Around her head an oaken wreath was seen,
Inwove with laurels of unfading green.

Such was the sculptured prow-from van to rear
The artillery frowned, a black tremendous tier!
Embalmed with orient gum, above the wave,
The swelling sides a yellow radiance gave.
On the broad stern a pencil warm and bold,
That never servile rules of art controlled,
An allegoric tale on high portrayed;
There a young hero; here a royal maid.
Fair England's Genius, in the youth expressed,
Her ancient foe, but now her friend confessed,
The warlike nymph with fond regard surveyed;
No more his hostile frown her heart dismayed.
His look, that once shot terror from afar,
Like young Alcides, or the god of war,
Serene as summer's evening skies she saw;
Serene, yet firm; though mild, impressing awe.
Her nervous arm, inured to toils severe,
Brandished the unconquered Caledonian spear.
The dreadful falchion of the hills she wore,
Sung to the harp in many a tale of yore,
That oft her rivers dyed with hostile gore.
Blue was her rocky shield; her piercing eye
Flashed like the meteors of her native sky.
Her crest, high-plumed, was rough with many a

scar,

And o'er her helmet gleamed the northern star.
The warrior youth appeared of noble frame;
The hardy offspring of some Runic dame.
Loose o'er his shoulders hung the slackened bow,
Renowned in song, the terror of the foe!
The sword, that oft the barbarous North defied,
The scourge of tyrants! glittered by his side.
Clad in refulgent arms in battle won,

The George emblazoned on his corselet shone;
Fast by his side was seen a golden lyre
Pregnant with numbers of eternal fire:

Thus the rich vessel moves in trim array,
Like some fair virgin on her bridal day;
Thus like a swan she cleaves the watery plain;
The pride and wonder of the Ægean main!

OCCASIONAL ELEGY.

The scene of death is closed, the mournful strains Dissolve in dying languor on the ear;

Yet pity weeps, yet sympathy complains, And dumb suspense awaits o'erwhelm'd with fear.

But the sad Muses, with prophetic eye,

At once the future and the past explore; Their harps oblivion's influence can defy,

And waft the spirit to the eternal shore.

Then, O Palemon! if thy shade can hear
The voice of friendship still lament thy doom,
Yet to the sad oblations bend thine ear,
That rise in vocal incense o'er thy tomb.
In vain, alas! the gentle maid shall weep,

While secret anguish nips her vital bloom;
O'er her soft frame shall stern diseases creep,
And give the lovely victim to the tomb.
Relentless frenzy shall the father sting,

Untaught in virtue's school distress to bear; Severe remorse his tortured soul shall wring"Tis his to groan and perish in despair.

Ye lost companions of distress, adieu!

Your toils and pains and dangers are no more! The tempest now shall howl, unheard by you, While ocean smites in vain the trembling shore.

Or waft rapt Fancy through the gulfs of hell: Struck with contagion, kindling Fancy hears The songs of Heaven, the music of the spheres! Borne on Newtonian wing through air she flies, Where other suns to other systems rise.

These front the scene conspicuous; overhead Albion's proud oak his filial branches spread: While on the sea-beat shore obsequious stood Beneath their feet, the father of the flood: Here, the bold native of her cliffs above, Perched by the martial maid the bird of Jove; There, on the watch, sagacious of his prey, With eyes of fire, an English mastiff lay. Yonder fair Commerce stretched her winged sail; Here frowned the god that wakes the living gale: High o'er the poop, the flattering winds unfurled The imperial flag that rules the watery world. Deep-blushing armours all the tops invest, And warlike trophies either quarter dressed: Then towered the masts; the canvas swelled on high;

And waving streamers floated in the sky.

In winter's dismal nights no more shall beat; Unfelt by you the vertic sun may glow, And scorch the panting earth with baneful heat.

No more the joyful maid, with sprightly strain, Shall wake the dance to give you welcome home; Nor hopeless love impart undying pain,

When far from scenes of social joy you roam. No more on yon wide watery waste you stray, While hunger and disease your life consume; While parching thirst, that burns without allay, Forbids the blasted rose of health to bloom.

No more you feel Contagion's mortal breath,

That taints the realms with misery severe; No more behold pale Famine, scattering death, With cruel ravage desolate the year.

The thundering drum, the trumpet's swelling strain,

Unheard, shall form the long embattled line:

Unheard, the deep foundations of the main
Shall tremble when the hostile squadrons join.
Since grief, fatigue, and hazards still molest
The wandering vassals of the faithless deep;
O! happier now, escaped to endless rest,

Than we who still survive to wake and weep.

What though no funeral pomp, no borrow'd tear, Your hour of death to gazing crowds shall tell; Nor weeping friends attend your sable bier,

Who sadly listen to the passing-bell;

The tutor'd sigh, the vain parade of woe,
No real anguish to the soul impart;
But oft, alas! the tear that friends bestow,
Belies the latent feelings of the heart.

What though no sculptured pile your name displays,

Like those who perish in their country's cause; What though no epic muse in living lays

Records your dreadful daring with applause:

Full oft the flattering marble bids renown
With blazon'd trophies deck the spotted name;
And oft, too oft, the venal Muses crown
The slaves of vice with never-dying fame.

Yet shall remembrance from Oblivion's veil
Relieve your scene, and sigh with grief sincere,
And soft Compassion at your tragic tale
In silent tribute pay her kindred tear.

ADDRESS TO MIRANDA.

The smiling plains, profusely gay,
Are drest in all the pride of May;
The birds on every spray above
To rapture wake the vocal grove;

But ah! Miranda, without thee,
Nor spring nor summer smiles on me;
All lonely in the secret shade

I mourn thy absence, charming maid!

O soft as love! as honour fair!
Serenely sweet as vernal air!
Come to my arms; for you alone
Can all my absence past atone.

O come! and to my bleeding heart
Thy sovereign balm of love impart;
Thy presence lasting joy shall bring,
And give the year eternal spring!

JOHN OGILVIE, D.D., a poet of some renown in his day, was the son of one of the ministers of Aberdeen, where he was born in 1733. He was educated at Marischal College, from which afterwards he received the degree of Doctor of Divinity. Having qualified himself as a preacher he was in 1759 appointed minister of the parish of Midmar, in Aberdeenshire, where he continued in the faithful discharge of his pastoral duties for more than half a century. His personal history was only varied by the publication of his numerous and now forgotten poems (the first of which, "The Day of Judgment," appeared in 1759), and an occasional visit to London, where he became acquainted, through his friend and admirer James Boswell, with Dr. Johnson, Churchill, and other literary magnates of the metropolis. Scarcely any of Ogilvie's poems are known

even by name to readers of the present day, and he is only remembered by several hymns which are to be found in collections in use in the United States and Great Britain. His biographer remarks that "Ogilvie, with powers far above the common order, did not know how to use them with effect. He was an able man lost. His intellectual wealth and industry were wasted in huge and unhappy speculations. Of all his books, there is not one which, as a whole, can be expected to please the general reader. Noble sentiments, brilliant conceptions, and poetic graces may be culled in profusion from the mass; but there is no one production in which they so predominate, if we except some of his minor pieces, as to induce it to be selected for a happier fate than the rest. Had the same talent which Ogilvie threw away on a number of ob

jects been concentrated on one, and that one chosen with judgment and taste, he might have rivalled in popularity the most renowned of his contemporaries." The venerable divine

continued his useful parish labours till his death in 1814. In addition to his poems Dr. Ogilvie was the author of several works on philosophy and Christian ethics.

Yet let the muse extend her towering wing,
To roam the vast of Nature! Lo! what scenes,
By man yet unexplored, unfold to rouse
Her search! to tremble in her ardent eye!
To tempt her flight sublime, as o'er the world
She soars, and from her airy height surveys
The fate of empire; and the shifting scenes
Of human thought, successive as they swim,
Buoying, or lost in time's o'erwhelming wave.

Not idly curious her light glance pervades
The plans of wisdom; with no stranger's eye
She comes to wonder on the solemn scenes:
Or prying search for labyrinths, where the field
Is open, rich, accessible.-But free,
Impartial, just, she scans the mighty themes;
And paints them genuine as they rose to view.
'Twas where a plain far from the haunt of man,
Spread its green bosom to the evening ray,
All soft and sweetly silent; my slow step
Had led me wandering wide: the stream of
thought

In that calm hour to meditation due,
Flow'd on the soul spontaneous; as the breeze
On the smooth current of some limpid rill
Steals o'er the ruffled wave. A dusky wood
O'erlook'd the field, and full in sight opposed

A range of hills frown'd o'er the chequer'd

scene,

Crown'd with gay verdure; whence the list'ning

ear

Thrill'd to the music of the tuneful choirs
That stream'd sweet-warbling o'er the vale; or
heard

Remote the deep's low murmur, like the voice
Of torrents from afar. Here all retired,
Musing I sat, and in thy mirror view'd
Fair History, beheld the towering piles
Of grandeur fallen, or call'd the forms august
Of heroes from the tomb. The mighty chiefs,
I saw them bustling o'er the human scene,
"Til Fate had digg'd the sepulchres, and toll'd
The bell that summon'd them to rest.
boon,

What

1 This extract is taken from the beginning of the second book of Ogilvie's principal poetical work, entitled "Providence, an Allegorical Poem, in Three Books," first issued in a handsome illustrated quarto, London, 1764.-ED.

The prize of virtue paid them! did thy worth,
Intrepid Decius, from the Samnite steel
Screen the devoted heart? Did Scipio quell
The tide of passion, and release the fair,
Blooming and spotless, to her lover's arms;
Or snatch from Hannibal's proud crest the wreath
Of victory; to find the sons of Rome
Just to his deeds? Ah no!--Amid the gloom
Of solitude he pined; scarce from the grasp
Of fury rescued, indignation swell'd
His manly heart, and grief slow-mining loosed
The props of life, and gave him to the tomb.

Such, Tully, was thy fate, and, Brutus, thine! The ghastly head low-rolling in the dust; The tongue, to satiate female frenzy, torn; The bleeding heart, yet reeking, spoke the end Of eloquence and virtue. Scarce a tear Embalm'd their urns, triumphant vice beheld With smiles their exit; and oppression raised Her scourge to punish where the feeling heart Swell'd in soft moisture to the pitying eye.

O! wreck'd, and dubious of a life to come! What trophies graced the present! Heav'n withheld

From these superior light, left in the maze
of glimmering nature led: while toil and pain
Of doubt to wander, by the twilight ray
Mark'd their long course with woe; and death's
pale eye

Terrific frown'd them into nought. Did these,
Than we more guilty, by superior crimes
Insult th' Omnipotent, that Truth's fair form,
Unveil'd to us, was from the dark research
Of cool philosophy in shades immured?
Whence, then, the palm by every voice conferr'd!
Whence the sweet lay that wantons in their
praise?

Why o'er soft pity's pallid cheek descends
The tear that weeps their doom, that says they
lived

A virtuous few! that mourns them as they fell,
The victims of ingratitude, or zeal
For public honour? yet the beam of heav'n
Illumed not Reason's path, nor led the min
To see the Maker in his work portray'd
One, perfect, infinite, nor show'd the climes
Of pure ethereal pleasure, for the blest
Prepar'd, nor to th' enlighten'd view display'd

The form of moral beauty as it swells
In full proportion to the mental gaze,
Wrought by celestial aid. To these its charms
Appear'd not. Heav'n on their degenerate sons
Conferr'd its noblest boon when from the gulf
Of surgy Chaos, where the goddess lay
Wrapt in black clouds, He bade eternal Truth
Rise to the day! She heard, and to his call
Obedient rose! Her beauty-beaming eye,
Fair as thy ray, Aurora, when it scares
The growling lion from his prey, dispell'd
Th' involving shade, her magic touch dissolved
The veil of error, lighten'd the dim search
Of dark philosophy, and show'd the MIND
That form'd, supports, and guides this mighty
frame.

HYMN, FROM PSALM CXLVIII.

Begin, my soul, the exalted lay,
Let each enraptured thought obey,

And praise the Almighty's name;

Lo! heaven and earth, and seas and skies, In one melodious concert rise

To swell the inspiring theme.

Ye fields of light, celestial plains,
Where gay transporting beauty reigns,
Ye scenes divinely fair!

Your Maker's wond'rous power proclaim-
Tell how he formed your shining frame,
And breathed the fluid air.

Ye angels! catch the thrilling sound!
While all the adoring thrones around
His boundless mercy sing:
Let every listening saint above
Wake all the tuneful soul of love,
And touch the sweetest string.

Join, ye loud spheres, the vocal choir; Thou dazzling orb of liquid fire,

The mighty chorus aid;

Soon as gray evening gilds the plain, Thou moon, protract the melting strain, And praise him in the shade.

Thou Heaven of heavens, his vast abode,
Ye clouds, proclaim your forming God!
Who called yon worlds from night;
"Ye shades, dispel!" the Eternal said,
At once the involving darkness fled,
And nature sprung to light.

Whate'er a blooming world contains,
That wings the air, that skims the plains,
United praise bestow;

Ye dragous, sound his awful name
To heaven aloud; and roar acclaim,
Ye swelling deeps below.

Let every element rejoice:

Ye thunders, burst with awful voice
To him who bids you roll;
His praise in softer notes declare,
Each whispering breeze of yielding air,
And breathe it to the soul!

To him, ye graceful cedars, bow;
Ye towering mountains, bending low,
Your great Creator own!

Tell, when affrighted nature shook,
How Sinai kindled at his look,
And trembled at his frown.

Ye flocks that haunt the humble vale, Ye insects fluttering on the gale,

In mutual concourse rise; Crop the gay rose's vermeil bloom, And waft its spoils, a sweet perfume, In incense to the skies!

Wake, all ye mountain tribes, and sing-
Ye plumy warblers of the spring,

Harmonious anthems raise

To him who shaped your finer mould,
Who tipped your glittering wings with gold,
And tuned your voice to praise!

Let man, by nobler passions swayed,
The feeling heart, the judging head,
In heavenly praise employ;
Spread his tremendous name around,
Till heaven's broad arch rings back the sound,
The general burst of joy.

Ye whom the charms of grandeur please,
Nursed in the downy lap of ease,

Fall prostrate at his throne;

Ye princes, rulers, all adore—
Praise him, ye kings, who makes your power
An image of his own!

Ye fair, by nature formed to move,
O praise the Eternal Source of love
With youth's enlivening fire:
Let age take up the tuneful lay,
Sigh his blest name-then soar away,
And ask an angel's lyre!