Nor would I those pleasures resign,

Which flow from thy sorrowful strain,

To call the whole universe mine,

And rank with the unfeeling train.

Thy Outcast, poor victim of woe,

I've heard on the desolate heath,

And seen the sad suff'rer laid low,

Releas'd from her sorrows by death.

Thy Widow's affecting complaint,

Might melt e'en a bosom of stone;

What mortal could hear her lament,

And not make her sorrows their own

Poor Annie's extravagant song
Beguiles me of many a sigh;

Such wild accents fall from her tongue,

As oft steal a tear from my eye.

Sweet Bard! what sensations divine

Thy exquisite ditties impart!

Simplicity dwells in each line,

Yet strongly they speak to the heart.

And still as I read with delight,

Hope tells me of some happy day,

When we shall in friendship unite,
And sing all our sorrows away.

Oh! come, thou dear moment of joy!
No anguish my bosom should rend,

Nor care my sweet visions destroy,

If blest with so gentle a friend. 6

Sweet

poet of nature adieu!

May fame be the meed of thy lays s That fame which no change will subdue,

Till time shall have number'd his days!

A POETICAL LETTER,

ADDRESSED TO MR. R. ANDERSON, ON HIS LONG SILENCE.

O Robin are ye sleepin' yet?

Or are ye wakin' I would wit?

For shame! shake aff this drowsy fit,

An' sing again sae charmin'.

SWEET BARD! wha late so clear did sing,
What ails your Muse to droop her wing,

Now, whan the early flow'rs o' spring

Are a' the fields adornin'?

O Robin are ye sleepin' yet, &c.

Aft in this season o' the year,

Your "wood-notes wild" my

heart did cheer O

But something ails ye now, I fear

Your silence is alarmin'.

O Robin are ye sleepin' yet, &c.

Has fell "misfortune's cauld nor-wast,"

Spent on your head some dreadfu' blast?
Or clouds o' woe your sky owrecast,

An' chang'd your joy to mournin'?
O Robin are ye sleepin' yet, &c.

Has poverty's envenom'd dart
Transpierc'd your independant heart?

Or snarlin' critics made ye smart?

Curse on sic spitefu' vermin!

Gay Flora's bairns, a lovely train,

Begin to deck the verdant plain;

An' birds, wi' mony a heartsome strain, Salute the rosy mornin'!

Now a' your cares and woes discard,

And strike the harp, my fav'rite bard;
An' oh! may fame your lays reward,
Till doomsday i' the mornin'.

SPRINGVALE.7

"Here waving groves a chequer'd scene display.”

Now June bids the hawthorn to bloom,

And scatter its odours around

Gay blossoms bedeck the wild broom,
And flow'rets enamel the ground:

The Shamrock on each verdant lawn,
Its fragrance imparts to the gale;

I'll stray from the morn's rosy dawn

'Till eve, 'midst the shades of Springvale.

I've mix'd in the mirth-loving throng,
And felt no emotion of joy-

I've listen'd the laugh-raising song,

Yet answer'd the strain with a sigh:

But here, where the crowd's grating noise
No longer my ear shall assail,

I'll taste the most exquisite joys,

And bless the cool shades of Springvale.

POPE.