ANTISTROPHE.

Those sculptured halls my feet shall never tread,
Where varnished Vice and Vanity, combined
To dazzle and seduce, their banners spread,
And forge vile shackles for the free-born mind.
While Insolence his wrinkled front uprears,
And all the flowers of spurious Fancy blow;
And Title his ill-woven chaplet wears,
Full often wreathed around the miscreant's brow:
Where ever-dimpling Falsehood, pert and vain,
Presents her cup of stale profession's froth;
And pale Disease, with all his bloated train,
Torments the sons of gluttony and sloth.

STROPHE.

In Fortune's car behold that minion ride,
With either India's glittering spoils oppressed;
So moves the sumpter-mule in harnessed pride,
That bears the treasure which he cannot taste.
For him let venal bards disgrace the bay,
And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string;
Her sensual snares let faithless Pleasure lay,
And jingling bells fantastic Folly ring:
Disquiet, Doubt, and Dread shall intervene;
And Nature, still to all her feelings just,
In vengeance hang a damp on every scene
Shook from the baleful pinions of Disgust

ANTISTROPHE,

Nature I'll court in her sequestered haunts,
By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell;
Where the poised lark his evening ditty chants,
And Health and Peace and Contemplation dwell.
There, Study shall with Solitude recline,
And Friendship pledge me to his fellow-swains,
And Toil and Temperance sedately twine
The slender cord that fluttering life sustains:
And fearless Poverty shall guard the door,
And Taste unspoiled the frugal table spread,
And Industry supply the humble store,
And Sleep unbribed his dews refreshing shed;
White-mantled Innocence, ethereal sprite,
Shall chase far off the goblins of the night;
And Independence o'er the day preside,
Propitious power! my patron and my pride.

THY FATAL SHAFTS.

Thy fatal shafts unerring move;
I bow before thine altar, Love!
I feel thy soft resistless flame

Glide swift through all my vital frame!

For while I gaze my bosom glows,
My blood in tides impetuous flows;
Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll,
And floods of transport 'whelm my soul.

My falt'ring tongue attempts in vain In soothing murmurs to complain; My tongue some secret magic ties, My murmurs sink in broken sighs! Condemn'd to nurse eternal care, And ever drop the silent tear, Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh, Unfriended live, unpitied die!

BLUE-EYED ANNE.

When the rough North forgets to howl,
And ocean's billows cease to roll;
When Lybian sands are bound in frost,
And cold to Nova Zembla's lost;
When heavenly bodies cease to move,-
My blue-eyed Anne I'll cease to love.

No more shall flowers the meads adorn,
Nor sweetness deck the rosy thorn,
Nor swelling buds proclaim the spring,
Nor parching heats the Dog-star bring,
Nor laughing lilies paint the grove,-
When blue-eyed Anne I'll cease to love.

No more shall joy in hope be found,
Nor pleasures dance their frolic round,
Nor love's light god inhabit earth,
Nor beauty give the passion birth,
Nor heat to summer-sunshine cleave,-
When blue-eyed Nanny I'll deceive.

When rolling seasons cease to change,
Inconstancy forgets to range;
When lavish May no more shall bloom,
Nor gardens yield a rich perfume;
When nature from her sphere shall start,-
I'll tear my Nanny from my heart.

WHEN SAPPHO TUN'D THE RAPTUR'D
STRAIN.

When Sappho tun'd the raptur'd strain,
The list ning wretch forgot his pain;
With art divine the lyre she strung,
Like thee she play'd, like thee she sung.

For while she struck the quivering wire,
The eager breast was all on fire;
And when she join'd the vocal lay,
The captive soul was charm'd away!
But had she added still to these,
Thy softer, claster power to please,

Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth,
Thy native smiles of artless truth;

She ne'er had pined beneath disdain,.
She ne'er had play'd and sung in vain;
Despair her soul had ne'er possess'd
To dash on rocks the tender breast.

ODE TO LEVEN WATER.

On Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod the Arcadian plain.
Pure stream, in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,

That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, polished pebbles spread;
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;
The springing trout in speckled pride;
The salmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike. intent on war;
The silver eel and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch, and groves of pine,
And edges flowered with eglantine.

Still on thy banks so gaily green,
May numerous flocks and herds be seen;
And lasses chanting o'er the pail,
And shepherds piping in the dale;
And ancient faith that knows no guile,
And industry embrowned with toil;
And hearts resolved, and hands prepared,
The blessings they enjoy to guard!

SIR GILBERT ELLIOT, third baronet of Minto, was born in Roxburghshire in the year 1722. He was the eldest son of the Sir Gilbert who, Lord Woodhouselee says, "was taught the German flute in France, and was the first to introduce that instrument into Scotland in 1725;" and grandson of the first baronet, a Lord of Session, known by the title of Lord Minto. Our poet was educated for the Scottish bar, and in 1763 was made treasurer of the navy. Three years afterwards he succeeded his father, the second baronet, in the title and estates, and subsequently obtained the reversion of the office of keeper of the signet in Scotland. He was a man of considerable political and literary ability, and was distinguished as a speaker in parliament, as well as highly accomplished and sagacious in parliamentary business. He died at Marseilles in 1777. Some lines which he wrote on the occasion of his father's death are curiously applicable to his own:

"His mind refined and strong, no sense impaired, Nor feeling of humanity, nor taste Of social life; so e'en his latest hour

In sweet domestic cheerfulness was passed;

Sublimely calm his ripened spirit fled,
His family surrounding, and his friends;
A wife and daughter closed his eyes: on them
Was turned his latest gaze: and o'er his grave
Their father's grave-his sons the green turf spread."

Sir Gilbert's eldest son, for some time Governor-general of India, was raised to the peerage by the title of the Earl of Minto; and his sister, Miss Jane Elliot, was the authoress of the old set of "The Flowers of the Forest." His philosophical correspondence with David Hume is quoted with commendation by Dugald Stewart in his Philosophy of the Human Mind, and in his Dissertation" prefixed to the seventh edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica. He was the author of the following lines on the death of Colonel James Gardiner, and of what Sir Walter Scott calls "the beautiful pastoral song" beginning

is one of the last and the best efforts of the pastoral muse. I know not whether to account it good fortune or design which made the name of the heroine sound so like that of the family residence; but I am willing to believe in the prophetic strain which makes the cliffs echo, for many a later year, the song of My Sheep I neglected.'

'On Minto crags the moonbeams glint,
Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint,
Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest
Where falcons hang their giddy nest,
'Mid cliffs from whence his eagle eye
For many a league his prey could spy;

Cliffs doubling on their echoes borne
The terrors of the robber's horn,
Cliffs which for many a later year
The warbling Doric reed shall hear,
When some sad swain shall teach the grove
Ambition is no cure for love.'

As if it had not been enough for Sir Gilbert Elliot and his sister to write two of our favourite lyrics, and enjoy the credit of such compositions, by special grace and good fortune they have also each obtained a separate and lasting compliment in verse-the first in the Lay of the Last Minstrel,' and the latter in Marmion :'

'One of those flowers whom plaintive lay

In Scotland mourns as 'wede away.'"

AMYNTA.1

My sheep I neglected, I lost my sheep-hook, And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook; No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove; For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.

Oh! what had my youth with ambition to do? Why left I Amynta? why broke I my vow? Oh! give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook

restore.

And I'll wander from love and Amynta no

more.

Through regions remote in vain do I rove, And bid the wide ocean secure me from love! O fool! to imagine that aught could subdue A love so well-founded, a passion so true!

Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine;
Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine;
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,
The moments neglected return not again.

'TWAS AT THE HOUR OF DARK MIDNIGHT.2

'Twas at the hour of dark midnight, Before the first cock's crowing,

1 First published in Yair's Charmer, issued at Edinburgh in 1749; it afterwards appeared in Herd's and other collections, and is written to the tune of an old air called "My Apron Dearie," which is to be found in Johnson's Mus um and Thomson's Select Melodies.-ED.

When westland winds shook Stirling's tow'rs,
With hollow murmurs blowing;
When Fanny fair, all woe-begone,
Sad on her bed was lying,

And from the ruin'd tow'rs she heard
The boding screech-owl crying.

66

"O dismal night!" she said, and wept, "O night presaging sorrow:

O dismal night!" she said, and wept,
But more I dread to-morrow.
For now the bloody hour draws nigh,
Each host to Preston bending;
At morn shall sons their fathers slay,
With deadly hate contending.

"Even in the visions of the night
I saw fell death wide sweeping;
And all the matrons of the land

And all the virgins weeping."
And now she heard the massy gates
Harsh on their hinges turning;
And now through all the castle heard
The woeful voice of mourning.

Aghast she started from her bed,

The fatal tidings dreading;

"O speak," she cried, "my father's slain! I see. I see him bleeding!"

A pale corpse on the sullen shore, At morn, fair maid, I left him; Even at the threshold of his gate

The foe of life bereft him.

2 Colonel Gardiner, the hero of this song, one of the very few which are extant not on the Stuart side, was killed at the battle of Prestonpans in 1745. He was cut down by a Highlander armed with a scythe blade, after his soldiers had basely deserted him.-ED.

"Bold, in the battle's front he fell, With many a wound deformed: A braver knight, nor better man,

This fair isle ne'er adorned.'

While thus he spake, the grief-struck maid

A deadly swoon invaded; Lost was the lustre of her eyes, And all her beauty faded.

Sad was the sight, and sad the news,
And sad was our complaining;
But oh! for thee, my native land,
What woes are still remaining!
But why complain? the hero's soul
Is high in heaven shining:
May Providence defend our isle
From all our foes designing.

JOHN HOME, an eminent dramatic poet, and a lineal descendant of Sir John Home of Cow denknowes, was born at Leith, Sept. 22, 1722. He was educated at the University of Edinburgh, and in April, 1745, was licensed to preach in the Church of Scotland. During the same year he joined a volunteer company on the side of the government, and was taken prisoner at the battle of Falkirk, but succeeded with some others in making his escape from Doune Castle, where he was confined. The poet's imprisonment, and that of his brother bards Buchanan, Skinner, and Smollett, must have escaped the memory of Professor Wilson when he wrote, "No Scottish poet was ever in a jail." In 1746 Home was ordained minister of Athelstaneford, made vacant by the death of the author of "The Grave." Having written the tragedy of "Agis," he proceeded to London in 1749, and offered it to David Garrick, at that time manager of Drury Lane, who refused it. The disappointed author, with the feeling natural to such a situation, wrote the following lines on the tomb of Shakspere in Westminster Abbey:

་་

Image of Shakspere! to this place I come,
To ease my bursting bosom at thy tomb;
For neither Greek nor Roman poet fired
My fancy first-thee chiefly I admired;
And, day and night revolving still thy page,
I hoped, like thee, to shake the British stage;
But cold neglect is now my only meed,
And heavy falls it on so proud a head.
If powers above now listen to my lyre,
Charm them to grant, indulgent, my desire;
Let petrifaction stop this falling tear,
And fix my form for ever marble here."

Six years later, having written the tragedy of Douglas," founded upon the beautiful old ballad of "Gil Morris," Home again visited London, and offered it to Garrick, who pronounced the play totally unfitted for the stage. It was, however, performed at the Edinburgh Canongate Theatre, December 14, 1756, with the most gratifying success, in the presence of a large audience, among whom were the delighted author and several other ministers. For this flagrant violation of clerical propriety Home's friends were subjected to the censures of the church, which he himself only escaped by resigning his living. But the tragedy nevertheless became very popular with the general public, who continued and still continue to receive it with enthusiasm. It is related that during one of the early representations in Edinburgh, when the feelings of the audience burst forth as usual at the conclusion of Norval's speech, a voice from the gallery shouted out the triumphant query,

Whaur's yer Shakspere noo?" In 1757 Home again visited London, and through the influence of the Earl of Bute had the satisfaction of seeing "Douglas" brought out by Garrick with distinguished success, followed soon after by "Agis," with the great English tragedian and Mrs. Cibber playing the principal characters. His "Siege of Aquileia” was also represented on the London stage, but, owing to a lack of interest in the action, failed to win public favour. In 1760 Home printed his three tragedies in one volume, with a dedication to the Prince of Wales, whose society

he had enjoyed through the favour of Lord Bute, preceptor to the prince; and who, after his accession to the throne, granted him a pension of £300 a year, which, in addition to an equal sum from his sinecure office of conservator of Scots privileges at Campvere, in Zealand, likewise bestowed upon him, enabled the poet to repose with tranquillity upon his prospects of dramatic fame.

of money, he delighted in entertaining large companies of friends, and often had more guests than his house could conveniently accommodate. His latest work was a "History of the Rebellion of 1745”— -a transaction of which he was entitled to say pars fui. But the work disappointed public expectation, and was certainly not what was looked for from one who was not only an actor in the scene, but the author of a tragedy like "Douglas." An explanation may perhaps be found in the

"My dearest Friend,-In looking over the list we made together, I feel myself still in debt particularly to poor Home: no office occurs to me that I think fit for him; I therefore desire you will give him £300 per annum out of my privy purse, which mode will be of more utility to him, as it will come free from the burden of taxes and infamous fees of office. I have a double satisfaction in giving Home this mark of my favour, as I know the execution of it will be as agreeable to my dearest friend as the directing it is to myself."

Home was the author of eight additional tragedies and comedies, composed during his residence in London, which terminated in 1779, when he went to reside in Edinburgh, and thenceforth lived in the enjoyment of the highest literary society of that city. Careless

III., and that the MS. was submitted before publication for correction by the reigning family. Home died September 5, 1808, aged nearly eighty-six years, and was buried in the churchyard of his native place, where also repose the remains of his friend James Sibbald, and that "inheritor of unfilled renown" Robert Nicoll. As a dramatic poet Home deserves the credit of having written with more fervid feeling, and less of stiffness and artificiality, than the other poets of his time; his genius in this respect approaching to that of his contemporary Collins. His Dramatic Works were published at Edinburgh in 1798, in two 12mo vols.; and in 1822 another edition appeared in the same city, entitled "The Works of John Home, Esq., now first collected, to which is prefixed an account of his Life and Writings by Henry Mackenzie," in three 8vo vols. To this admirable work we refer the reader for further particulars connected with the literary labours of our author.

ACT I.

SCENE I.-The Court of a Castle, surrounded with

woods.

Enter LADY RANDOLPH.

ANNA.

choly gloom

Accords with my soul's sadness, and draws forth
The voice of sorrow from my bursting heart,
Farewell awhile: I will not leave you long;
For in your shades I deem some spirit dwells,

Weep for her husband slain, her infaut lost.
My brother's timeless death I seem to mourn
Who perish'd with thee on this fatal day.
To thee I lift my voice; to thee address
The plaint which mortal ear has never heard.