FOOTNOTES:

FOOTNOTES:[11]radcliffe'slibrary.[12]Alfred. Regis Romani. V. Virg. Æn. 6.[13]————————Ad Capitolia ducitAurea nunc, olim sylvestribus horrida dumis.VIRG. ÆN.

[11]radcliffe'slibrary.

[12]Alfred. Regis Romani. V. Virg. Æn. 6.

[13]————————Ad Capitolia ducitAurea nunc, olim sylvestribus horrida dumis.VIRG. ÆN.

[13]

————————Ad Capitolia ducitAurea nunc, olim sylvestribus horrida dumis.VIRG. ÆN.

BY MR. HAMMOND.

Let others boast their heaps of shining gold,And view their fields with waving plenty crown'd,Whom neigb'ring foes in constant terror hold,And trumpets break their slumbers, never found.

II.

While calmly poor, I trifle life away,Enjoy sweet leisure by my chearful fire,No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,But cheaply bless'd, I'll scorn each vain desire.

III.

With timely care I'll sow my little field,And plant my orchard with it's master's hand,Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield,Or range the sheaves along the sunny land.

IV.

If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,Under my arm I'll bring the wand'rer home,And not a little chide it's thoughtless dam.

What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast?Or lull'd to slumber by the beating rain,Secure and happy sink at last to rest.

VI.

Or if the sun in flaming Leo ride,By shady rivers indolently stray,And with mydeliawalking side by side,Hear how they murmur, as they glide away.

VII.

What joy to wind along the cool retreat,To stop and gaze ondeliaas I go!To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,And teach my lovely scholar all I know!

VIII.

Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream,In silent happiness I rest unknown;Content with what I am, not what I seem,I live fordelia, and myself alone.

IX.

Ah foolish man! who thus of her possest,Could float and wander with ambition's wind,And if his outward trappings spoke him blest,Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind.

With her I scorn the idle breath of praise,Nor trust to happiness that's not our own,The smile of fortune might suspicion raise,But here, I know, that I am lov'd alone.

XI.

stanhope, in wisdom, as in wit divine,May rise, and plead Britannia's glorious cause,With steady rein his eager wit confine,While manly sense the deep attention draws:

XII.

Letstanhopespeak his list'ning country's wrong,My humble voice shall please one partial maid,For her alone, I pen my tender song,Securely sitting in his friendly shade.

XIII.

stanhopeshall come, and grace his rural friend,deliashall wonder at her noble guest,With blushing awe the riper fruit commend,And for her husband's Patron cull the best.

XIV.

Her's be the care of all my little train,While I with tender Indolence am blest,The favourite subject of her gentle reign,By love alone distinguish'd from the rest.

XV.

For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plow,In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock,For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow,And sleep extended on the naked rock.

XVI.

Ah! what avails to press the stately bed,And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep,By marble fountains lay the pensive head,And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep.

XVII.

deliaalone can please, and never tire,Exceed the paint of thought in true delight,With her, enjoyment wakens new desire,And equal rapture glows thro' every night.

XVIII.

Beauty and worth, alone in her, contendTo charm the fancy, and to fix the mind:In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend,I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd.

XIX.

On her I'll gaze, when others loves are o'er,And dying, press her with my clay-cold hand——Thou weep'st already, as I were no more,Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.

XX.

Oh! when I die, my latest moments spare,Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill,Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair,Tho' I am dead my soul shall love thee still.

XXI.

Oh quit the room, oh quit the deathful bed,Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart!O leave me,delia! ere thou see me dead,These weeping friends will do thy mournful part.

XXII.

Let them extended on the decent bier,Convey the corse in melancholy state,Thro' all the village spread the tender tear,While pitying maids our wond'rous loves relate.

THE

SCOTLAND.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXLVI.

Mourn, haplesscaledonia, mournThy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;Thy hospitable roofs no more,Invite the stranger to the door;In smoaky ruins sunk they lie,The monuments of cruelty.

II.

The wretched owner sees afarHis all become the prey of war;Bethinks him of his babes and wife,Then smites his breast, and curses life.Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,Where once they fed their wanton flocks:Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain;Thy infants perish on the plain.

III.

What boots it then, in every clime,Thro' the wide spreading waste of time,Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke,Thy neck is bended to the yoke.What foreign arms could never quell,By civil rage, and rancour fell.

IV.

The rural pipe, and merry layNo more shall chear the happy day:No social scenes of gay delightBeguile the dreary winter night:No strains, but those of sorrow flow,And nought be heard but sounds of woe;While the pale phantoms of the slainGlide nightly o'er the silent plain.

Oh baneful cause, oh! fatal morn,Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!The sons, against their fathers stood,The parent shed his children's blood.Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,The victor's soul was not appeas'd:The naked and forlorn must feelDevouring flames, and murd'ring steel!

VI.

The pious mother doom'd to death,Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath,The bleak wind whistles round her head,Her helpless orphans cry for bread,Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,She views the shades of night descend,And stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,Weeps o'er her tender babes and dies.

VII.

Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,And unimpair'd remembrance reigns;Resentment of my country's fate,Within my filial breast shall beat;And, spite of her insulting foe,My sympathizing verse shall flow,"Mourn, haplesscaledonia, mourn"Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn."

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD.

The Curfeu tolls, the knell of parting day,The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,The plowman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darkness, and to me.Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds;Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,Or drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.Save, that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'rThe mopeing owl does to the moon complainOf such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,Molest her ancient solitary reign.Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,The rude forefather's of the hamlet sleep.The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more shall rouze them from their lowly bed.For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care:No children run to lisp their sire's return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!Let not ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joy, and destiny obscure;Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,The short and simple annals of the poor.The boasts of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,Awaits alike th' inevitable hour,The paths of glory, lead but to the grave.Forgive, ye proud, the involuntary fault,If memory to these no trophies raise,Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault,The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.Can storied urn, or animated bustBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death?Perhaps in this neglected spot is laidSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire,Hands that the reins of empire might have sway'd,Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre.But Knowledge to their eyes her ample pageRich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.Full many a gem of purest ray serene,The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desart air.Some village-hampdenthat with dauntless breastThe little tyrant of his fields withstood:Some mute ingloriousmiltonhere may rest,Somecromwellguiltless of his country's blood.Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyesTheir lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd aloneTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,Or heap the shrine of luxury and prideWith incense, kindled at the muse's flame.Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;Along the cool sequester'd vale of life,They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,The place of fame and elegy supply,And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to dye.For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,Still in their ashes live their wonted fires.For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd deadDost in these lines their artless tale relate;If chance, by lonely contemplation led,Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn'Brushing with hasty dews away,'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech'That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,'His listless length at noontide wou'd he stretch,'And pore upon the brook that babbles by.'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,'Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,'Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,'Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,'Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;'Another came; nor yet beside the rill,'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.'The next with dirges due in sad array,'Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.'Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,'Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year,'By hands unseen, are show'rs of violets found;'The red-breast loves to build and warble there,'And little footsteps lightly print the ground.

THE EPITAPH.

"Here rests his head upon the lap of earth"A youth to fortune and to fame unknown:"Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,"And Melancholy mark'd him for her own."Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,"Heav'n did a recompence as largely send:"He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear;"He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend."No farther seek his merits to disclose,"Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,"(There they alike in trembling hope repose)"The bosom of his father and his God.

FREDERIC PRINCE OF WALES.

WRITTEN AT PARIS, BY DAVID LORD VISCOUNTSTORMONT, OF CH. CH. OXON.

Little I whilom deem'd my artless zealShould woo the British Muse in foreign landTo strains of bitter argument, and teachThe mimic Nymph, that haunts the winding vergeAnd oozy current of Parisian Seine,To syllable new sounds in accents strange.But sad occasion calls: who now forbearsThe last kind office? who but consecratesHis off'ring at the shrine of fair RenownTo graciousfredericrais'd; tho' but compos'dOf the waste flourets, whose neglected huesChequer the lonely hedge, or mountain slope?Where are those hopes, where fled th' illusive scenesThat forgeful fancy plan'd, what time the barkStem'd the salt wave from Albion's chalky bourn?Then filial Piety and parting LovePour'd the fond pray'r; "Farewell, ye less'ning cliffs,"Fairer to me, than ought in fabled song"Or mystic record told of shores Atlantic!"Favour'd of heav'n, farewell! imperial isle,"Native to noblest wits, and best approv'd"In manly science, and advent'rous deed!"Celestial Freedom, by rude hand estrang'd"From regions once frequented, with Thee takes"Her stedfast station, fast beside the throne"Of scepter'd Rule, and there her state maintains"In social concord, and harmonious love."These blessings still be thine, nor meddling fiend"Stir in your busy streets foul Faction's roar;"Still thrive your growing works, and gales propitious"Visit your sons who ride the watry waste;"And still be heard from forth your gladsome bow'rs"Shrill tabor-pipes, and ev'ry peaceful sound."Nor vain the wish, whilegeorgethe golden scale"With steady prudence holds, and temp'rate sway."And when his course of earthly honours run,"With lenient hand shallfredericsooth your care,"Rich in each princely quality, mature"In years, and happiest in nuptial choice."Thence too arise new hopes, a playful troop"Circles his hearth, sweet pledges of that bed,"Which Faith, and Joy, and thousand Virtues guard."His be the care t' inform their ductile minds"With worthiest thoughts, and point the ways of honour."How often shall he hear with fresh delight"Their earnest tales, or watch their rising passions"With timorous attention; then shall tell"Of justice, fortitude and public weal,"And oft the while each rigid precept smooth"With winning tokens of parental love!"Thus my o'erweening heart the secret storesOf Britain's hope explor'd, while my strain'd sightPursued her fading hills, till wrapt in mistThey gently sunk beneath the swelling tide.Nor slept those thoughts, whene'er in other climesI mark'd the cruel waste of foul oppression,Saw noblest spirits, and goodliest faculties,To vassalage and loathsome service bound.Then conscious preference rose; then northward turn'dMy eye, to gratulate my natal soil.How have I chid with froward eagernessEach veering blast, that from my hand witheldThe well known characters of some lov'd friend,Tho' distant, not unmindful? Still I learn'dDelighted, what each patriot plan devis'dOf arts, or glory, or diffusive commerce.Nor wanted its endearment every taleOf lightest import. But oh! heavy change,What notices come now? Distracted scenesOf helpless sorrow, solemn sad accounts;How fairaugustawatch'd the weary nightTending the bed of anguish; how greatgeorgeWept with his infant progeny around;How heav'd the orphan's and the widow's sigh,That follow'dfredericto the silent tomb.For well wasfredericlov'd; and well deserv'd:His voice was ever sweet, and on his stepsAttended ever the alluring graceOf gentle lowliness and social zeal.Him shall remember oft the labour'd hind,Relating to his mates each casual actOf courteous bounty. Him th' artificer,Plying the varied woof in sullen sadness,Tho' wont to carrol many a ditty sweet.Soon too the mariner, who many moonsHas counted, beating still the foamy surge,And treads at last the wish'd-for beach, shall standAppall'd at the sad tale, and soon shall stealDown his rough cheek th' involuntary tear.Be this our solace yet, all is not dead;The bright memorial lives: for his exampleShall Hymen trim his torch, domestic praiseBe countenanc'd, and virtue fairer shew.In age succeeding, when anothergeorge,To ratify some weighty ordinanceOf Britain's peers conven'd, shall pass besideThose hallowed spires, whose gloomy vaults enclose,Shrouded in sleep, pale rows of scepter'd kings,Oft to his sense the sweet paternal voiceAnd long-remember'd features shall return;Then shall his generous breast be new inflam'dTo acts of highest worth, and highest fame.These plaintive strains fromalbionfar away,I lonely meditate at even-tide;Nor skill'd nor studious of the raptur'd lay;But still remembring oft the magic sounds,Well-measur'd to the chime of Dorian lute,Or past'ral stop, which erst I lov'd to hearOnIsis'broider'd mead, where dips by fitsThe stooping osier in her hasty stream.Hailwolsey'sspacious dome! hail, ever fam'dFor faithful nurture, and truth's sacred lore,Much honour'd parent! You my duteous zealAccept, if haply in thy laureat wreathYou deign to interweave this humble song.

BY MR. JAMES CLITHEROW OF ALL SOULS COLL.

'Twas on the evening of that gloomy day,Whenfrederic, ever lov'd, and ever mourn'd,(Such heav'n's high will, and who shall disobey?)To earth's cold womb in holy pomp return'd:

II.

With sullen sounds, the death-denouncing bellProclaim'd aloud the dismal tale of woe,The pealing organ join'd the solemn knell,In mournful notes, majestically slow.

III.

The full-voic'd choir, in stoles of purest white,With frequent pause, the soul-felt anthem raise;While o'er the walls in darkest sable dight,A thousand tapers pour'd their holy blaze.

IV.

In high devotion wrapt, the mitred sage,With energy sublime, the rites began;While tears from every sex, and every age,Bewail'd the prince, the father, and the man.

"Who, when our sov'reign liege to fate shall yield,"Shall prop, like him, Britannia's falling state?"Who now the vengeful sword of justice wield,"Or ope, like him, sweet Mercy's golden gate?

VI.

"Who shall to Arts their pristine honours bring,"Rear from the dust fair Learning's laurell'd head,"Or bid rich commerce plume her daring wing?"Arts, Learning, Commerce are infredericdead.

VII.

"Who now shall tend, with fond, paternal care,"The future guardians of our faith and laws?"Who teach their breasts with patriot worth to dare,"And die with ardour, in Britannia's cause?

VIII.

"And who, ah! who, with soft endearing lore,"Shall sooth, like him, the royal mourner's breast?"Her lord, her life, herfredericis no more."—Deep groans and bitter wailings speak the rest.

IX.

Then, when at length the awful scene was clos'd,And dust to dust in holy hope consign'd;All to their silent homes their steps dispos'd,To feed on solitary woe the mind;

All but Lorenzo;—he with grief dismay'd;Nor heeding ought butfrederic'shapless fate,Musing along the cloyster'd temple stray'd,Till lonely midnight clos'd th' impervious gate.

XI.

But when each lamp by slow degrees expir'd,And total night assumes her silent reign,Sudden he starts, with wild amazement fir'd,And big with horror traverses the fane.

XII.

The vaulted mansions of th' illustrious deadInspire his shudd'ring soul with ghastly fears,Dire shapes, and beck'ning shades around him tread,And hollow voices murmur in his ears.

XIII.

There, as around the monumental mazeDarkling he wanders, a resplendent gleamShoots o'er th' illumin'd isle a distant blaze,Pale as the glow-worm's fire, or Cynthia's beam.

XIV.

With glory clad, th' imperial shrines among,Four royal shapes on iv'ry thrones were plac'd,High o'er their heads four airy diadems hung,Which never yet their maiden brows had grac'd.

XV.

The first was he, whomcressy'sglorious plainHas fam'd for martial deeds and bold emprize;Nor less his praise in Virtue's milder strain,Just, humble, learned, merciful and wise.

XVI.

Nextarthursat, at whose auspicious birthIn one sweet flower the blended roses join'd;Andhenrynext, fair plant of Scottish earth,The hope, the joy ofalbionand mankind.

XVII.

Yet green in death, the last majestic shadeWore graciousfrederic'smild, endearing look;To him the rest obeysance courteous paid,Andedwardthus the princely form bespoke:

XVIII.

"All hail! illustrious partner of our fate,"For whom, as once for us, Britannia bleeds;"Hail! to the mansions of the good and great,"Where crowns immortal wait on virtuous deeds.

XIX.

"The same our fortune, as our worth the same,"(To worth like ours short date doth heav'n assign)"As one our fortune, one shall be our fame,"And long record our deathless names shall join.

XX.

"But oh! I tremble for Britannia's state,"May guardian pow'rs avert the dire presage!"For well she knows, at our untimely fate"How heav'n's dread vengeance smote each sinful age.

XXI.

"The regal staff aspiringbolingbroke"Snatch'd with rude grasp fromrichard'sprincely hand;"Loos'd from hell's confines, civil Discord shook"The dubious throne, and tore the bleeding land.

XXIII.

"Whenarthurdied, imperioushenry'sthirst"Of subject's blood, nor heeded sex nor age;"His wives a sacrifice to vagrant lust,"His nobles victims to tyrannic rage.

XXIV.

"When piouscharlesin right fraternal reign'd,"Rebellion proudly stalk'd from shore to shore,"Her laws, her rights, her holy faith profan'd,"And dy'd the guilty land with royal gore.

XXV.

"Yet ah! may pity move relenting heav'n!"Enough she groans beneath her present woe;"Enough to vengeance is already given;"Herfrederic'sdead;—there needs no other blow."

XXVI.

Scarce had he spoken, when the bird of day'Gan morn's approach with clarion shrill declare,At once th' unbodied phantoms fade away,The fond illusion all dissolves in air.

ON THE

APPROACH OF SUMMER.

BY A GENTLEMAN FORMERLY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ABERDEEN.

Te dea, te fugiunt venti, te nubila cœli,Adventumque tuum; tibi suaveis dædala tellusSubmittit flores; tibi rident æquora ponti;Placatumque nitet diffuso lumine cœlum.lucretius.

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