting wares,
With cheerful glee, unto the rural maid,
In hopes her purse with guilders * well is lin'd,
While oft around is heard, is seen, is felt,
The voice, the look, in admiration's guise,
In every language understood, nor needs
Interpretation to the female heart.

+ The approach of the fleet to Bressa Sound is from the South.

* A Dutch coin.

Now busy traffic animates the scene,
Quickly the new imported cash wheels round;
From the Dutch purse it slowly drawn is given
In lieu of articles spun from the fleece,
To the blithe dame, whose winter eves were spent
Assiduous, at the hope inspiring task.
With her short pause it makes; the well-stor'd shop
Receives the circulating benefit.

The crowded Bay a prospect now presents,
Which gaiety and admiration wakes;
The various flags, suspended, lend their aid,
Batavia's three-strip'd colours far exceed
In number, all that deck the silver wave.
Denmark* displays a cross of purest white
On flaming red. The Prussian Eagle spreads
On snow-like field, his ample, sable wings;
While, from the warlike or commercial bark,
Britannia's waving ensigns float around,
And seem to wear an hospitable air
Of welcome to those useful visitants,
'Midst whom she sits as Hostess of the rest.

* A few Danish and Prussian Busses also prosecute the herring fishery on the coast of Zetland.

The harbour view'd, from where obstructing heights
Conceal the vessels' hulks, yet show the masts,
Mimics a wintry forest stript of leaves,

A floating forest Thulè only boasts.
Why partial Nature, dost thou now deny,
With wood more permanent, to grace our coasts,
Since erst thou more indulgent far didst prove?
Say, wherefore wert thou to our sires of old
More bountiful, than now thou'rt to their sons?

The school shut up, its glad inhabitants
Range o'er the scene, as novelty impels
Their restless steps. To see the Johnsmas, those
Whose infant feet cannot conduct themselves,
Must to the general resort be borne.
Happy the child, whose features or whose form,
Brings to the memory of some Dutch sire
His absent kinder ;* from his sack + he draws
The cake, bak'd with the produce of the bee,
With orange and with citron high enrich'd,
And treats the dear resemblance, over whom,
Touch'd with parental tenderness, he hangs.

* The Dutch word for child.

+ Pocket.

Summer in full meridian splendour glows;
To grace this day, in blooming verdure drest,
Nature and art unite in jubilee;
But pleasure must experience alloy,
And when the youthful heart, in unison
With nature's loveliest charms, is suddenly
With the unwelcome recollection struck,

"This is the longest day," at once is felt
The chill idea of the longest night,
When lost the zephyr in the tempest's roar,
And icicles succeed to blooming flowers,
Intruding on the mind, as thoughts of age
On youthful beauty, in the hour elate.

Varying the motley and commercial scene,
Which noisy reigns along the crowded street,
Towards the fields the Dutchmen bend their course,
In groups detach'd, the benefit to reap
Of riding, purchas'd at an easy rate;
This, as an healthful exercise they ply,
Taught by their Æsculapian Oracle.*
The hope of gain inspiring every heart,
Each urgent for precedence in employ,
The peasant leads his destin'd poney on,
Whose size diminutive, oft ill accords
With that of him who rides, but what he lacks
In stature, amply doth his mettl'd strength
Atone. As on he trots, his motion suits
Itself, to aid his temporary master,
Demonstrating the strong, instinctive power.

* Boerhaave prescribed riding for the Dutch.

Oft Hollanders of tender years are here,
Who six or seven annual solar rounds
Have only seen, brought hither by their sires,
In Neptune's nursery early introduc'd.

Timid and shy, they fearful look around,
And even away from proffer'd kindness shrink.
These, lately drawn from fond maternal care,
Quick wafted o'er the main, surrounded now
By strangers and strange scenes, cling to their sires,
From whom nought but a poney can them part;
Eager to ride, yet timorously withheld,
Irresolute they linger; but, at length,
Fear yields to novelty's persuasive charm,
While emulation joins her powerful voice.

And now a scene succeeds, resembling that
Sung by the Scottish Bard, who Nature paints*
In all its force. Close to the poney's side
The father stands, in every look confest;
He "chides, exhorts, commands" the fearful, boy
To this his first adventurous essay,
Whose cheek now pale, now flush'd, and varying eye
Bespeak the changeful mood which sways his mind.
Full oft, when exhortation and command
Of success fail'd, the inspiring voice of praise
Has gain'd the day, and sent th' exulting youth,
In cautious vict'ry, o'er the riding path,
Combating fear, and trusting to his guide,
Who follows close, breathing encouragement.
Between the riders and attendant guides,
Who own the poneys, keen disputes arise.

On every side the angry passions swell,
And, in a jargon unintelligible,
Mix with the general clamour thro' the air.
Altho' the language foreign, yet the guise
Of anger misses not, nor eye, nor ear.

* Alluding to the beautiful description, in Thomson, of the birds teaching their young to fly.

Now evening's hour, without her dusk, draws on;
Light's radiance seems to contradict the knell,
Which quick surprises from the solemn clock,
And whispers, "Even the longest day must end,"
As life, protracted to the latest verge.
The flagging spirits long upon the wing
Of business or of pleasure, borne aloft,
More with time's monitor than with the light
Keep pace, and hail the appointed hour of rest.

Now to the dance the Dutchmen all repair;
The motion gestic, and the heavy strain,
Wide differ from the heart-enlivening reels
Of Caledonia. Coffee's fragrant steam,
Tobacco's stifling fumes are felt around;
Inebriating draughts are sparingly indulg'd
Amongst the wary Dutch.

Phoebus short respite gives his way-worn steeds,
Whose longest journey gets the shortest rest,
So close the rising to the setting rays
Succeed; the glory rather veil'd than lost,
Through crimson clouds, glows thro' the eastern sky,
And soon Aurora, drest in saffron robe,
Bids Phoebus re-ascend his circling car.

Throughout the course of this revolving day,
The busy Dutch prepare to wet their nets,*
For the first time. Anon, the harbour thins,
Each parting bark some pleasure seems to steal
From the spectators of the transient scene.
While by the sea the foreigners depart,
By land the rustic strangers take their way,
Fatigued, out-worn, they seek their different homes;
Now silent, dull, and blank the town appears,
As suddenly deserted as 'twas fill'd.

* The Dutch never begin to fish herrings before the 24th of June, and the first attempt, which is a mere matter of form, is called wetting the nets .

The scatter'd thoughts now strive to re-assume
Their wonted tone, but vain at first the essay.
Shall the reflective mind a moment stop,
And contemplate the feelings various,
Which, peradventure, may be trac'd to fill
The hearts of a returning rural group,
While they repass the grassy knoll, which points
Through flowery tracks toward their humble cot.
Hope, gay companion, led their outward steps
On to the goal, where center'd every wish,
Strew'd roses on their path and slop'd the way.
But now the verdant remembrancer tells,
In pathos apt, that vanity's inscrib'd
On every human aim, by calling straight
To mind the train of thought in which they last

Beheld this silent monitor: convinc'd
Reality by fancy is surpass'd.
They, who on expectation's buoyant wing
Were forward borne, lo! now their ardour damp'd,
Return on disappointment's drooping pinion.
Some of the travellers had fondly hop'd
A higher value for the fleecy prize;
Youthful imagination had outrun
The real joys which even a Johnsmas yields;
While the tir'd poney, could he tell his mind,
Seeks home least disappointed of the train.

How strange appear the effects of memory,
And of anticipation on the mind;
The past and future in unreal hues
Arise to view, and from the present steal
The due enjoyment. Yet I would retract,
For oft the present borrows from the past
And future its best relish'd joys.
The mind reflecting on a former scene,
With roses and with thorns promiscuous strew'd,
Forgets the thorn, but lingers o'er the rose;
While in the present the reverse is seen.
Anon, when in the gliding lapse of time,
The present now shall mingle with the past,
And form a part of mem'ry's treasur'd hoard,
Cherish'd again the rose, the thorn forgot.
Yet not forgot , for faithful memory,
Deep in her numerous cells, each circumstance
Doth strict retain: yet still a softening shade,

O'er former pains, the mind inclines to throw,
If mingling pleasures with them did unite.

If strange the power of memory o'er the mind,
Its force astonishing , when magic sounds
Of melody connect with recollection,
Ideas numberless, which dormant lay,
Are quickly rous'd, each actor re-assumes
His former part, nor word nor look forgot.
But I digress. The home returning group,
By whom this brief analysis was inspir'd,
Ere long, shall prove the observation true,
That when the present shall become the past ,
And dissipated disappointments tinge,
This Johnsmas shall beguile some winter's eve,
While round the blazing fire the happy band
Enjoy the hour, and to th' adventures list,
The jokes and profits of this Johnsmas day;
Recounted in such sort, as in the breast
Of those who only by description know
The scene on which description loves to dwell,
Anticipations pleasure shall excite,
O'er which still hovers the sweet syren Hope.
Angelic Hope! though thy bright phantoms fly
Our fond embrace, I term thee not, as some,
A faithless cheat, thy self enkindling torch
Still chears the toilsome rugged path of life,
"And makes our happiest state no tedious thing;"
And tho', in time , thou shouldst not realize
Thy promise, still thou pointest to Eternity,

Where virtue shall not miss thy choicest boon.
But my enraptur'd fancy devious strays,
The copious themes of Mem'ry and of Hope*
(Tho' unexhaustible) are sweetly sung,
In loftier strains, than my weak lyre may boast;
Let me then straight resume my simple lay.

* The Pleasures of Memory and of Hope.

A century back, when hostile feuds prevail'd
'Twixt France and Holland; while neutrality
Britannia held to both; the Dutch had gain'd
High eminence in the important branch
Of finny treasure, drawn from British seas;
Sol near approaching full meridian height,
From his bright throne the dazzling summons throws,
Which to this summer enterprize invites.
'Tis active life and busy bustle all,
Preparative to launching off the fleet;
Now the throng'd temples ardently resound,
The general orisons of each class
Committing to the favouring care of Heaven
The useful undertaking. See now launch'd
All on the gently undulating wave
The well-built barks; the snow-like canvass spread;
Crowd urges crowd towards the teeming shore,
With many a feeling, many an interest prest;
Gain or affection occupy each heart;
Here stands the wife with humid streaming eyes,
Following the swift departing sail, which bears

Far hence her mate. While there, in gilded car,
Sit those who on anticipation's wing
Eagerly borne, forestal the lapse of time,
And in idea touch the precious ore.
Æolus' fav'ring breezes aid acquire
From heart-breath'd sighs of those, who, left behind,
Each morn and night solicit Providence,
In their behalf who plough the dang'rous main;
Propitious nature prosperous gales bestows,
But Mars' fell purposes the hopes defeat
Of industry and patient enterprize;
For while they now approach the Thulian shores,
An intercepting fleet, by Gallia sent,
Engage in furious fight the warlike ships,
Appointed convoy of the Hollanders.
What thought thy simple people then, Fair Isle!
When martial thunder shook thy lonesome caves;
And when aghast they view'd thy dark green waves
Blood-stain'd, roll crimson to the rocky shore?

The Gallic squadron won the bloody day;
Then on to Bredyaur Sound* pursued their course,
Where, in the wonted rendezvous, they find
Batavia's fishing fleet collected lye,
Across the bay are moor'd the social barks,
And side by side a floating bridge supply.
Then Bressa, was thy beauteous liquid arch,
Seen blazing in the opposing element

Of fire, quick kindled from the shrine of Mars,
By boats mann'd from proud Gallia's conqu'ring ships.
What alter'd aspect wore the scene around!
One changful hour the wat'ry mirror shews,
Reflecting clear along the opposing banks,
Nature in all her summer pride array'd
Of vivid green, diversified by cots,
By rural hamlets, rural imagery;
While in the midst it gives a double fleet,
Each cord, each sail, each flag, inverted seen.
Anon, behold the glaring flame at once,
As in the air it awfully ascends
In shadowy rage, prone darting on the deep;
While piercing shouts of horror pour around,
Cries and lamentations mix'd with the sound
Of constantf crackling, and the sudden plunge
Of falling masts, from their deep sockets thrown
Amid the tranquil flood.

* The ancient name of Bressa Sound.

Wild consternation mark'd the dismal scene,
While the Batavian fishers all untrain'd,
All unprepar'd for war, affrighted flee;
Nor did the foe attempt their flight to stop,
No deadly bolt was hurl'd, no captive seiz'd;
Crowded in their own barks they homeward trace
The wat'ry way, with "other beat of heart,"
Than when so late they skimm'd it on Hope's wing.
Thus, direly, broke this happy Johnsmas day;
Then art and war oppos'd kind nature's plan,
Giving what in these regions nor before,

Nor since was seen, Night, at the Summer Solstice,
A partial horrid reign extending round,
From darkening columns of ascending smoke
That 'clips'd the vivid, ruddy evening sky.
Mars and Bellona hovering o'er the scene,
Their floating flaming altars view'd with joy;
While meek-eyed Peace and active Commerce fled,
Joining the frighted Sea-nymphs in their wail,
"These are thy triumphs, these thy trophies, War!"

TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.

THOU master of the tuneful art!
Who only Nature can impart;
Though on thy temples blooms the bay
Scorn not my gratulating lay.

Describ'd by thee in graceful ease,
And softening touch, the power to please
Is lent a haughty chieftain's broils,
His ambush, depredations, spoils.

Thou shed'st upon the rugged theme,
The beauties of the poet's dream;
While virtuous, kind emotions, thou
Bidst in their native lustre glow.

The luckless orphan, early reft
Of sire, and to misfortune left,
Feels the pure joy to which 'tis given,
Less to partake of earth than heaven;
And whilst "the Douglas to his breast,"
Presses his Ellen--is carest.

The landscape which thy pencil drew,
Arises to the reader's view,
Who, as beneath is ample roll'd
"Loch Katrine's sheet of burnish'd gold,"
Stands with Fitz James, "amid the brake,"
And sees "the Lady of the Lake."

When sacred hospitable rite,
The weary stranger doth invite,
With evening chaunt, in lulling strain,
We hear the harp of Allan Bane.

A
FIRE-SIDE VOCAL CONCERT.

THE low'ring, leaden-colour'd evening cloud,
The chilling frost, the billows breaking loud,
The wish excite, contented to retire,
"To pause from toil, and trim the evening fire."
Snowy triangles clothe each window pane,
The drear outside makes bright the inside scene;
The kettle on the clean-swept hearth is plac'd,
The table with the social tea-cups grac'd;
The needle and the wire now forward brought,
Employ the fingers, yet leave free the thought.
A general consultation next takes place,
Whether, the while, the historic page to trace,
Or in Udolphean Mysteries engage;
But to elude the blustering tempest's rage,
'Tis soon agreed to call the power of song,
Which cheats the winter's night though e'er so long.

Tay, Tweed, and Yarrow's celebrated streams,
Where the pleas'd muses whisper sylvan themes,
Glide thro' the pastoral vale and flowery mead,
Thro' which the passive fancy pleas'd they lead;
And, in their tranquil murmurings, is drown'd
The wild, the wintry roar of Bressa Sound.

Amid these scenes, each Caledonian swain,
Of Royal Mary breath'd the tuneful strain;
Ah! fair unfortunate! who did inspire
The lovers' tender sigh, the poet's lyre,
Who reign'd alike or in the court or grove;
At once a Queen by majesty and love!

Boreas, for a while, thy howl refrain,
And thou shalt be rewarded by the strain
Of Gallowshiels, where Rizzio vents his flame,
In daring language for the Royal Dame.
Even Italy's musicians, as 'tis said,
To this sweet strain superior suffrage paid.
Let Caledonia compliment again,
That candour which could prejudice disdain,
And gave the plaudit to a foreign strain.

Let us attend the swain with yellow hair,*
Who seeks the hawthorn glen to sing his fair;
And listen, while he doth the balance hold,
'Twixt native charms and those of powerful gold.
Thy Bush, Traquair, the moment now beguiles,
Which blooms and fades, as Peggie frowns or smiles.

* In allusion to the song of the Yellow Hair'd Laddie.

What heavenly strain ascends from Alloa's Grove,+
While all the strings of melody do move!

Such powerful pleasure thro' the heart doth glow,
The pulse forgets to beat! the blood to flow!

+ The beautiful tune of Alloa House.

Can it be doubted that the lays of Burns,
Through the Domestic Concert take their turns?
But these are touch'd with far superior skill,
By the sweet lyre of tuneful Tannahill.

A youthful auditor prepares to speak,
While suing smiles adorn her blooming cheek;
"Now, since to each you give the song they chuse;
"To me, I hope you will not one refuse."
Her choice demanded, doth in favour go
Of cruel Carpenter; sad tale of woe!
Or love-lorn fair, whose spirit plough'd the main,
In vengeful quest of' her perfidious swain,
Who caught, sunk with her in the closing flood,
(Listen, ye swains,) while sailors trembling stood.

See now o'er-ruling Providence preside,
Conducting Bothwell to his heir and bride;
And through the medium of the ring and glove,*
Decide the doubtful object of his love.

* "Lord Bothwell," a beautiful old song.

Full many a virtuous pang the heart assails,
And sympathetic tenderness prevails,
While the performer doth the tale unfold
Of the wood-wilder'd babes, betray'd for gold.

Sweet sufferers! lamented by your peers,
Who write your elegy in sighs and tears.

But, lo! the Historic muse now treads the stage,
See Royal Eleonora's jealous rage,
That wildly spurns humanity's controul,
Arm'd with the dagger and the poison'd bowl.
Ah, fell revenge! could not that beauteous face,
Where youthful charms triumph in blooming grace,
Divert thy purpose dire? Ah! no--they give
New force, and stern forbid the fair to live;
Each avenue to pity these seal up,
The poniard point, and urge the deadly cup.

Vengeance self-wrought, O most unhallow'd draught,
To human mind with mental poison fraught!
O sated Queen, what treasures wouldst thou give,
These last, these horrid moments to retrieve!
More kind the cup thou gav'st than didst retain,
While pleas'd was seen thy rival victim's pain;
And ghastly paleness chace the lively bloom,
While love-inspiring eyes repose in death's dark gloom.

The injurer with the injur'd changing part,
Works revolution in the youthful heart;
And even the feelings of maturer age,
All on the side of Rosamond engage;
Who had not sorrow'd for the injur'd wife,
Had she but spar'd her helpless rival's life;

Thus those, who cruelly revenge pursue,
Lose even that sympathy which is their due.

Not more heart-felt delight can he inspire,
Who "wakes to exstacy the living lyre,"
Than do such lays around the evening fire;
While "virtue's advocates" they prove to youth,
Insinuating still some moral truth;
Alike with pleasure and improvement fraught,
The useful lesson with success is taught.
Obvious the cause, they in amusement's veil
Excite to virtue, yet the drift conceal.
The tale adventurous suits the eager mind,
The strain impressive which the tale doth bind
On the imagination, which retains
The strain, the tale, and 'companying scenes.

Thus far 'tis well; but, ah! the counterpart,
Impressing terror on the ductile heart;
For 'tis the supernatural gives the charm
Coercive, and from whence flows all the harm;
Hence superstition's teeming altars rise,
On which through life the votaries sacrifice.
The bane and antidote so closely link,
To disunite them 'tis in vain we think;
Could they a partial drop from Lethe steal,
Retain the moral and forget the tale,
'Twere well; but these together still unite,
And rouse the mind to weak or wild affright;

But since from youthful hearers 'tis confest,
The nurse gains more attention than the priest,
'Twere to be wish'd she would her power address,
Virtue to aid, but horror to repress.
The dreadful spectre and the beckoning ghost,
Delight the wondering hearers to their cost.
The Fairy system better is design'd
Fancy to please, nor terrify the mind;
Besides, as fiction it they ever view,
But oft believe the goblin story true;
The startled slumber, and the scaring dream,
Too highly tax the legendary theme.

VERSES,

DREARY November! now thy gloom,
In heighten'd gloom is darker roll'd,
                Thy wintry wing,
                The tidings bring,
Which fair Amelia's fate unfold.

Each varied object, every sound
To vibrate with our feelings seems,
                A deepening gloom
                O'ershades the room,
And dimly gleam the taper's beams.

The bleak wind whistles shrill around,
And while the hollow murmurs wave,
                In every swell
                Is heard a knell,
Which whispers of Amelia's grave.

In sympathetic mood we list
The sullen billows dash the shore,
                Tho' rude the dirge,
                The sounding surge
The Royal fair seems to deplore.

Sweet sufferer! thy warfare's past,
Thou now hast gain'd the happy shore;
                Thy race is run,
                The prize is won,
Sorrow and sighing are no more.

Proud of thy gentle merit, long
Shall thy Britannia love to tell;
                On patience mild,
                Thro' pain that smil'd,
Shall memory delighted dwell.

Thou sympathizing Mary, who
To Windsor led the drooping fair,
                There, in the shade
                And balmy glade,
To court the aid of purer air.

Whilst, as in all endearing meed,
(Hung o'er the couch of sickness) thou
                Even from pain's smart
                Didst steal a part,
Blunting his arrows as they flew.

With tender look and soothing voice,
His force essaying to beguile;
                And when he sent
                A truce, was lent
The languid interval a smile.

Ye, Royal Mourners, wipe your tears,
Or rather let them soften'd flow;
                O raise your eyes
                Beyond the skies,
Thence thro' the heart shall, comfort glow.

Open the heavenly portals fly,
Where, welcom'd by Redeeming love,
                By suffering try'd,
                Now glorified,
An angel joins the blest above.

TO
THE AUTUMNAL EQUINOX.

NOW tranquil beauty is no more,
The crowding billows seek the shore;
And while against the rock they dash,
See! the blue fire through darkness flash.
Now rings anew departed Summer's knell,
And rings again reluctant, sad farewell.

Not as a gloomy despot's reign,
Winter, I welcome in thy train;
Thy train, majestic, may afford
Rich pleasures from thy frozen hoard.
Although thy power binds lakes, binds rivers, seas;
Yet, dost thou not the mental current freeze.

Summer, thy gentle, balmy reign
Breathes pure devotion from the plain;
For who can view the simplest flower,
Nor recognize Creative power!
Or see the rising sun in glory shine,
Nor feel, Almighty, that the work is thine!

Yet when thou swell'st the mighty wave,
Immediate felt thy power to save!
And while thou rid'st the tempest's wing,
We to the Rock of Ages cling;
Till fear, subsiding, leaves a gentler claim,
We dare address thee by a FATHER'S name.

Come, let us view the countless stars
Wheel through the heavens their silver cars!
Or gaze, with contemplative eye,
On the bright Stranger of the sky!*
Who, while he holds his wide ethereal sweep,
Illumes the tranquil bosom of the deep.

* The Comet.

Descending, let us now retire,
Around the social evening fire.
Resist not Fancy's magic sway,
Let her her wand'ring power display;
Speeding her devious way she spurns control,
On her fleet wing we range from Pole to Pole.

This--parents, guardians, this the hour,
The golden moment this, to pour
Instruction o'er the youthful mind,
To each impression now resign'd;
And now, all-unsuspected, may you drop
Important hints, fair Virtue's cause to prop.

For open'd wide, by fancy's hand,
The mental avenues now stand.
While you may prompt the feeling sigh,
In tear humane adorn the eye;
Lose not the favouring moment to suggest
"The generous purpose" to the glowing breast.

Now shall the teeming, time-fraught page,
Lead us back thro' many an age;
And give the well-won meed of praise,
Of those who shone in former days,
Nor will the tuneful Nine refuse to lend
Their aid, the brow of winter to unbend.

Come, some sweet Syren, and untie
"The hidden soul of harmony,"
And with the vocal warbling power,
Add tale of ancient hall or tower;
The strain not merely shall night's gloom disarm,
We chide its flight when thus 'tis taught to charm.

And when the Equinox of Spring,
Sweet, cheering hopes again shall bring!
And the latest blust'ring gale
Rings departed winter's knell;
May we of virtuous wintry pleasures tell
In kind, though not reluctant, sad Farewell.

A
SUMMER SABBATH MORN.

THE hallowed morn faint glimmering in the East,
Dawns on a slumb'ring and a ransom'd world;
How dearly ransom'd! wonderful the price
By which the great Redemption was obtain'd.
Sleep on, and take your rest ye rescued tribes,
For your Redeemer slumbers not, nor sleeps.

Yet, let not the enlighten'd Christian world
This morn too long indulge oblivious sleep,
And rob themselves of "sacred, sure delights,"
With which these precious, fleeting moments teem.
The Sabbath morn, still with salvation fraught,
Returns; and, with persuasive force, recals
The mind to thoughts which to its peace belong.

'Twas early in the morn, as dawning light
On the first Christian Sabbath shed its ray,
That they, whose steps impell'd by sacred love,
Sought the Lord's tomb, met heavenly messengers;
Deem these not absent, though invisible;
Round the awakening Christian's couch they wait,
To prompt and lead the first returning thoughts.
Come with the eye of Faith--Behold, the place
Where the Lord lay, the stone is roll'd away.

Yet, should the sons of care and labour steal
An hour of slumb'rous respite from this day,
Forgiveness will the needful fraud obtain
From him who knows the feelings of the weary.
But let not those, whom more indulgent fate
Entrusts with the disposal of their hours,
Ah! let not those rob heaven and themselves
Of serious intercourse on Sabbath morn;
When the Redeemer triumph'd o'er the grave,
Hallow'd by him--He burst the bands of death!
He burst the sepulchre of massy rock!
O break the soft, the downy bands of sleep
To think of him who gave his life for you.

Let not the conscious sense of guilt deter;
The blood that flow'd on Calvary, hath power
To wash the deepest stain. When on the morn
Of Resurrection, led by pious zeal,
The friends of Jesus hasten'd to the tomb,
Did Mary Magdalen less welcome meet
Or from the heavenly messengers, or from HIM
Whom all the glorious hosts of heaven adore,
Than did the partners of her way, whose lives
Apparently less guiltless had been spent?
Such welcome still returning sinners find,
If, with their sins, her penitence they bring.

What solemn, sacred sound floats thro' the air,
And gently dissipating slumber, calls
To recollection all the dormant powers?

The earliest summons to the sacred courts
The way towards the gate of mercy points,
Open on earth and heaven, inviting all.
Complex emotions in the mind arise,
Rousing, accusing, comforting at once.
O let us hear it as the call of heaven,
And seize the precious opportunity
Offer'd to day, while it is call'd to day!
The night approaches fast when none can work;
The living only hear the Gospel Call,
It reacheth not the mansions of the tomb.

The morning sun, bright gilding every hill,
Beams gladness into the beholder's heart.
Each various object which salutes the eye,
Seems stamp'd with the impression of the Sabbath.
Shall we impute the livelier melody
This day observ'd amongst the feather'd choirs,
Or to the favouring stillness which prevails;
Or grant the notion entertain'd by some,
That taught by instinct, they can safely trust,
And nearer wing into the haunts of man,
In serenade uniting? If we this
Call vulgar , term it also pious error.

Where'er we turn, each view presents a fane,
Inspiring homage to the Deity,
Smiling around in all his glorious works
Complete. On this blest day of general rest,
Which respite brings to those by toil hard prest,

The great Creator all his works survey'd,
And with approving voice pronounc'd them good.
What God calls good , let favour'd man enjoy,
For whom these beauteous scenes from nothing sprung.

Man does enjoy, as tells that humble voice
Solemnly issuing from yon hillock's side,
Where seated on the grass, a rural swain
Surrounded by his family, enjoys
Repose, peculiarly welcome now;
For thro' the summer weeks he ardent ploughs
Th' inconstant seas, luring the finny tribes.
This day from contrast heighten'd comfort gains,
And to domestic peace and piety
Devoted, gives a taste of heavenly joys.
Now in a double volume doth he trace
The Almighty, in his work and in his word,
Each powerful commentary on the other.
The infant auditors, whose ductile minds
To each impression, as it passes, yield,
Catch in this scene the early rudiments
Of pleasure, drawn from pure religion's source.

The sweetness of the scene thro' which I stray
Arrests my wand'ring steps, whose course have led
Towards a spot with fragrant verdure crown'd,
Whose site commands a heart-delighting view
Of the surrounding objects. All combine
To pour serenity into the mind.
Behind (inspiring thankfulness and hope,)

All teeming stand the loaded fields of corn,
Smiling around in robe of brightest green.
O, may the joyful whisper they convey
Into the heart of the hard labour'd swain,
Anticipating plenty to his babes
Amid the wintry rigours, be fulfill'd!
And may the power, who bids the vallies sing
Under their precious burthen, kindly stay
The direful force of shaking Equinox,
Oft fatal to the husbandman's fond hope.
How apt the emblem of a tranquil mind,
Which Bressa Bay's unruffled surface yields!
Tho' far more calm than even most virtuous mind,
Or happiest state of human life admits.
Reflected by the liquid mirror, see
The scenery of the adjacent Isle,
Whose black'ning hills, and scatter'd hamlets green,
Form gay diversity. Across the sea
The rural groups in various tracts appear,
But bending all towards one general goal,
The house of God; O, may they also find
Admission to his heavenly temple, where
Perpetual Sabbath holds a blissful reign.

Silence her empire gradually resigns,
"Pleas'd to be so displac'd," to solemn sounds,
In unison ascending thro' the air,
Symphonious issuing from the assembled throng;
Whose voices, tun'd by pure devotion's force,
Unite in chaunting forth a sacred strain,

Which borne, and soften'd by "the vocal air,"
Reaches the spot where I delighted sit,
In hearing losing every other sense,
Sweetly absorbt. My passive mind is borne
Upon th' exalting wing of sound sublime
Towards that Heaven, where Hallelujahs sound
The praise of the Almighty. O may he
A favouring ear lend to his worshippers,
And that acceptance grant, promis'd to those
Who worship him in Spirit and in Truth.

TO A
FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S,

SISTER vot'ry of the Nine,
Seeking oft their tuneful shrine;
Gentle Mary, as you stray
On the banks of winding Tay,
While the feather'd warblers sing
Welcome to returning Spring,
Who scatters from her fragrant feet
The daisy gay, the primrose sweet;
As mid the scene thou sitst reclin'd
May thy fancy pleasure find,
While thou read'st the Thulian lay
On the banks of winding Tay.

Or when sullen Winter reigns
O'er the desolated plains,
As around the ruddy fire
The social circle pleas'd retire,

Admit the Muse to spend an hour
In Balthyock's ancient tower.
Bid the nymphs and swains on Tay
Read the native Thulian lay.

Did that syren voice of thine
Ever warble verse of mine?
Say, was ever sung by thee
Thulè's British Jubilee?

THE
FOURTH OF JUNE.

'TWAS on a happy Fourth of June,
    When fields and flowers bloom gay;
A social, friendly circle met
    To celebrate the day.

The blazing bonfire crackles loud,
    And as it mounts on high,
Kindles the loyal spark which beams
    Even in each infant eye.

Joy reign'd within, joy reign'd without,
    And on the daisy'd green,
Gay tripping to the viol's sound,
    The rustic groupes were seen.

Health to Britannia's monarch had
    With ardent cheers flown round,
And gracious Charlotte's name, with joy,
    A sparkling glass had crown'd.

True loyalty each bosom warms,
    The social zest prevails;
"Haste, drain a circling bumper to
    "The infant hope of Wales."

So said the host* then turning to
    A reverend friend, began;
"Come, fill your glass, and pledge me to
    "A brother clergyman."

* The late Mr. William Chalmers, the author's father, some time Collector of the Customs at Lerwick.

"A Clergyman?" the Parson cries,
    "This toast surprises me,
"We have not yet drank half around
    "The Royal Family."

"'Tis granted--yet I know my toast
    "You'll join with right good will,
"To Osnaburgh's young Bishop , I
    "A flowing bumper fill."

LINES,

SWEET scene, on me full often hast thou smil'd,
And for a while my pressing cares beguil'd;
In thee have I spent many a chearful day,
And thus to me thou sayst, or seemst to say,--
"Welcome, consider me as a true friend,
"To whom thou freely mayst thy mind unbend,
"A truce to irksome thought, forget thy care,
"And in my social influences share."
I thank thee, and thy offer do accept,
But thou must not my grateful verse reject,
On the Parnassian Ladies lay the blame
If I unequal prove to sing thy fame,
For I a recent suppliant at their shrine
Have sued, they would a gracious ear incline,
And though their powerful aid they should refuse,
Thou hast a willing Poet, tho' coy Muse.

Sure thou wilt not deny thy greatest charm
Is borrow'd from thy owners, friendly, warm;

The Master's* manner open, frank, and kind,
Bespeaks an ardent, free, and generous mind;
The Mistress gentle, sympathetic, mild,
Sweet Sensibility's distinguished child,
An air engaging and a courteous grace,
Heighten the mingling beauties of her face.
From flowers of various sorts we often see
Is drawn the treasur'd nectar of the bee,
So from these different qualities a zest
Which crowns the pleasure of the happy guest.

* George Linklater, Esquire.

How sweet thou seemst when on a summer's day
Nature and art conspire to deck thee gay,
Dispos'd by the judicious hand of taste,
A mirror view to such advantage plac'd,
As to reflect the garden in full bloom,
Seen as an antichamber to the room,
Which 'twixt the real and shadowy garden seems,
Whilst thro' the whole bright dart the sunny beams.
It must be own'd that in our Northern clime
Summer is rather chary of his time,
His tardy visit transient and sweet,
Slow in advance, but in retreating fleet;
What can we more to counteract his haste
Than doubly view his beauties while they last.

And now arrives the hour which brings the board
With China's fragrant leaf and porcelain stor'd,

Where British cups with China's porcelain vie,
(What cannot British industry supply?)
The spotless white and golden circles gay,
Simplicity with splendour join'd display,
And rival that which every tint doth show,
Which gaily paints the bright ethereal bow.
And see the native produce of our ground,
The crimson jelly "in its crystal bound,"
Does honour to Lerwegian clime and soil,
And well rewards the active gardener's toil,
To gain advantage the whole scene is seen,
From the presiding hand of lovely Jean,*
Whose hospitable welcome, true and kind,
Sheds pleasure over each surrounding mind.
Why deem the fair so void of candour, sense,
Of sprightly wit, of sweet benevolence,
As that they cannot spend the hour of tea
Unless an absent sacrifice there be?
Hence, far, far hence, Demon of Scandal flee.

* Mrs. Linklater.

When Phoebus' latest western ray has fled,
And gentle twilight spreads her dusky shade,
The thought-inspiring hour doth oft invite
Me to the casement, where with calm delight,
With the fair Jean I list the soothing sound
Of waving willow in the garden's bound,
Whose solemn motion vibrates on the mind
To sympathetic harmony inclin'd;
Or when the autumnal moon displays her beams,
Draw pensive pleasure from the silver gleams.

The windows have their sweet attraction lost,
And can of numerous guests no longer boast,
Those guests who in them bask'd the live-long day,
All, all withdraw with Phoebus' feeble ray;
New aims do now their veering thoughts inspire,
Lo! see them all to pay their court retire,
Not to the rising sun--but rising fire.
The scene now changes yet it still doth please,
Comfort-crown'd nights succeed those chearful days,
Loud howls the blast, thick drifts the fleaky snow,
Now , Social Genius! bid thy influence glow.
Stir up the fuel, let the taper blaze,
Bring the newspapers, bring the pipe and glass,
Tobacco's leaf, its votaries say, affords
A grateful steam, I take it on their words;
Around the beaming fire the circle form,
Let friendly lore beguile the wintry storm,
While the soft Thulian fleece the busy fair
Weave, while they the general converse share.

Quick, Royal George's health each glass must drain,
Else Loyal George full loudly will complain,
Political discussion warmly flows,
Mean-while the patriotic spirit glows;
But these are themes my muse not understands,
And leaves to deeper heads and abler hands.
Anon--the sprightly, stingless jest flies round,
Which sweetly pleases all, and none doth wound;
And sometimes to beguile the evening hours
The card-table forth its various armies pours,

Say, tuneful Sisters, who amongst you sings
The rise and fall of pasteboard Queens and Kings,
And daring knaves, (may I forgiven be!
For naming knaves amid such company.)
Oft doth a knave's impending fate, impart
Or hope or fear unto the anxious heart;
But here, their power restricted, is confin'd
To interest, not agitate the mind;
I call'd in vain, the unpropitious Nine,
To sing those party-colour'd feats decline.

List, list, I hear the violin advance,
In welcome summons to the lively dance;
Each pause let Scotia's vocal measures fill,
And thro' the heart in moving sweetness thrill.

Farewell lov'd scene! Farewell ye virtuous pair!
Long live the swain to bless the gentle fair.
Whether sweet Flora breathe upon the plain,
Or gay Pomona hold her sunny reign,
Or liberal Ceres tend the golden grain;
Or these scar'd hence when angry Boreas lowers,
Still crown'd with pleasure roll the circling hours,
And virtue's sacred, homefelt joy be yours!

ADDRESS
TO
THE EVENING STAR.

THOU brightest queen of myriads bright,
    Again thy lustre dost renew!
Again thou gild'st the brow of night,
    And thee again I'm spar'd to view.

What numbers have resign'd their breath,
    And wing'd from earth their mystic way!
How many eyes are clos'd in death,
    Which witness'd thy declining ray.

When gentle spring to summer yields,
    And thou and thy bright hosts to Sol;
(Who circling through ethereal fields
    Flings duskless splendour round the Pole.)

Then, as I've stray'd in pensive mood
    When fainter twilight dimm'd thy view,
I stopt, and as I ling'ring stood,
    Breath'd an uncertain, soft adieu.

Since thou in Solar radiance lost
    From our keen gaze hast been withdrawn,
Each planet of the starry host
    Hath aided nature's general plan.

Laborious man had in the ground
    Deposited the precious grain;
With success be his labours crown'd,
    Nor be his hopes nor prayers vain!

Now has the sun perform'd his part,
    Now Cynthia lend thy ripening beam,
"Breathe joy into the reaper's heart,"
    Whose toils are lighted by thy gleam.

And thou, O thought-inspiring star,
    Adorn the azure arch of night;
While autumn's treasures wave afar,
    Shed on the mind serene delight.

When from a wintry cloud the sun
    Emits a sullen, transient beam;
Hope hints, that when his course is run
    Night will in silver radiance stream.

And if the air, refin'd by frost,
    Pours heighten'd lustre on the eye,
In pious adoration lost,
    We through the glories of the sky

Trace Him by whom the starry frame
    Amid the void of space was hung,
The moon's mild light, the sun's bright beam,
    From whose creative mandate sprung.

When we shall quit this frame of dust,
    And thee from earth no more shall see;
O! may we join the blessed just,
    Who from on high look down on thee.

TO
THE MEMORY
OF
LORD COLLINGWOOD.

WHEREFORE , O fortune, dost thou still delight
To scatter airy phantoms in our sight?
Gaily bedeckt in fancy's vivid hue,
The fleeting visitants arise to view;
And dazzle as they rise, the cheated mind,
With pleasures brighter than for earth design'd;
Quick, they elude the grasp, and mounting, fly,
They point and lead to joys beyond the sky.
"So heaven decreed, to rectify the mind,
"And raise the thoughts to pleasures more refin'd."

To thee, much honour'd Lady, nearly drew
The phantom Happiness, ere yet she flew;
Near drew the hour when pleasing hope restor'd
To thy fond wishes thy long absent Lord.
In his lov'd country's cause, since parting last,
How many perils had the hero past.
Suspended long each dear, domestic joy,
Yet memory and hope their powers employ;

And in the noble warrior's ardent heart,
The husband and the father claim their part.
At length the oft anticipated day
Seem'd to approach, each hour was hop'd away,
Till fate, till time and distance should combine,
And to thy arms thy Collingwood resign.
Had heaven been pleas'd thou shouldst such moment see,
It years of absence had repaid to thee;
But, ah! the spell dissolv'd--the vision fled--
How keen that grief which comes in pleasure's stead.
Had fate indulg'd that on thy gentle breast
Thy Collingwood had sunk to endless rest;
That thou hadst clos'd thy hero's eyes in death,
And suck'd the last, the fleeting, precious breath,
Great consolation thence had flow'd to thee--
But all must yield to heaven's supreme decree;
The meeting but delay'd, to be improv'd
In happier scenes, from earth to heaven remov'd
Blest spirit! who thy native land regains,
By angels tended, hail'd by heavenly strains.

Britannia's Genius from her echoing caves,
Greeting a son whose valour rul'd the waves,
Is heard to sing, "We never shall be slaves."
Thy fame to sound the poet courts his muse,
But all-unconscious, that he should chuse
The elegiac, not the joyful verse;
And with the Laurel strew the Cypress on the hearse.
Nor dreamt the swelling waves were wafting o'er
The breathless hero to his native shore.

May the imagination feebly aim
To trace (as may be trac'd by mortal dream)
The converse 'twixt great Nelson's shade and thine,
Of that great day on which he did resign
To heaven and thee the battle he begun;
But, ere its close, his glorious race had run,
And thou concludedst as he would have done.
"England expects each man wilt do his part,"
Acted as magic on each British heart.

Thy virtues, Collingwood, outrun my strain
In the heroic and domestic scene;
Be these the theme of some superior lay,
Let those of Laurels sing who wear the Bay;
But ah, the friend!--would I could paint thee there,
Thus interrupted by the grateful tear.

Thy manly heart with sympathy did swell,
When my lamented, only brother, fell;
In life's full pride, heroically brave,
On glorious Trafalgar's fam'd, fateful wave;
His blind, his aged mother's pride and prop,
His sorrowing, helpless sisters' only hope;
Thou, interested in our deep distress,
Didst for our wants solicit prompt redress;
Thy urgent suit was sped across the main,
Thou pledst, and, must I say? thou pledst in vain.
Hadst thou to Majesty the suit addrest,
Our pressing claims long since had been redrest.

Rear, rear the monument, and bid it tell
His virtues, and on each with pathos dwell;
Heroes unborn, shall thence draw martial fire,
And as they read imbibe what they admire.

Happy biographist, sweet task hast thou,
Pourtraying human nature in such view,
Those energies which do the hero form,
Intrepid 'midst the battle and the storm,
Painting a character without a blot,
O! let not kind Compassion be forgot.

DESCRIPTION
OF
SOUND,* NEAR LERWICK.

* The name of a hamlet, about a mile west from Lerwick.

"HEAVENS ! what a goodly prospect spreads around,"
From the steep eminence whereon I stand;
Summer meridian beauty widely pours
On the delighted eye, where'er it turns
It meets creative goodness, all conspires
To lift the soul from nature to its God.

Here might the poet, or the painter find
Field for the pencil or descriptive art.
O! would some Muse the pleasing theme attempt,
Who should with candour, fearless of the charge
Which to a partial native may belong,
To truth and poesy give all the reins;
Yet why, lov'd Thulè, should thy daughter dread
To sing her natal scenes, while justly sung;
Come, Muse, we'll to the task, let who will frown.

Let us impartiality evince,
By owning, that the wide surrounding view
No envious (envy'd) forests intercept,
Waving, in boastful pride, to mar our plan;

Yet, who that looks around, but must confess
A crown of British oak would well become
Bressa's majestic Ward Hill. Pines and elms
Would with superior beauty grace these shores,
Would grace them twice, for liquid groves would wave,
In soften'd foliage, in the crystal flood.
Some say, who soothe our humbled pride, that when,
In former ages, wood adorn'd our isles,
The trees which bloom'd on the opposing banks
Of narrow Voes,* their branches high in air
United, forming cool umbrageous shade;
While in the skiffs the travellers underneath,
As on them dropp'd the odoriferous gum,
Rowed under the green canopy, enjoy
Such beauty as fam'd Tiber well might own.
But now I ween such censure I incur,
As they who of departed beauty boast.

* Voes , the Scandinavian term for those numerous arms of the sea, by which the islands are deeply intersected.

Full oft the intersecting sea appears,
And leads its azure course along the shores
Of distant misty hills and scatter'd isles.
Lerwegia's suburbs come in nearer line,
And partially beheld, her Fortress stamps
One martial feature on the varied scene.
Toward the North, in tranquil beauty, see
A Loch her silver surface wide extend,
And give in deep'ning shade the adjacent hill.

Still on a Holm,* amid the water, stands
A Pictish ruin; yet these ruins give
Vestige of days and purposes of old.
Nor shall yon wild, bleak hill remain unsung;
For what were painting, but for stroke of shade,
Or beauty's heighten'd lustre, but from foil?
But chiefly through thy beauteous limits, Sound ,
Fain would I wander, and attempt to sing.

* Holm, an uninhabited islet.

Still seems the landscape incomplete and tame,
That lacks result which hill and dale bestow;
Though Flora and Pomona, emulous
Each other to outvie, should deck the scene;
Here sports that gay diversity at will,
The corn fields sweep not here in wide extent,
But portion'd into rigs varying in shape and size;
While fallow ground, meadow and pasturage,
Irregularly interspers'd between,
In chequer work, please fancy and the eye.
Ye who inhabit yonder humble cots,
If Art in sparing measure lend her aid
To grace your dwellings, Nature makes amends,
By pouring beauty lavishly around.

Down in the centre of a verdant vale,
A scene of general interest attracts
My eyes, and solemnizing every thought,
Rivets them on the peaceful mansions where

"The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep;"
And who can tell but this sequester'd spot
Might guiltless Cromwells, and mute Miltons boast,
Had culture rear'd the seeds by nature sown.
This church-yard hallowed by a Popish fane,*
Which, though in ruin, whispers to the mind,
That to the worship of Heaven's Almighty King
Its walls were dedicated. I descend,
And nearer view the deposit of dust,
Erewhile inform'd with vital spark divine.
Solemn ideas rush upon the mind;
Though solemn, yet not sad; sweet nature's smile
Even from the land of death steals wonted gloom.
Silence would hold uninterrupted reign
Save for the sound of a near murmuring rill,
Which tends to strengthen Fancy's abstract range;
She, mingling with the dead of ages past,
Beholds the train of worshippers! beholds
The sacred rite,--now listens to the chaunt
Arising from the full assembled choir,
Until the holy vision quick dissolv'd,
Reality again assumes her sway.
What though nor weeping yew, nor cypress wave
In mournful shade, and o'er these ashes sigh;
What though forbidding nettles through the walls
Aloft in air their bristled tops erect;

Though deadly hemlock spread its leaves around;
Yet fragrant herbs and flowers their beauty lend,
Ambitious to adorn the vale of death.
Thus in the minds of those who sleep below,
The flowers of virtue with the weeds of vice,
In human frailty, undivided grew;
Let us not as the censure-loving crowd
Dwell on the weeds, yet overlook the flowers.
So thick the verdure, vain were the attempt
To trace the tribute of "the unletter'd Muse,"
Each lonely vestige undistinguish'd, hid,
Save here and there a new made grave, which tells
Death's arrows recently were flying nigh.

* There are many ruins of small Popish chapels to be seen in Zetland.

Now let me wander by the tinkling rill,
Which widens as it winds. Here might the Muse
Forget the inspiring streams of Helicon,
Nor miss ideas for the sylvan dream,
As up the