"Early I nurs'd this royal youth,
Ah! ill detain'd on foreign shores;
I fill'd his mind with love of truth,
With fortitude and wisdom's stores:

For when a noble action is decreed,
Heav'n forms the hero for the destin'd deed.

"Nor could the soft seducing charms

Of mild Hesperia's blooming soil E'er quench his noble thirst of arms, Of generous deeds and honest toil;

Fix'd with the warmth a country love imparts,
He fled their weakness, but admir'd their arts.
"With him I plough'd the stormy main;
My breath inspir'd th' auspicious gale;
Reserv'd for Gladsmuir's glorious plain,
Through dangers wing'd his daring sail:
Where, form'd with inborn worth, he durst op-
His single valour to an host of foes.

"He came! he spoke! and all around,
As swift as Heav'n's quick-darted flame,
Shepherds turn'd warriors at the sound,
And every bosom beat for fame;

[pose

They caught heroic ardour from his eyes,
And at his side the willing heroes rise.

"Rouse, England! rouse, Fame's noblest son,
In all thy ancient splendour shine;
If I the glorious work begun,

Olet the crowning palm be thine :

I bring a prince, for such is Heav'n's decree,
Who overcomes but to forgive and free.

She calls me her friend, but her lover denies:
She smiles when I'm cheerfu!, but hears not my
A bosom so flinty, so gentle an air, [sighs;
Inspires me with hope, and yet bids me despair!

I fall at her feet, and implore her with tears:
Her answer confounds, while her manner endears;
When softly she tells me to hope no relief,
My trembling lips bless her, in spite of my grief.

By night, while I slumber, still haunted with care,
I start up in anguish and sigh for the fair:
The fair sleep in peace, may she ever do so!
And only when dreaming imagine my woe.

A. Dear idol of my soul, adieu!

Cease to lament, but ne'er to love me, While Damon lives, he lives for you, No other charms shall ever move ine.

B. Alas! who knows, when parted far
From Delia, but you may deceive her!
The thought destroys my heart with care,
Adieu, my dear, I fear for ever.

A. If ever I forget my vows,

May then my guardian angel leave me: And more to aggravate my woes,

Be you so good as to forgive me.

{ing.

YE shepherds of this pleasant vale
Where Yarrow streams along,
Forsake your rural toils, and join

In my triumphant song.

She grants, she yields; one heavenly smile
Atones her long delays,

One happy minute crowns the pains
Of many suffering days.

Raise, raise the victor-notes of joy,

These suffering days are o'er, Love satiates now his boundless wish From beauty's boundless store; No doubtful hopes, no anxious fears This rising calm destroy, Now every prospect smiles around All opening into joy.

The Sun with double lustre shone

That dear consenting hour, Brighten'd each hill, and o'er each vale New colour'd every flower; The gales their gentle sighs withheld, No leaf was seen to move,

The hovering songsters round were mute, And wonder hush'd the grove.

The bills and dales no more resound
The lambkin's tender cry,
Without one murmur Yarrow stole
In dimpling silence by ;

All nature seem'd in still repose
Her voice alone to hear,
That gently roll'd the tuneful wave,
She spoke and bless'd my ear.

Take, take, whate'er of bliss or joy You fondly fancy mine, Whate'er of joy or bliss I boast

Love renders wholly thine;"
The woods struck up, to the soft gale
The leaves were seen to move,
The feather'd choir resum'd their voice,
And wonder filled the grove.

The hills and dales again resound
The lambkins tender cry,

With all his murmurs Yarrow trill'd

The song of triumph by ;

Above, beneath, around, all on

Was verdure, beauty, song,

I snatch'd her to my trembling breast, All nature joy'd along.

Go, plaintive sounds! and to the fair

My secret wounds impart,
Tell all I hope, tell all I fear,
Each motion in my heart.

But she, methinks, is list'ning now
To some enchanting strain,
The smile that triumphs o'er her brow
Seems not to heed my pain.

Yes, plaintive sounds, yet, yet delay,
Howe'er my love repine,
Let that gay minute pass away,
The next perhaps is thine.

Yes, plaintive sounds, no longer crost,
Your griefs shall soon be o'er,
Her cheek, undimpled now, has lost
The smile it lately wore.

Yes, plaintive sounds, she now is yours, 'Tis now your time to move; Essay to soften all her powers,

And be that softness, love.

Cease, plaintive sounds, your task is done,
That anxious tender air

Proves o'er her heart the conquest won,
I see you melting there.

Return, ye smiles, return again,
Return each sprightly grace,

I yield up to your charming reign,
All that enchanting face.

I take no outward show amiss
Rove where they will, her eyes,
Still let her smiles each shepherd bless,
So she but hear my sighs.

You ask me, charming fair,
Why thus I pensive go,
From whence proceeds my care,
What nourishes my woe?

Why seek'st the cause to find
Of ills that I endure?
Ah! why so vainly kind,
Unless resolv'd to cure?

It needs no magic art

To know whence my alarms; Examine your own heart,

Go read them in your charms. Whene'er the youthful quire Along the vale advance, To raise, at your desire,

The lay, or form the dance:
Beneficent to each,

You some kind grace afford,
Gentle in deed or speech,
A smile or friendly word.
Whilst on my love you put
No value;-or the same,
As if my fire was but
Some paltry village flame.

At this my colour flies,

My breast with sorrow heaves;

The pain I would disguise,

Nor man nor maid deceives.

My love stands all display'd,
Too strong for art to hide,
How soon the heart's betray'd
With such a clue to guide!
How cruel is my fate,

Affronts I could have borne,
Found comfort in your hate,

Or triumph'd in your scorn:

But whilst I thus adore,
I'm driven to wild despair;
Indifference is more

Than raging love can bear.

WOULD'ST thou know her sacred charms
Who this destin'd heart alarms,

What kind of nymph the Heavens decree
The maid that's made for love and me.

Who pants to hear the sigh sincere,
Who melts to see the tender tear,
From each ungentle passion free;
Such the maid that's made for me.

Who joys whene'er she sees me glad,
Who sorrows when she sees me sad,
For peace and me can pomp resign;
Such the heart that's made for mine.
Whose soul with generous friendship glows,
Who feels the blessings she bestows,
Gentle to all, but kind to me;
Such be mine, if such there be.

Whose genuine thoughts, devoid of art,
Are all the natives of her heart,
A simple train, from falsehood free;
Such the maid that's made for me.

Avaunt, ye light coquets, retire,
Whom glittering fops around admire;
Unmov'd your tinsel charms I see,
More genuine beauties are for me.

Should Love, fantastic as he is,
Raise up some rival to my bliss;
And should she change, but can that be?
No other maid is made for me.

BY A YOUNG LADY,

ON READING THE FOREGOING.

If you would know, my dearest friend,
The man whose merit may pretend
To gain my heart, that yet is free,
Him that's made for love and me:

His mind should be his chiefest care
All his improvements centre there,
From each unmauly passion free;
That is the man who's made for me.
Whose generous bosom goodness warms,
Whom sacred virtue ever charms,
Who to no vice a slave will be;
This is the man who's made for me.

Whose tongue can easily impart
The dictates of his honest heart,
In plain good sense; from flattery free;
Such he must be who's made for me.

He alone can love inspire,

Who feels the warmth of friendship's fire;
Humane and generous, kind and free;
That is the man who's made for me.

If such an one, my friend, e'er tries
To make me his by strictest ties,

O GENTLE maid! whoe'er thou art,
That seek'st to bless a friendly heart;
Whose Muse and mind seem fram'd to prove
The tenderness of mutual love.

The heart that flutters in his breast,
That longs and pants to be at rest,
Roam'd all round thy sex, to find
A gentle mate; and hop'd her kind.

I saw a face and found it fair;

I search'd a mind-saw goodness there:
Goodness and beauty both combin'd
But Heav'n forbad her to be kind.

To thee for refuge dare I fly,'
The victim of another eye?
Poor gift! a lost, rejected heart,
Deep wounded by a foreign dart,
From this inevitable chain,
Alas! I hope to 'scape in vain.
Is there a pow'r can set me free,
A pow'r on Earth-or is it thee?

Yet were thy cheek as Venus fair;
Bloom'd all the Paphian goddess there,
Such as she bless'd Adonis' arms;
Thou could'st but equal Laura's charms.

Or were thy gentlest mind replete

With all that's mild, that's soft, that's sweet;
Was all that's sweet, soft, inild, combin'd,
Thou could'st but equal Laura's mind.

Since beauty, goodness, is not found
Of equal force to soothe this wound,
Ah! what can ease my anguish'd mind?
Perhaps the charm of being kind.

Canst thou transported view the lays
That warble forth another's praise,
Indulgent to the vow unknown,
Well pleas'd with homage not thy own?

Canst thou the sighs with pity hear
That swell to touch another's ear?
Canst thou with soft compassion see
The tears that fall, and not for thee?
Canst thou thy blooming hopes resign,
The vow sincere, so dearly thine;
All these resign, and prove to me
What Laura wou'd not deign to be?

When at thy feet I trembling fall,
My life, my soul, my Laura call;
Wilt thou my anxious cares beguile,
And o'er thy face spread Laura's smile.

Perhaps Time's gently stealing pace
May Laura's fatal form efface,
Thou to my heart alone be dear,'
Alone thy image triumph here.

Come then, best angel! to my aid!
Come, sure thou'rt such, the gentlest maid:
If thou canst work this cure divine,
My heart henceforth is wholly thine.
Edinburgh.

THE YOUNG LADY'S ANSWER. YOUR Laura's charms I cannot boast ; For beauty I ne'er was a toast; I'm not remarkable for sense; To wit I've not the least pretence.

If gold and silver have the power

To charm, no thousands swell my dower;
No shining treasures I possess,
To make the world my work confess.

An honest plain good-natur'd lass,
(The character by which I pass,)
I doubt will scarcely have the art

To drive your Laura from your heart.

But, sir, your having been in love,
Will not your title to me prove :
Far nobler qualities must be

In him who's made for love and me.

Tis true you can with ease impart The dictates of your honest heart, In plain good sense, from flattery free: But this alone won't answer me.

Once more peruse my lines with care;
Try if you find your picture there:
For by that test you'll quickly see,
If you're the man who's made for me.
Glasgoro

TO A LADY

WHO RIDICULED THE AUTHOR'S LOVES. A FEMALE friend advis'd a swain

Whose heart she wish'd at ease, "Make love thy pleasure, not thy pain, Nor let it deeply seize.

"Beauty, where vanities abound,

No serious passion claims: Then, till a phenix can be found, Do not admit the flames."

But griev'd, she finds all his replies
(Since prepossess'd when young)
Take all their hints from Silvia's eyes,
None from Ardelia's tongue.

Thus, Cupid, all their aim they miss,
Who would unbend thy bow;
And each slight nymph a phenix is,
If thou would'st have it so.

THE BRAES OF YARROW,

TO LADY JANE HOME,

IN IMITATION OF THE ANCIENT SCOTISH MANNER

A. BUSK ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow?
Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bouy bride,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Where gat ye that bony bony bride? Where gat ye that winsome marrow ? AI gat her where I dare na weil be seen, Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Weep not, weep not, my bony bony bride,
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow,
Nor let thy beart lament to leive

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

B Why does she weep, thy bony bony bride?
Why does she weep thy winsome marrow?
And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?

A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,

Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint her luver luver dear,

Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow, And I hae slain the comliest swain

That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? Why on thy Braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholeous weids

Hung on the bony birks of Yarrow!

What yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! Tis he, the comely swain I slew

Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears, with dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,

And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow,
And weep around in waeful wise,

His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,
His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.

Did I not warn thee not to lue,

And warn from fight? but, to my sorrow, O'er rashly bald, a stronger arm

Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the
Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan,
[grass,
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows
As green its grass, its gowan yellow, [Tweed,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple frae the rock as mellow.

Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve,
In floury bands thou him did'st fetter,
Though he was fair and weil beluiv'd again,
Than me, he never lued thee better.

Busk ye, then busk, my bony bony bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

C. How can I busk a bony bony bride?
How can I busk a winsome marrow?
How lue him on the banks of Tweed,

That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow?

O Yarrow fields, may never never rain,
No dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely slain my luve,

My luve, as he had not been a luver.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest, 'twas my awn seuing;
Ah! wretched me! I little little ken'd

He was in these to meet his ruin.

Pale pale indeed, O lovely lovely youth,
Forgive forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lie all night between my briests,
No youth shall ever lye there after.
A. Return return, O mournful mournful bride,
Return and dry thy useless sorrow,
Thy luver heeds naught of thy sighs,
He lies a corps on the Braes of Yarrow.

THE FLOWER OF YARROW.
TO LADY MARY MONTGOMERY.

Go, Yarrow flower, thou shalt be blest,
To lie on beauteous Mary's breast;
Go, Yarrow flower, so sweetly smelling,
Is there on Earth so soft a dwelling?
Go, lovely flower, thou prettiest flower
That ever smil'd in Yarrow bower,
Go, daughter of the dewy morning,
With Alves' blush the fields adorning.

Go, lovely rose, what do'st thou here?
Lingering away thy short-liv'd year,
Vainly shining, idly blooming,
Thy unenjoyed sweets consuming.

He lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow.
Much I rejoic'd that waeful waeful day;
I sang, my voice the woods returning;
But lang ere night the spear was flown

That slue my luve, and left me mourning.

What can my barbarous barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My luver's blood is on thy spear,

No hand to pull, no eye to view;
What are thy charms, no heart desiring!
What profits beauty, none admiring?

Go, Yarrow flower, to Yarrow maid,
And on her panting bosom laid,
There all thy native form confessing,
The charm of beauty is possessing.
Come, Yarrow maid, from Yarrow field,
What pleasure can the desert yield?
Come to my breast, O all excelling!

My happy sisters may be may be proud,

With cruel, and ungentle scoffin,

May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes
My luver nailed in his coffin.

My brother Douglas may upbraid,

And strive with threat'ning words to muve me, My luver's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?

Yes yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve,
With bridal sheets my body cover,
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,

Let in th' expected husband-lover.

But who th' expected husband husband is?.
His hands methinks, are bath'd in slaughter;
Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,

Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?
Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down,
O lay his cold head on my pillow;

Take af, take aff these bridal weids,

And crown my careful head with willow.

Pale though thou art, yet best yet best beluv'd,
O could my warmth to life restore thee!

Yet lie all night between my briests,
No youth lay ever there before thee.

Come, my dear maid, thou prettiest maid

That ever smil'd in Yarrow shade,

Come, sister of the dewy morning,
With Alves' blush the dance adorning.

Come, lovely maid, love calls thee here,
Linger no more thy fleeting year,
Vainly shining, idly blooming,
Thy unenjoyed sweets consuming.

Vain is thy radiant Garlies hue,
No hand to press, no eye to view;
What are thy charms, no heart desiring?
What profits beauty, none admiring?
Come, Yarrow maid, with Yarrow rose,
Thy maiden graces all disclose;
Come, blest by all, to all a blessing;
The charm of beauty is possessing.

IMITATIONS.

TO A SWALLOW.
FROM ANACREON.

MALICIOUS bird! what punishment,
Due to thy crimes, can love invent?