Heaven only to the rural state bestows Conquest o'er life, and freedom from its woes: Secure alike from envy and from care, Nor raised by hope, nor yet depressed by fear; Nor want's lean hand its happiness constrains, Nor riches torture with ill-gotten gains. No secret guilt its steadfast peace destroys, No wild ambition interrupts its joys.

Blest still to spend the hours that Heaven has lent, In humble goodness, and in calm content: Serenely gentle, as the thoughts that roll, Sinless and pure, in fair Humeia's soul.

But now the rural state these joys has lost;
Even swains no more that innocence can boast:
Love speaks no more what beauty may believe,
Prone to betray, and practised to deceive.
Now Happiness forsakes her blest retreat,
The peaceful dwelling where she fixed her seat;
The pleasing fields she wont of old to grace,
Companion to an upright sober race;
When on the sunny hill, or verdant plain,
Free and familiar with the sons of men,
To crown the pleasures of the blameless feast,
She uninvited came, a welcome guest;
Ere yet an age, grown rich in impious arts,
Bribed from their innocence uncautious hearts.
Then grudging hate and sinful pride succeed,
Cruel revenge, and false unrighteous deed.
Then dowerless beauty lost the power to move;
The rust of lucre stained the gold of love:
Bounteous no more, and hospitably good,
The genial hearth first blushed with strangers'
blood:

The friend no more upon the friend relies,
And semblant falsehood puts on truth's disguise:
The peaceful household filled with dire alarms;
The ravished virgin mourns her slighted charms:
The voice of impious mirth is heard around,
In guilt they feast, in guilt the bowl is crowned:
Unpunished violence lords it o'er the plains,
And happiness forsakes the guilty swains.

Oh! Happiness, from human search retired, Where art thou to be found, by all desired? Nun, sober and devout, why art thou fled, To hide in shades thy meek contented head?

Virgin! of aspect mild, ah! why, unkind,
Fly'st thou, displeased, the commerce of mankind?
O! teach our steps to find the secret cell,
Where, with thy sire Coutent, thou lov'st to dwell.
Or, say, dost thou a duteous handmaid wait
Familiar at the chambers of the great?
Dost thou pursue the voice of them that call
To noisy revel and to midnight ball?
O'er the full banquet, when we feast our soul,
Dost thou inspire the mirth, or mix the bowl?
Or, with the industrious planter dost thou talk,
Conversing freely in an evening walk?
Say, does the miser e'er thy face behold,
Watchful and studious of the treasured gold?
Seeks knowledge, not in vain, thy much-loved

power,

Still musing silent at the morning hour? May we thy presence hope in war's alarms, In Stair's wisdom, or in Erskine's charms?

In vain our flattering hopes our steps beguile,
The flying good eludes the searcher's toil:
In vain we seek the city or the cell,
Alone with Virtue knows the power to dwell:
Nor need mankind despair these joys to know,
The gift themselves may on themselves bestow:
Soon, soon we might the precious blessing boast,
But many passions must the blessing cost;
Infernal malice, inly pining hate,

And envy, grieving at another's state;
Revenge no more must in our hearts remain,
Or burning lust or avarice of gain.

When these are in the human bosom nursed, Can peace reside in dwellings so accursed! Unlike, O Eglinton! thy happy breast, Calm and serene, enjoys the heavenly guest; From the tumultuous rule of passions freed, Pure in thy thought, and spotless in thy deed: In virtues rich, in goodness unconfined, Thou shin'st a fair example to thy kind; Sincere and equal to thy neighbour's name, How swift to praise! how guiltless to defame! Bold in thy presence Bashfulness appears, And backward Merit loses all its fears. Supremely blessed by Heaven, Heaven's richest

grace

Confessed is thine-an early blooming race;
Whose pleasing smiles shall guardian Wisdom arm,
Divine Instruction! taught of thee to charm:
What transports shall they to thy soul impart
(The conscious transports of a parent's heart),
When thou behold'st them of each grace possest,
And sighing youths imploring to be blest!
After thy image formed, with charms like thine,
Or in the visit, or the dance, to shine:
Thrice happy! who succeed their mother's praise,
The lovely Eglintons of other days.

Meanwhile, peruse the following tender scenes, And listen to thy native poet's strains:

In ancient garb the home-bred Muse appears,
The garb our Muses wore in former years.
As in a glass reflected, here behold
How smiling Goodness looked in days of old;
Nor blush to read, where Beauty's praise is shown,
Or virtuous Love, the likeness of thy own:
While 'midst the various gifts that gracious
Heaven

To thee, in whom it is well-pleased, has given,
Let this, O Eglinton, delight thee most,-
T'enjoy that innocence the world has lost.

THE MAID OF GALLOWSHIELS.

(EXTRACT.)

Now in his artful hand the bagpipe held, Elate, the piper wide surveys the field. O'er all he throws his quick discerning eyes, And views their hopes and fears alternate rise. Old Glenderule, in Gallowshiels long fam'd For works of skill, the perfect wonder fram'd; His shining steel first lopp'd, with dexterous toil, From a tall spreading elm the branchy spoil. The clouded wood he next divides in twain, And smoothes them equal to an oval plane. Six leather folds in still connected rows To either plank conformed, the sides compose; The wimble perforates the base with care, A destin'd passage opening to the air; But once inclosed within the narrow space, The opposing valve forbids the backward race. Fast to the swelling bag, two reeds combin'd, Receive the blasts of the melodious wind. Round from the twining loom, with skill divine Embost, the joints in silver circles shine; In secret prison pent, the accents lie, Until his arm the lab'ring artist ply: Then duteous they forsake their dark abode, Fellows no more, and wing a sep'rate road. These upward through the narrow channel glide In ways unseen, a solemn murmuring tide; Those thro' the narrow part, their journey bend Of sweeter sort, and to the earth descend. O'er the small pipe at equal distance, lie Eight shining holes o'er which his fingers fly. From side to side the aerial spirit bounds: The flying fingers form the passing sounds, That, issuing gently thro' the polish'd door, Mix with the common air, and charm no more. This gift long since old Glenderule consign'd, The lasting witness of his friendly mind, To the fam'd author of the piper's line. Each empty space shone rich in fair design: Himself appears high in the sculptur'd wood As bold in the Harlean field he stood. Serene, amidst the dangers of the day, Full in the van you might behold him play;

There in the humbler mood of peace he stands,
Before him pleas'd are seen the dancing bands,
In mazy roads the flying ring they blend,
So lively fram'd they seem from earth t' ascend.
Four gilded straps the artist's arm surround,
Two knit by clasps, and two by buckles bound.
His artful elbow now the youth essays,
A tuneful squeeze to wake the sleeping lays.
With lab'ring bellows thus the smith inspires,
To frame the polish'd lock, the forge's fires;
Conceal'd in ashes lie the flames below;
Till the resounding lungs of bellows blow;
Then mounting high, o'er the illumin'd room
Spreads the brown light, and gilds the dusky
gloom;

The bursting sounds in narrow prison pent, Rouse, in their cells, loud rumbling for a vent.

Loud tempests now the deafen'd ear assail;
Now gently sweet is breath'd a sober gale:
As when the hawk his mountain nest forsakes,
Fierce for his prey his rustling wings he shakes;
The air impell'd by th' unharmonious shock,
Sounds clattering and abrupt through all the
rock.

But as she flies, she shapes to smoother pace
Her winnowing vans, and swims the aërial space.

WHY HANGS THAT CLOUD?

Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow,

That beauteous heav'n, erewhile serene? Whence do these storms and tempests blow, What may this gust of passion mean? And must then mankind lose that light Which in thine eyes was wont to shine, And lie obscure in endless night,

For each poor silly speech of mine?

Dear maid, how can I wrong thy name,

Since 'tis acknowledged, at all hands, That could ill tongues abuse thy fame, Thy beauty can make large amends. Or if I durst profanely try

Thy beauty's powerful charms t' upbraid, Thy virtue well might give the lie, Nor call thy beauty to its aid.

For Venus, every heart t' ensnare,

With all her charms has deck'd thy face, And Pallas, with unusual care,

Bids wisdom heighten every grace. Who can the double pain endure? Or who must not resign the field To thee, celestial maid, secure With Cupid's bow and Pallas' shield?

ALAS! THE SUNNY HOURS ARE

PAST.

Alas! the sunny hours are past;
The cheating scene, it will not last;
Let not the flatt'rer, Hope, persuade,-
Ah! must I say that it will fade!
For see the summer flies away,
Sad emblem of our own decay!
Grim winter, from the frozen north,
Drives swift his iron chariot forth.

His grisly hands, in icy chains,
Fair Tweeda's silver stream constrains,
Cast up thy eyes, how bleak, how bare,
He wanders on the tops of Yare!
Behold, his footsteps dire are seen
Confest o'er ev'ry with'ring green;
Griev'd at the sight, thou soon shalt see
A snowy wreath clothe ev'ry tree.

Frequenting now the streams no more,
Thou fliest, displeas'd, the frozen shore:
When thou shalt miss the flowers that grew,
But late, to charm thy ravish'd view;
Then shall a sigh thy soul invade,
And o'er thy pleasures cast a shade:
Shall I, ah, horrid! shalt thou say,
Be like to this some other day!

Ah! when the lovely white and red
From the pale ashy cheek are fled;
When wrinkles dire, and age severe,
Make beauty fly, we know not where,-
Unhappy love! may lovers say,
Beauty, thy food, does swift decay;
When once that short-liv'd stock is spent,
What is't thy famine can prevent?

Lay in good sense with timeous care,
That love may live on wisdom's fare;
Tho' ecstacy with beauty dies,
Esteem is born when beauty flies.
Happy the man whom fates decree
Their richest gift in giving thee!
Thy beauty shall his youth engage,
Thy wisdom shall delight his age.

YE SHEPHERDS OF THIS PLEASANT

VALE.

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,
Brightened each hill, and o'er each vale
New coloured every flower:

The gales their gentle sighs withheld,
No leaf was seen to move,
The hovering songsters round were mute,
And wonder hushed the grove.

The hills and dales no more resound The lambkins' tender cry; Without one murmur Yarrow stole In dimpling silence by:

All nature seemed in still repose

Her voice alone to hear, That gently rolled the tuneful wave She spoke, and blessed 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 feathered choir resumed their voice,
And wonder filled the grove;

The hills and dales again resound
The lambkins' tender cry,
With all his murmurs Yarrow trilled
The song of triumph by:

Above, beneath, around, all on

Was verdure, beauty, song;

I snatched her to my trembling breast, All nature joyed along.

JOHN ARMSTRONG, M. D., author of the wellknown poem "The Art of Preserving Health," was born, it is believed, in 1709, in the parish of Castleton, Roxburghshire. He completed his education at the University of Edinburgh, and having chosen the medical profession, he took his degree as physician in 1732, and soon after repaired to London, where he became known by the publication of several fugitive pieces and medical essays. In 1735 he pub lished " An Essay for Abridging the Study of Medicine," being a humorous attack on quacks and quackery, in the style of Lucian. Two years afterwards appeared "The Economy of Love," for which poem he received £50 from Andrew Millar, the bookseller. It was an objectionable production, and greatly interfered with his practice as a physician. He subsequently expunged many of the youthful luxuriances with which the first edition abounded. In 1744 his principal work was published, entitled "The Art of Preserving Health," one of the best didactic poems in the English language, and the one on which his reputation mainly rests. It is certainly the most successful attempt in the English language to incorporate material science with poetry.

In 1746 Armstrong was appointed physician to the Hospital for Sick and Lame Soldiers, and in 1751 he published his poem on "Benevolence," followed by an 'Epistle on Taste, addressed to a Young Critic." His next work, issued in 1758, was prose,-"Sketches or Essays on Various Subjects, by Lancelot Temple, Esq.," in two parts, which evinced considerable humour and knowledge of the world. Its sale was wonderful, owing chiefly to a fable of the day, that the celebrated John Wilkes, then in the zenith of his popularity, had assisted in its production. In 1760 Dr. Armstrong received the appointment of physician to the army in Germany, where in 1761 he wrote "Day, a Poem, an epistle to John Wilkes, Esq.," his friendship for whom did not long continue, owing to his publishing the piece, which was intended

for private perusal. Having in two unlucky lines happened to hit off the character of Churchill as a "bouncing mimic" and "crazy scribbler," the author of the "Rosciad" resolved to be revenged, and in his poem called "The Journey," thus retaliated on the doctor, by twenty stabs at the reputation of a man whom he had once called his friend, and had joined with all the world in admiring as a writer:

"Let them with Armstrong, taking leave of sense,
Read musty lectures on Benevolence;
Or con the pages of his gaping Day,
Where all his former fame was thrown away,
Where all but barren labour was forgot,
And the vain stiffness of a letter'd Scot;
Let them with Armstrong pass the term of light,
But not one hour of darkness; when the night
Suspends this mortal coil, when mem'ry wakes,
When for our past misdoings conscience takes
A deep revenge, when by reflection led
She draws his curtains, and looks comfort dead,
Let ev'ry muse be gone; in vain he turns,
And tries to pray for sleep; an Etna burns,
A more than Etna, in his coward breast,
And guilt, with vengeance arm'd, forbids to rest;
Though soft as plumage from young Zephyr's wing,
His couch seems hard, and no relief can bring;
Ingratitude hath planted daggers there,
No good man can deserve, no brave man bear."

At the peace of 1763 Armstrong returned to London, and resumed his practice, but not with his former success. In 1770 he collected and published two volumes of his "Miscellanies," containing the works already enumerated; the

Universal Almanack," a new prose piece; and the "Forced Marriage," a tragedy. The year following he took "a short ramble through some parts of France and Italy," in company with Fuseli the painter, publishing on their return an account of their journey, entitled "A Short Ramble, by Lancelot Temple." His last publication was his Medical Essays, in 1773. Dr. Armstrong died September 7, 1779, in the seventieth year of his age. In Thomson's "Castle of Indolence," to which Armstrong contributed four stanzas, describing the diseases incidental to sloth, he is depicted as