LIII.

Oft when the winter-storm had ceased to rave, He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view The cloud stupendous, from the' Atlantic wave High towering, sail along the' horizon blue : Where midst the changeful scenery, ever new, Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries More wildly great than ever pencil drew, Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, And glittering cliffs on cliff's, and fiery ramparts rise.

LIV.

Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, The lone enthusiast oft would take his way, Listening with pleasing dread to the deep roar Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array When sulphurous clouds roll'd on the vernal day, Ev'n then he hasten'd from the haunt of man, Along the trembling wilderness to stray, What time the lightning's fierce career began, And o'er Heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder

ran.

LV.

Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all
In sprightly dance the village-youth were join'd,
Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall,

From the rude gambol far remote reclin'd,
Sooth'd with the soft notes warbling in the wind.
Ah then, all jollity seem'd noise and folly :
To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refin'd,
Ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy,

When with the charm compar'd of heavenly melancholy!

LVI.

Is there a heart that music cannot melt ?
Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn!
Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt
Of solitude and melancholy born?

He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn.
The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine;
Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or

mourn,

And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine; Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine.

LVII.

For Edwin fate a nobler doom had plan'd;
Song was his favourite and first pursuit:
The wild harp rang to his advent❜rous hand,
And languish'd to his breath the plaintive flute.
His infant muse, though artless, was not mute:
Of elegance as yet he took no care;

For this of time and culture is the fruit;
And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare :
As in some future verse I purpose to declare.

LVIII.

Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful or new,
Sublime or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky,
By chance, or search, was offer'd to his view,
He scan'd with curious and romantic eye.
Whate'er of lore tradition could supply
From gothic tale, or song, or fable old,
Rous'd him, still keen to listen and to pry.
At last, though long by Penury control'd,
And Solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold.

LIX.

Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,
For many a long month lost in snow profound,
When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland,
And in their northern cave the Storms are bound;
From silent mountains, straight, with startling
sound,

Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd;

Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.*

LX.

Here pause, my gothic lyre, a little while;
The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim:
But if Arbuthnot on this labour smile,
New strains ere long shall animate thy frame,
And his applause to me is more than fame;
For still with truth accords his taste refin❜d.
At lucre or renown let others aim,

I only wish to please the gentle mind, Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of humankind.

*Spring snd Autumn are hardly known to the Laplanders. About the time the sun enters Cancer, their fields, which a week before were covered with snow, appear on a sudden full of grass and flowers. Scheffer's History af Lapland, p. 16. + Robert Arbuthnot, Esq. a near relation of the celebrated Dr. Arbuthnot, and one of the most intimate associates of Dr. Beattie,

Or chance or change O let not man complain;
Else shall he never never cease to wail:"
For, from the' imperial dome, to where the swain
Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale,
All feel the' assault of fortune's fickle gale;
Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doom'd;
Earthquakes have rais'd to heaven the humble
vale,

And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entomb'd, And where the' Atlantic rolls wide continents have bloom'd.*

See Plato's Timeus.

II.

But sure to foreign climes we need not range,
Nor search the ancient records of our race,
To learn the dire, effects of time and change,
Which in ourselves, alas! we daily trace.
Yet at the darken'd eye, the wither'd face,
Or hoary hair, I never will repine:

But spare, O Time! whate'er of mental grace,
Of candour, love, or sympathy divine,
Whate'er of fancy's ray,or friendship's flame is mine.

III.

So I, obsequious to Truth's dread command, Shall here without reluctance change my lay, And smite the gothic lyre with harsher hand; Now when I leave that flowery path for aye Of childhood, where I sported many a day, Warbling and sauntering carelessly along; Where every face was innocent and gay, Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue, Sweet, wild, and artless all, as Edwin's infant song.

IV.

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"Perish the lore that deadens young desire,' Is the soft tenor of my song no more. Edwin, though lov'd of Heaven, must not aspire To bliss, which mortals never knew before. On trembling wings let youthful fancy soar, Nor always haunt the sunny realms of joy; But now and then the shades of life explore; Though many a sound and sight of woe annoy, And many a qualm of care his rising hopes destroy.

VOL. XXXII.

See Book I. Stanza XXXI,

E