They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance;
To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze;

Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance
Rapid along with many-colour'd rays

Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze.

36.*

The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day,
Who scar'dst the vision with thy clarion shrill,
Fell chanticleer!+ who oft has reft away
My fancied good, and brought substantial ill!

* St. 34, 35, 36. Sure you go too far in lengthening a stroke of Edwin's character and disposition into a direct narrative, as of a fact. In the mean time, the poem stands still, and the reader grows impatient. Do you not, in general, indulge a little too much in description and reflection? This is not my remark only; I have heard it observed by others; and I take notice of it here, because these are among the stanzas that might be spared: they are good, nevertheless, and might be laid by, and employed elsewhere to advantage. Gray.

Upon this Dr. Beattie observes, "This remark is perfectly just. All I can say is, that I meant, from the beginning, to take some latitude in the composition of this poem, and not to confine myself to the epical rules for narrative. In an epic poem, these digressions and reflections, &c. would be unpardonable."

+ This expression, says Sir W. Forbes, alludes to a singular, but deep-rooted aversion, which Dr. Beattie all his life evinced for the crowing of a cock.

O to thy cursed scream, discordant still,
Let Harmony aye shut her gentle ear:
Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill,
Insult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear,

And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear.

37.

Forbear, my Muse. Let love attune thy line.
Revoke the spell. Thine Edwin frets not so.
For how should he at wicked chance repine,
Who feels from every change amusement flow?
Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow,
As on he wanders thro' the scenes of morn,
Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow,
Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn,
A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne.

38.

But who the melodies of morn can tell?

The wild brook babbling down the mountain side;

The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;

The pipe of early shepherd dim descried

In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

39..

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;
Crown'd with her pail the tripping milk-maid sings;
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!
Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings;

Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour

1

40.'

O Nature, how in every charm supreme!
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!
O for the voice and fire of seraphim,
To sing thy glories with devotion due!

Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew,

From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty;

And held high converse with the godlike few, Who to th' enraptur'd heart, and ear, and eye, Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody.*

41.

Hence ye, who snare and stupify the mind,
Sophists! of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane!
Greedy and fell, tho' impotent and blind,
Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane,
And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain!

Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slime

First gave you form! hence! lest the Muse should deign

(Tho' loth on theme so mean to waste a rhyme,)

With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious crime.

* Spite of what I have just now said, this digression pleases me so well, that I cannot spare it.-Gray.

42.

But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay,
Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth!
Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay,
Amus'd my childhood, and inform'd my youth.

O let your spirit still my bosom sooth,
Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide!
Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth;
For well I know, wherever ye reside,

There harmony, and peace, and innocence, abide.

43.

Ah me! neglected on the lonesome plain,
As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore,
Save when against the winter's drenching rain,
And driving snow, the cottage shut the door,
Then, as instructed by tradition hoar,
Her legends when the Beldam 'gan impart,
Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er,

Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart;
Much he the tale admir'd, but more the tuneful art.

44.

Various and strange was the long-winded tale;
And balls, and knights, and feats of arms, display'd;
Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale,
And sing, enamour'd, of the nut-brown maid;
The moon-light revel of the fairy glade;
Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood,
And ply in caves the unutterable trade,*

* Macbeth. How now, ye secret, black, and midnight hags.

What is't you do?

Witches. A deed without a name.

"Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood, Yell in the midnight storm, or ride the infuriate flood. *

45.

But when to horror his amazement rose,
A gentler strain the Beldam would rehearse,
A tale of rural life, a tale of woes,
The orphan babes, and guardian uncle fierce.
O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce
That heart by lust of lucre sear❜d to stone!
For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse,
To latest times shall tender souls bemoan
Those helpless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone.

46..

Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn, +
The babes now tamish'd lay them down to die :
Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn,
Folded in one another's arms they lie;

Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry;
"For from the town the man returns no more."
But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st defy,
This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore,
When Death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy

store.

* The infuriate flood. I would not make new words with out great necessity: it is very hazardous at best.-Gray.

On this Dr. Beattie observes, "I would as soon make new coin, as knowingly make a new word, except I were to invent any art or science where they would be necessary. Infuriate is used by Thomson, Summer, line 1096.; and, which is much better authority, by Milton: Paradise Lost, b. vi. v. 487.

+ See the fine old ballad, called, The Children in the Wood.