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Extend thy silent, soothing sway,
And charm the canker Care away.
Whether thou lovest to glide along
Attended by an airy throng
Of gentle dreams and smiles of joy,
Such as adorn the wanton boy;
Or to the monarch's fancy bring
Delights that better suit a king;
The glittering host, the groaning plain,
The clang of arms, and victor's train;
Or should a milder vision please,
Present the happy scenes of peace;
Plump Autumn, blushing all around;
Rich Industry, with toil embrown'd;
Content, with brow serenely gay,
And genial Art's refulgent ray.

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, polish'd 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.1
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch, and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with eglantine.

1 The par is a small fish, not unlike the smelt, which it rivals in delicacy and flavour.

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

TO BLUE-EYED ANN.

WHEN the rough North forgets to howl,
And Ocean's billows cease to roll;

When Libyan sands are bound in frost,
And cold to Nova Zembla's lost!
When heavenly bodies cease to move,
My blue-eyed Ann 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 dogstar bring;
Nor laughing lilies paint the grove,
When blue-eyed Ann I 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 to passion birth;
Nor heat to summer sunshine cleave,
When blue-eyed Nanny I 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.

BURLESQUE ODE.1

WHERE wast thou, wittol Ward, when hapless fate
From these weak arms mine aged grannam tore:
These pious arms essay'd too late,

To drive the dismal phantom from the door.
Could not thy healing drop, illustrious quack,
Could not thy salutary pill prolong her days;
For whom so oft to Mary'bone, alack!

Thy sorrels dragg'd thee through the worst of ways!

Oil-dropping Twickenham did not then detain
Thy steps, though tended by the Cambrian maids;
Nor the sweet environs of Drury Lane;
Nor dusty Pimlico's embowering shades;
Nor Whitehall by the river's bank,

Beset with rowers dank;

Nor where the' Exchange pours forth its tawny sons;
Nor where to mix with offal, soil and blood,

Steep Snow Hill rolls the sable flood;

Nor where the Mint's contaminated kennel runs:
Ill doth it now beseem,

That thou shouldst doze and dream,

When Death in mortal armour came,

And struck with ruthless dart the gentle dame.

Her liberal hand and sympathizing breast

The brute creation kindly bless'd:

Where'er she trod grimalkin purr'd around,
The squeaking pigs her bounty own'd;
Nor to the waddling duck or gabbling goose
Did she glad sustenance refuse;

The strutting cock she daily fed,
And turkey with his snout so red;

Of chickens careful as the pious hen,

Nor did she overlook the tomtit or the wren;
While redbreast hopp'd before her in the hall,
As if she common mother were of all.

For my distracted mind,

What comfort can I find?

1 Dr. Smollett imagining himself ill treated by Lord Lyttelton, wrote the above burlesque on that nobleman's monody on the death of his lady.

O best of grannams! thou art dead and gone,
And I am left behind to weep and moan,
To sing thy dirge in sad funereal lay,
Ah! woe is me! alack! and well-a-day!

THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.

WRITTEN IN 1746.

MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy 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 smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.

The wretched owner sees afar
His 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.

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

The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy day:
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile 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 slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

O baneful cause! oh fatal morn,
Accursed to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their fathers stood,
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceased,
The victor's soul was not appeased;
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames, and murdering steel!

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 the inclement skies
Weeps o'er her tender babes and dies.

While 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, hapless Caledonia! mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!”

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VERSES ON A YOUNG LADY

PLAYING ON A HARPSICHORD, AND SINGING.

WHEN Sappho struck the quivering wire,
The throbbing breast was all on fire:
And when she raised the vocal lay,
The captive soul was charm'd away!

But had the nymph possessed with these
Thy softer, chaster power to please;
Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth,
Thy native smiles of artless truth;

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