Yet, though thou draw a nation's

And win a nation's love,

Let not thy towering mind despise

The village and the grove.

eyes,

No slander there shall wound thy fame,

No ruffian take his deadly aim,

No rival weave the secret snare:
For Innocence, with angel smile,
Simplicity, that knows not guile,
And Love and Peace are there.

When winds the mountain oak assail,

And lay its glories waste,

Content may slumber in the vale,

Unconscious of the blast.

Through scenes of tumult while we roam,

The heart, alas! is ne'er at home;

It hopes in time to roam no more:

The mariner, not vainly brave,

Combats the storm, and rides the wave, To rest, at last, on shore.

Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe,
How vain your mask of state!

The good alone have joy sincere,
The good alone are great:
Great, when, amid the vale of
peace,
They bid the plaint of sorrow cease,
And hear the voice of artless praise;
As, when along the trophied plain,
Sublime they lead the victor train,
While shouting nations gaze.

ΤΟ

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

LADY CHARLOTTE GORDON,

DRESSED IN A TARTAN SCOTCH BONNET,

WITH FEATHERS, &c.

WHY, Lady, wilt thou bind thy lovely brow, With the dread semblance of that warlike helm, That nodding plume, and wreath of various glow, That graced the chiefs of Scotia's antient realm ?

Thou knowest that virtue is of power the source,
And all her magic to thy eyes is given;
We own their empire, while we feel their force,
Beaming with the benignity of heaven.

The plumy helmet, and the martial mien, Might dignify Minerva's awful charms; But more resistless far the Idalian queen— Smiles, graces, gentleness, her only arms.

THE

HERMIT.

Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove:
"Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar,
A Hermit his song of the night thus began;
No more with himself, or with nature, at war,
He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man :

"Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and woe? "Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? "For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, "And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.

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