Poems.

]>Poems.Chalmers, Margaret.Charlotte Payne,creation of electronic text.Electronic edition224KbBritish Women Romantic Poets ProjectShields Library, University of California, Davis, California 956162001ChalMPoems

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series51Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorPoemsChalmers, Margaret Printed by S. HodgsonNewcastle, 1813[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. I:213. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:213mf.]

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[Title Page] POEMS,BYMARGARET CHALMERS,LERWICK, ZETLAND.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 bestcalculated 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 controul.

CONTENTS.ODE for the Morning of the British Jubilee, 18091Congratulatory Lines on the Jubilee, humbly addressed ␣␣␣␣␣to his Majesty4Verses on the Jubilee Night at Lerwick8The Author's Address to the Critics12On the expected Return of Lord Collingwood to England15Lines addressed to the Princess Elizabeth18The Rose of the Rock21On the Banks of the Esk26The Sufferings of Faro—Part I.31——————————Part II.34To the Muses38To Eliza39Verses in humble Imitation of Burns44Johnsmas51To Walter Scott, Esq. on the Lady of the Lake66A Fireside Vocal Concert68On the Death of the Princess Amelia74To the autumnal Equinox77A Summer Sabbath Morn80To a Friend of the Author's86The Fourth of June88Lines on the Drawing Room of an intimate Friend of the ␣␣␣␣␣Author's90Address to the Evening Star95To the Memory of Lord Collingwood98Description of Sound, near Lerwick102Lines to Lady Monat Keith114Foula116Song122Lines, on seeing an Infant, whose Mother had died in ␣␣␣␣␣Child‐bed, presented at Church for Baptism124On an ancient Obelisk126To a Niece of the Author's on her Birth Day130Lines, written on the Occasion of a Boat, with six Men, ␣␣␣␣␣being lost, while prosecuting the Fishery135To the Zetland patriotic Society138To the united Trades' Society of Lerwick140ERRATA.Page 33, line 9, for does read doth.Page 66, line 2, for can read canst.POEMS.ODEFORTHE MORNING OF THE BRITISH JUBILEE, 1809.[TO THE MUSIC OF THE KING'S ANTHEM.]WELCOME, auspicious morn,Aurora fair adornThy 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, ceaseThy thund'ring voice to raise,Shaking the world;Peace, wave thy olive wandOver our happy land,Be, at thy mild command,Banners unfurl'd.But, if Fate's sovereign willBid 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 LINESON THE JUBILEE.HUMBLY ADDRESSED TO HIS MAJESTY.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 headOf him, who virtue's cause doth ever aid,For he to all indulgent leave hath givenTo 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 bringForward 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 rayLet blazing tapers shed an artificial day.* Fort Charlotte, the most northern garrison of the Empire.How blest the land to which indulgent heavenHath, 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 heartLoyal, 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 reignRelief 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 downThe 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 raceImbibe thy virtues, and thy footsteps trace,And may th' admiring world with pleasure seeEach son a mirror of his father be.Full oft imagination's airy wandBrings 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 stateAre wisely scatter'd by the hand of fate;Nor, as I deem, most sparingly are sownAround 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 assuageThe 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."VERSESON THE JUBILEE NIGHT, AT LERWICK.

[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 joyGive 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 payCongratulings, 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 graceThe 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 keepEach billow and wave; nay, that not a stray breezeShould ruffle the face of the deep.For he said, he was eager this mark of respectTo 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'dAnd 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 nightWhen 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 ADDRESSTO THE CRITICS.Oh! do not break the Thulian lyre's rude strings;Nor clip the Pegasean poney's wings.MUCH honour'd Gentlemen,—AllowYour suppliant a word or twoIn self defence;Though, to the meed of learning, sheMakes slight pretence.Since Scandinavia rul'd our Isles,We ne'er have woo'd the muses' smiles;Yet own their powerOft wheels away, in rapid course,The wint'ry hour.Now in the pure Castalian rillDips the first British Thulian quillTo fame addrest;In slumber lull'd, the poet's artLong lay supprest.But now, forbid it tuneful powers,That you should answer, "So might your'sFor all we see;"Oh! meliorate your dread awardsWith 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 beamAnd loftier lay;I rest content to HeliconTo 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 mindOf Thulian race,Oft richly doth the mental fieldWith flowers grace.If wither'd by ungenial blight,As they unfold their leaves to light,Lo, soon they close;And on oblivion's tranquil lapAgain repose.ON THEEXPECTED RETURNOFLORD COLLINGWOOD TO ENGLAND.WHILE every muse impatient waitsTo meet the hero on the strand,And welcome Collingwood's return,Triumphant! to his native land,Will he forgive a Thulian maidHer rude attempt, untaught to sing,Who never trod Aonian mount,Nor ever sipp'd Pierian spring.Stern Neptune, give thy sea‐nymphs chargeThe 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 seeThy gallant arm assume the charge,And Britain's hope revive in thee.Nor only in the dreadful sceneOf 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 wreathOf 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 joysCombine, its wish'd return to aid.With throbbing heart and bounding step,Thy gentle consort climbs the height;Entranc'd the blissful moment fliesWhich 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,

On reading, in the account given in the newspapers of the drawing‐room held at St. James's, 4th June, 1810, that her Royal Highness the Princess Elizabeth was so deeply affected as to shed tears.

HAIL, precious drops! may you relief impartUnto 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 lightOf fifteen annual suns, whose course have roll'dDarkly to her, nor object did unfold.Thy wrung imagination rapid fliesTowards 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 claimThe 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 sunSaw 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 expressA sister's sorrow on the sad decree,For nature's feelings all seem known to thee.Yet, 'midst our griefs, lo! we delighted seeBritain, 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!THEROSE 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 waveTo Berga's coast remote. Far in the north,Rise Vaalifield's high ridge and Saxaford;†In yonder space, that points to Faro's IslesAnd Iceland's lasting snows, towers Rona's Hill,*Majestic 'midst his tributary mountains.Turning thence the obedient eye to whereThe 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 mindWith 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'dBy 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 timeTo which full oft yields even the solid rock,Had, from the parent island, wide disjoin'dA craggy cliff, whose deep resounding baseWas 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 sublimeMight chill the blood and even to horror rouse,Had dropt a lovely solitary flower, As remembrancer of another styleOf 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 imposeReluctant silence, since amongst the groupeWas 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 stepsToward the precipice, near view to gainOf 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 farThan 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 flowerBecoming 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.ONTHE BANKSOFTHE 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 gayBeguil'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 throwsBrighter, 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 graceWhose 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 nightWhen 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 throwPeace, 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 soonWith 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 crewDid 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 claimAs 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 impartReflections various to the musing heart,Each rising step seems nearer heaven to draw,And strikes the advancing worshipper with aweSaying to worldly cares, "Remain below,While to God's hill and to his house we go."And, in descent, the strengthen'd lighten'd mindFeels, (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 siresTheir homage pay to heaven,—the thought inspiresSolemnity, 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 resortTo 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 scenesDemand 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 poursHer 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 dayAt 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 appearsAmid the foe, and chains and fetters wears;For 'tis the doom of human nature stillTo 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 fieldsWhich, to the miserable, succour yields.Mutual anxieties the heart invadeOf 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 hoardsWhich British liberality affords;O, blissful vision! feeds his darling child,Each toil forgotten, every care beguil'd.But, ah! awakening reason rallies allSad 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 mouldThan 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 needTo prompt her children to the generous deed?THESUFFERINGS OF FARO.PART II.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 sightOf 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 prestThe 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 aroundWith 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 strandRush eager, and their relatives demand—As when the brothers from the Egyptian roadTheir asses led, sore bent beneath the loadOf 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 revealsThe 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 beguilesThe 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 seenBending, 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 sueFor your capricious aid,Since you could thus its power denyTo an invoking maid.So fair a vot'ry ne'er beforeHad breath'd Parnassian air,Nor did Castalia's boasted streamE'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'dHer tearful aid to lend;And sage Historic Clio's browNo 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.MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.LET this acquaint my dearest friend,That I to make a glove intend,Or pair of gloves; and, therefore, IFor your directions must apply,Hoping, you will to me impartSome 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 supplyTo favour honest industry.If fair Eliza do consentHer aid, she shall it not repent,For 'tis my wish and warm desireTo 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 flowersWhich 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 dryTo 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 leadsAmid 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 wayMay 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'dTo censure, might a field present;I, therefore, should be quite contentTo 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 suggestOur native adage, that 'twere bestTo 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 NineTo 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 headAdown 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 praiseRemains, though claiming choicest lays;My ardent gratitude represt,To glow, in silence, in my breast;And hence, apparently, ensuesFit subject for the tragic Muse.VERSES,INHUMBLE IMITATION OF BURNS.

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 thriveIt 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 penTo able hands;And Shakespeare's, Milton's, Thomson's fameIllustrious 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 landI 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 kenAlangst 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 NineTo 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 heardThat tell the truth.But bide a wee, my Greenland Lady,And tell me gif ye think ye're readyFor the review;"Review? what's that?" ye'll may be kenIn 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 bonnieTo see you mounted on a poneyO' Zetland breed,As flying on the wandering wingsO' 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 thanApollo's Lyre.I've aften heard it said, "A LenShould 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 takThe 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 seasTo 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 wingOf 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 industryA ready purchaser was sure to find(Brisk spur to useful toil) from 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 townOf the Batavian vessels' wish'd approach;"The Fleet's in sight," each joyful voice exclaims,Bright sparkle infant eyes, while lisping tonguesThe fleet in sight announce, unconscious whyThe general holiday. Even amongst thoseWhom no pecuniary motives sway"From heart to heart the sympathetic joy"Flies rapid." Now the rural dwellings, quickDeserted 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 travellersMingle on Lerwick's sudden crowded street.Resolv'd on being pleas'd, all pleasure find,Long absent friends from different quarters meetIn 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 needsInterpretation 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 givenIn lieu of articles spun from the fleece,To the blithe dame, whose winter eves were spentAssiduous, at the hope inspiring task.With her short pause it makes; the well‐stor'd shopReceives 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 exceedIn number, all that deck the silver wave.Denmark* displays a cross of purest whiteOn flaming red. The Prussian Eagle spreadsOn 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 airOf 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 heightsConceal 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 oldMore bountiful, than now thou'rt to their sons?The school shut up, its glad inhabitantsRange o'er the scene, as novelty impelsTheir restless steps. To see the Johnsmas, thoseWhose 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 sireHis absent kinder;* from his sack† he drawsThe 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 unisonWith nature's loveliest charms, is suddenlyWith the unwelcome recollection struck,"This is the longest day," at once is feltThe 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 ageOn 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 reapOf 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 accordsWith that of him who rides, but what he lacksIn stature, amply doth his mettl'd strengthAtone. As on he trots, his motion suitsItself, 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 roundsHave 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 nowBy 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 thatSung 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 boyTo this his first adventurous essay,Whose cheek now pale, now flush'd, and varying eyeBespeak the changeful mood which sways his mind.Full oft, when exhortation and commandOf success fail'd, the inspiring voice of praiseHas 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 guiseOf 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 lightKeep 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 reelsOf Caledonia. Coffee's fragrant steam,Tobacco's stifling fumes are felt around;Inebriating draughts are sparingly indulg'dAmongst 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 raysSucceed; 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 stealFrom 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‐assumeTheir 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 fillThe hearts of a returning rural group,While they repass the grassy knoll, which pointsThrough 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'dOn every human aim, by calling straightTo mind the train of thought in which they lastBeheld this silent monitor: convinc'dReality by fancy is surpass'd.They, who on expectation's buoyant wingWere forward borne, lo! now their ardour damp'd,Return on disappointment's drooping pinion.Some of the travellers had fondly hop'dA higher value for the fleecy prize;Youthful imagination had outrunThe 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 huesArise to view, and from the present stealThe due enjoyment. Yet I would retract,For oft the present borrows from the pastAnd 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 circumstanceDoth 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 soundsOf melody connect with recollection,Ideas numberless, which dormant lay,Are quickly rous'd, each actor re‐assumesHis 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 breastOf those who only by description knowThe 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 flyOur fond embrace, I term thee not, as some,A faithless cheat, thy self enkindling torchStill chears the toilsome rugged path of life,"And makes our happiest state no tedious thing;"And tho', in time, thou shouldst not realizeThy 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 neutralityBritannia held to both; the Dutch had gain'dHigh eminence in the important branchOf 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 classCommitting to the favouring care of HeavenThe useful undertaking. See now launch'dAll on the gently undulating waveThe 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 bearsFar hence her mate. While there, in gilded car,Sit those who on anticipation's wingEagerly borne, forestal the lapse of time,And in idea touch the precious ore.Æolus' fav'ring breezes aid acquireFrom 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 defeatOf 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 wavesBlood‐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 findBatavia'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 elementOf 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'dOf 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 ascendsIn shadowy rage, prone darting on the deep;While piercing shouts of horror pour around,Cries and lamentations mix'd with the soundOf constant crackling, and the sudden plungeOf falling masts, from their deep sockets thrownAmid 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 traceThe 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 smokeThat '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.ON HISLADY OF THE LAKE.THOU master of the tuneful art!Who only Nature can impart;Though on thy temples blooms the bayScorn not my gratulating lay.Describ'd by thee in graceful ease,And softening touch, the power to pleaseIs 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, thouBidst in their native lustre glow.The luckless orphan, early reftOf 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.AFIRE‐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'dThe 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 inspireThe 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 strainOf 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 goOf 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 unfoldOf 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 giveNew 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 veilExcite to virtue, yet the drift conceal.The tale adventurous suits the eager mind,The strain impressive which the tale doth bindOn the imagination, which retainsThe 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 charmCoercive, 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'dFancy 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,ONTHE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS AMELIA.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 soundTo vibrate with our feelings seems,A deepening gloomO'ershades the room,And dimly gleam the taper's beams.The bleak wind whistles shrill around,And while the hollow murmurs wave,In every swellIs heard a knell,Which whispers of Amelia's grave.In sympathetic mood we listThe sullen billows dash the shore,Tho' rude the dirge,The sounding surgeThe 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, longShall thy Britannia love to tell;On patience mild,Thro' pain that smil'd,Shall memory delighted dwell.Thou sympathizing Mary, whoTo Windsor led the drooping fair,There, in the shadeAnd balmy glade,To court the aid of purer air.Whilst, as in all endearing meed,(Hung o'er the couch of sickness) thouEven from pain's smartDidst steal a part,Blunting his arrows as they flew.With tender look and soothing voice,His force essaying to beguile;And when he sentA truce, was lentThe languid interval a smile.Ye, Royal Mourners, wipe your tears,Or rather let them soften'd flow;O raise your eyesBeyond 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.TOTHE 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 affordRich 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 reignBreathes 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 starsWheel 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 pourInstruction o'er the youthful mind,To each impression now resign'd;And now, all‐unsuspected, may you dropImportant 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 lendTheir 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 galeRings departed winter's knell;May we of virtuous wintry pleasures tellIn kind, though not reluctant, sad Farewell.ASUMMER 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 priceBy 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 worldThis 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, recalsThe mind to thoughts which to its peace belong.'Twas early in the morn, as dawning lightOn 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 placeWhere the Lord lay, the stone is roll'd away.Yet, should the sons of care and labour stealAn hour of slumb'rous respite from this day,Forgiveness will the needful fraud obtainFrom him who knows the feelings of the weary.But let not those, whom more indulgent fateEntrusts with the disposal of their hours,Ah! let not those rob heaven and themselvesOf 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 sleepTo 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 powerTo wash the deepest stain. When on the mornOf Resurrection, led by pious zeal,The friends of Jesus hasten'd to the tomb,Did Mary Magdalen less welcome meetOr from the heavenly messengers, or from HIMWhom all the glorious hosts of heaven adore,Than did the partners of her way, whose livesApparently 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, callsTo recollection all the dormant powers?The earliest summons to the sacred courtsThe 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 opportunityOffer'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 melodyThis 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 thisCall 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 worksComplete. 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 voiceSolemnly issuing from yon hillock's side,Where seated on the grass, a rural swainSurrounded by his family, enjoysRepose, peculiarly welcome now;For thro' the summer weeks he ardent ploughsTh' inconstant seas, luring the finny tribes.This day from contrast heighten'd comfort gains,And to domestic peace and pietyDevoted, gives a taste of heavenly joys.Now in a double volume doth he traceThe Almighty, in his work and in his word,Each powerful commentary on the other.The infant auditors, whose ductile mindsTo each impression, as it passes, yield,Catch in this scene the early rudimentsOf pleasure, drawn from pure religion's source.The sweetness of the scene thro' which I strayArrests my wand'ring steps, whose course have ledTowards a spot with fragrant verdure crown'd,Whose site commands a heart‐delighting viewOf the surrounding objects. All combineTo 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 conveyInto the heart of the hard labour'd swain,Anticipating plenty to his babesAmid the wintry rigours, be fulfill'd!And may the power, who bids the vallies singUnder their precious burthen, kindly stayThe 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, seeThe scenery of the adjacent Isle,Whose black'ning hills, and scatter'd hamlets green,Form gay diversity. Across the seaThe rural groups in various tracts appear,But bending all towards one general goal,The house of God; O, may they also findAdmission to his heavenly temple, wherePerpetual 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 borneUpon th' exalting wing of sound sublimeTowards that Heaven, where Hallelujahs soundThe praise of the Almighty. O may heA favouring ear lend to his worshippers,And that acceptance grant, promis'd to thoseWho worship him in Spirit and in Truth. TO A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S,ACCOMPANYING THEProposals for Subscription,AND A COPY OF THE ODE ON THE JUBILEE.SISTER vot'ry of the Nine,Seeking oft their tuneful shrine;Gentle Mary, as you strayOn the banks of winding Tay,While the feather'd warblers singWelcome to returning Spring,Who scatters from her fragrant feetThe daisy gay, the primrose sweet;As mid the scene thou sitst reclin'dMay thy fancy pleasure find,While thou read'st the Thulian layOn the banks of winding Tay.Or when sullen Winter reignsO'er the desolated plains,As around the ruddy fireThe social circle pleas'd retire,Admit the Muse to spend an hourIn Balthyock's ancient tower.Bid the nymphs and swains on TayRead the native Thulian lay.Did that syren voice of thineEver warble verse of mine?Say, was ever sung by theeThulè's British Jubilee? THEFOURTH OF JUNE.'TWAS on a happy Fourth of June,When fields and flowers bloom gay;A social, friendly circle metTo celebrate the day.The blazing bonfire crackles loud,And as it mounts on high,Kindles the loyal spark which beamsEven 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 hadWith 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 toA 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,ON THE DRAWING ROOM OF AN INTIMATE FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S.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 blameIf I unequal prove to sing thy fame,For I a recent suppliant at their shrineHave 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 charmIs 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 seeIs drawn the treasur'd nectar of the bee,So from these different qualities a zestWhich crowns the pleasure of the happy guest.* George Linklater, Esquire.How sweet thou seemst when on a summer's dayNature 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 climeSummer 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 hasteThan doubly view his beauties while they last.And now arrives the hour which brings the boardWith 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 teaUnless 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 inviteMe to the casement, where with calm delight,With the fair Jean I list the soothing soundOf waving willow in the garden's bound,Whose solemn motion vibrates on the mindTo 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, affordsA 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 fairWeave, 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 hoursThe card‐table forth its various armies pours,Say, tuneful Sisters, who amongst you singsThe 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, impartOr hope or fear unto the anxious heart;But here, their power restricted, is confin'dTo 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 num