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THE 
 
 POOR MAN'S SABBATH, &c. 
 
THE 
 
 POOR MAN'S SABBATH, 
 
 OTHER POEMS, 
 
 JOHN STRUTHERS. 
 
 A NEW EDITION, CORRECTED AND ENLARGED. 
 
 Every one thatkeepeth the Sabbath from polluting it, and taketh hold 
 of my covenant; even them will I bring to my holy mountain, and make 
 them joyful in my house of prayer. 
 
 Holy Scriptures. 
 
 GLASGOW: 
 
 PRINTED BY G. RICHARDSON, 35, MILLER STREET. 
 
 MDCCCXXXIX. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE following pages contain all the poetical composi- 
 tions of the author, that, in his present rnood of mind, 
 he considers worthy of heing submitted to the notice 
 of the reader. The most of them have been repeat- 
 edly before the public, and have already had their 
 modicum of approbation. All of them, however, have 
 been carefully revised, some of them, he flatters him- 
 self, considerably improved. Be this as it may, he 
 has so far had his reward. The composing of them 
 soothed the toils and softened the trials of his youth, 
 the revising of them has contributed to lighten some 
 weary hours of approaching old age darkened with 
 clouds of irremediable sorrow. To the gentlemen, not 
 numerous but highly respectable, by whose patronage 
 he has been enabled to print this edition, especially 
 for the manner in which that patronage has been be- 
 stowed, he returns his best thanks. Their kindness 
 has been to his failing spirit like the tranquil beam 
 of the purple evening, shining out upon the closing 
 shadows of a dark and cloudy day. 
 
 GLASGOW, Dec., 1838. 
 
 M527932 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 POOR MAN'S SABBATH, - 
 
 Notes to do. 44 
 
 HOUSE OF MOURNING, &c. 49 
 
 Notes to do. 93 
 
 THE PLOUGH, - 99 
 
 DYCHMONT, 135 
 
 Dedication, &c., 137 
 
 Canto I. 139 
 
 Canto II. - 140 
 
 Canto III. - 166 
 
 Canto IV. - 181 
 
 Laura, - - 190 
 
 Jamie Gray, . 206 
 
 To the Blackbird, 213 
 
 On the approach of Winter, 217 
 
 To April, 221 
 
 On Visiting some scenes of my Infancy, 224 
 
 Sick Child, ... 229 
 
 Fragment, - 231 
 
 To Calder Water, - - 233 
 
 Time, - 240 
 
 Epistle, &c. 241 
 
 A Day-Dream, 249 
 
 Epitaphs, 255 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TO THE 
 
 FOURTH EDITION OF THE POOR MAN'S SABBATH. 
 
 THE Sabbath, whether we advert to its institution, 
 its present effects, or its ultimate end, is calculated 
 to excite admiration, gratitude, and love. Instituted 
 by God, as commemorative, through all his wide 
 dominions, of his having, in six days, created, out 
 of nothing, this fair earth, with all its inhabitants, 
 and these high heavens, with all their resplendent 
 hosts, it was once may we suppose celebrated in 
 unison by all his rational offspring, " When," ac- 
 cording to the lofty language of inspiration, " the 
 morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God 
 shouted for joy." 
 
 Of these sons of the morning, however, many, 
 perhaps the brightest of them, fell from their high 
 estate, and, " reserved in chains under darkness," 
 have had no more Sabbaths or Sabbath songs. Yet, 
 " How unsearchable are his judgments, and his ways 
 past finding out !" God, in the manifestation of his 
 mercy, hath, through this blessed institution, breathed 
 balm into the wounds of a fallen world ; and, con- 
 stituting it a perpetual and irrefragable witness 
 
against their atheism , presumption, and obstinacy, 
 has, by it, in a greater or less degree, blessed all the 
 generations of men for what nation is there under 
 heaven, which has not, in one shape or other, some 
 returning day of rest, which, though no proper Sab- 
 bath, is yet evidently derived from it, and affords to 
 worn-out nature, a little mitigation in the midst of its 
 bondage ; at the same time, that it sustains the dim 
 taper of expiring hope, and whispers into the ear of 
 exhausted expectation, that there is a Sabbath ap- 
 proaching, a rest arid a refreshing, into which all the 
 ends of the earth shall one day, as with one heart and 
 one soul, enter ? 
 
 If there be any exceptions to this general fact, it 
 is among the degraded tribes, cut off as it were from 
 the rest of mankind, and shut up in the lonely isles 
 scattered over the bosom of the vast Pacific, where, 
 no doubt, the tempter and the destroyer imagined he 
 had secured a seed that should serve him for ever j 
 and that, when he had succeeded in extinguishing 
 among them the last embers of traditionary truth, 
 and, by their physical situation, secluded them for 
 ever from the benefits of Revelation, he had most 
 certainly made them an indisputable and permanent 
 addition to his doleful dominions. In the adorable 
 and mysterious dispensation of Divine providence, 
 however, these long lost portions of the creation of 
 God, through the light of science, the spirit of 
 modern enterprise, and the noble exertions of Chris- 
 tian philanthropy, have become the first-fruits of the 
 savage world, being at once joined to civilized society, 
 
and to the Church of Christ thus giving a new and 
 striking accomplishment to the ancient oracle, " from 
 the uttermost part of the earth have we heard songs, 
 even glory to the Righteous." 
 
 These extended views, however, which, in a dis- 
 sertation on the Sabbath, would afford matter of 
 curious and edifying inquiry, or in a poem, embracing 
 the subject in general, might be made the ground- 
 work of much fanciful and pathetic description, do not 
 fall within the design of the following poem, which 
 did not extend farther than to point out a few of the 
 most obvious of its effects upon the child of penury 
 and toil. Nor, perhaps, can the Sabbath be viewed 
 in any more interesting aspect. To him whose daily 
 employment is rather mental than corporeal, though, 
 if he be a man of piety, it brings a blessed relief in 
 changing the subjects of contemplation, from the 
 objects of time and sense, that are seen and perishing, 
 to the glories of Emmanuel, which, though for the 
 present unseen, are eternal, yet it breaks in but life-tie 
 upon the uniform tenor of his life; while to him 
 whose every day is ease and recreation, it must be a 
 day of self-denial, and, instead of adding externally 
 to his comforts, must have an air of monkish severity, 
 or at least of unsocial reserve. 
 
 The Poor Man's Sabbath has, in this respect, a 
 delightful peculiarity, growing, like many other 
 blessings, of which he is ofttimes little aware, out of 
 his lowly situation, the full force of which can only 
 be known by experience. Be he ever so pious and 
 contemplative, through the six days of the week his 
 
thoughts are, for the most part, necessarily chained 
 to the earth. Transporting views of God, in the 
 majesty and magnificence of his works, will some- 
 times elevate his mind a humble, but grateful sense 
 of dependence will sometimes melt his heart and his 
 soul will occasionally breathe itself into the bosom of 
 his dear Redeemer, in delightfully fervent aspirations ; 
 but, upon the whole, in hunger, in weariness, and 
 in ceaseless drudgery how much of his existence is 
 above the dull matter upon which he is employed, or 
 visibly superior to that of the beasts who perish ! 
 
 To such an one, with what delightful attraction 
 does the Sabbath continually return ! It withdraws 
 him from all the toils of this world, except the 
 soothing ones of necessity and mercy, and, however 
 servile his condition, proclaims him the Lord's free 
 man. It brings along with it, still as it revolves, a 
 renewed remission of the original curse, and allows 
 him to eat his bread in all the peaceful tranquillity 
 of primeval innocence. It strips him of his filthy 
 habiliments, the badges of his humble cast, and clothes 
 him, not in the robes of vanity and pride, but in the 
 garments of decent propriety and sets him, not 
 upon a dangerous and frowning elevation, but upon 
 the even ground of fair equality, where he breathes 
 the free air of rationality, and can expatiate at will 
 over the wide landscapes of imagination, of reason, 
 and religion. On other days, his thirst for know- 
 ledge must necessarily be suppressed, and even his 
 devotional exercises are stinted and crippled by the 
 pressure of circumstances. The call of necessity is 
 apt to break in upon them in the morning exertion 
 
for the bread that perisheth shuts them out through 
 the day and, at night, tired nature can often do no 
 more, and they are cut off in the middle by oppressive 
 slumbers. But, on this happy day, he is at large, 
 and walks at liberty. And, though a gladsome, it 
 is a busy day with him. He has the doubts and 
 inquiries of six days to resolve and satisfy he has 
 the accumulated rust of these days to rub off he has 
 some new degree of knowledge to acquire, and some 
 new degree of grace to attain he has some corrupt 
 propensity to mortify he has to cultivate a closer 
 intimacy with his heavenly Father to drink deeper 
 into his love learn more of the secrets of his ever- 
 lasting covenant and thus be fortified against the 
 temptations that may be in his way, and prepared 
 for the toils that he may yet have to go through, 
 before he be permitted to enter upon the Sabbath 
 above, of which this is the lively emblem and the 
 grateful foretaste. 
 
 The Poem was composed, not with the most distant 
 view to publication, but as a memorial of scenes that 
 had been, to the Author, really scenes of enjoyment, 
 and from which he was likely to be separated, as he 
 feared and, as time has demonstrated, feared justly 
 for ever. The warm approbation of some individuals, 
 to whom it was shewn in whole or in part, led to its 
 publication ; and having been upwards of twenty 
 years before the public, and in that time gone through 
 several editions, these few prefatory remarks may 
 perhaps be considered as coming too late, whether in 
 the way of explanation or apology. 
 
The present edition, as it is the last which, in all 
 probability, will pass under the eye of the Author, 
 has been prepared with some care. Correction has, 
 in a few instances, been attempted, and additions 
 made, which, without altering either the plan or 
 spirit of the Poem, will, it is presumed, be found to 
 be improvements. 
 
 He begs leave only further to add, that the merety 
 poetical points of view presented by the subject, were 
 not those which he was the most anxious to exhibit. 
 His object was to portray the Sabbath, as, according 
 to the commandment, kept holy to the Lord, as it is 
 still kept by the wisest and the best in our land, and 
 as it universally was kept, when there was, if the 
 writer is not greatly mistaken, less smoke in the 
 country, but a great deal more heat; much less 
 parading and speechifying, but a great deal more 
 conscientious attending upon divine ordinances, a 
 great deal more heart-searching, humble meditating, 
 fervent praying, and holy living. Such as it is, he 
 presents it, on the altar of her literature, a humble 
 offering to the genius of his country hoping that 
 she will overlook what is defective in the gift, from 
 the hearty good-will of the giver ; and praying, that 
 such may be the simplicity, the purity, and the piety 
 of her peasants such the high and disinterested 
 character of her pastors and such the sweet and 
 peaceful flow of her Sabbaths to the latest posterity. 
 
 GORBALS, March, 1824. 
 
THE POOR MAN'S SABBATH. 
 
 WRITTEN IN 1802. 
 
SONNET. 
 
 WHILE bards illustrious, rich from learning's stream, 
 
 That wavy winds his classic shores along, 
 Inhaling strength, as heaven's resistless beam, 
 
 Sublime the world with high heroic song. 
 I, artless, touch a less ambitious theme, 
 
 Rude, wandering nature's solitudes among, 
 What time the fires of eve begin to gleam, 
 
 And, thickening, rise aerial voices strong. 
 There, giving cheerful to the passing gale 
 
 Devotion's note, that scorns the greedy grave, 
 I ask no more, could but my harp prevail, 
 
 One single relic of the good to save ; 
 And if the virtuous poor man in my tale 
 
 A while be ransom'd from oblivion's wave. 
 
THE 
 
 POOR MAN'S SABBATH. 
 
 RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THE REV. DR. MACGILL, 
 
 PROFESSOR OF THEOLOGY IN THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF GLASGOW. 
 
 I. 
 
 AMIDST the winds that blustering, hollow howl, 
 The frosts, that creep cold on the budding spray; 
 The fires that glare, the clouds that deepening scowl, 
 In life's low vale with soul-depressing sway; 
 Say Muse, what lights the Poor Man on his way 
 Gives him to drink at cool contentment's spring 
 Sheds on his weary soul a cheering ray 
 And bids him soar on Hope's angelic wing? 
 The Sabbath day divine, the Poor Man's Sabbath 
 sing. 
 
 II. 
 
 Hail holy day! of heav'n the certain pledge, 
 And pleasing prelibation here below; 
 'Tis thine, the groans of nature to assuage, 
 And bind with balmy hand her wounds of woe. 
 Rejoicing in the morning s ruddy glow, 
 The labouring"ox, all wet with pearly dew, 
 The clover'd dale at will traverses slow, 
 While idly gleams upon the distant view, 
 Far o'er the fallow field, the glittering soil-worn 
 plough. 
 
10 
 
 III. 
 
 Yea, e'en the simple ass, the daily drudge 
 Of yonder wandering houseless, homeless train. 
 The thistle champs along the common's edge. 
 And lightsome ease obliterates all his pain. 
 But chief, in freedom from the weary wain 
 Exulting, roams at large the hounding steed; 
 Light floats upon the breeze his flowing mane; 
 He snorts he paws he skims the flow'ry mead 
 The Sabbath day to him a day of joy indeed. 
 
 IV. 
 
 His milky charge there too, the farmer feeds, 
 While yet his family lie reclin'd in sleep; 
 This, on the part of labour, mercy pleads 
 Labour, that still an early hour must keep 
 And he that would to meditation deep, 
 Or exercise devout, his mind apply, 
 Nor blooms of hope, nor fruits of faith will reap, 
 If drowsy slumbers hang upon his eye, 
 And nature unrefresh'd pour forth the languid sigh. 
 
 V. 
 
 And down the vale where yet unmelted lie 
 The morning clouds around his humble home, 
 With careless step, in musing transport high, 
 Behold the week-worn cottar slowly roam. 
 On every hand the fragrant flow'rets bloom 
 A hymn of joy in every thicket rings 
 Earth breathes a grateful ofPring of perfume; 
 While blithe the lark extends his dewy wings, 
 And soaring up to heaven, a heaven-taught sonnet 
 sings. 
 
11 
 
 VI. 
 
 All this he ponders o'er with silent joy 
 With gratitude and love his heart o'erflows, 
 Yet grieved to think, that still with base alloy 
 Is mix'd the tribute which his soul bestows. 
 In rev'rerice deep, his head he humbly bows, 
 And lifts to heav'n a supplicating eye, 
 Great are his wants, but words their utterance lose, 
 Dumb on his tongue his mighty cravings lie, 
 And burden 'd sore, his soul pours forth a broken sigh. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And sighs are language, in th' all-gracious ear 
 Of Him who sits supreme on Mercy's throne, 
 Who kindly marks the penitential tear, 
 And of the broken sp'rit the faintest groan. 
 The meltings of the heart, will He disown ? 
 The heart enraptured with his goodness? No 
 A gracious answer to his sigh comes down, 
 Warm on his soul the streams of mercy flow, 
 And kindling in his breast, Heaven's holy ardours 
 glow. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Now, in his bve, his friends and family share, 
 Before his God he spreads their every case, 
 Implores that he would make them all his care, 
 And fold them ever in his warm embrace; 
 But chiefly for his little infant race, 
 As yet unpractised in the world's vile ways, 
 That, by the influence of his special grace, 
 Conducted through life's dark and troubled maze, 
 Their last end may be peace, their whole lives speak 
 his praise. 
 
12 
 
 IX. 
 
 Nor end his fervours here his native land, 
 Tho' owning not a foot breadth of her soil, 
 He prays, that in the hollow of God's hand, 
 She still may rest, the lov'd, the lovely isle; 
 That in her vallies peace may ever smile, 
 And jubilant the song her mountains raise, 
 While woods, and streams, the chorus join the while, 
 With active man, to swell the notes of praise, 
 Till yonder orbs surcease t' admeasure nights and days. 
 
 X. 
 
 Untutor'd he, with philosophic ken, 
 Round the wide limits of the world to sweep, 
 To mark the manners strange of ruder men, 
 And, sage-like, tell what mystic rites they keep : 
 But he has heard, that o'er the pathless deep, 
 Beneath th' unbroken shade of forests brown, 
 The naked tribes, save that they wildly leap, 
 Like moody madness to the changing moon, 
 No blissful day of rest, no sacred service own. 
 
 XL 
 
 That blind, at superstition's awful shrine, 
 Others laid prostrate, drench'd in human gore, 
 The direful fiends of hell, supposed divine, 
 With fear and awful reverence adore; 
 While lying flamens, boasting wizard lore, 
 In vain essay to read their future doom 
 The rite abhorr'd, the harsh rhyme mutter'd o'er, 
 Cheer not the lonely dwelling of the tomb, 
 Which trembling doubt invests with horror's deepest 
 gloom. 
 
13 
 
 XII. 
 
 And with th' assembly great of the first-born, 
 Whose names are writ in heaven, in spirit join'd, 
 He prays that God, upon their case forlorn, 
 Would cast a healing look in mercy kind ; 
 And call his gracious covenant to mind, 
 His promise from the times of old given forth, 
 That in the bonds of amity combined, 
 Through Him divine, the woman's wond'rous birth, 
 
 Men jubilant shall join, from th' utmost ends of 
 earth. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But, from his little cot, a curling cloud 
 Of smoke ascending, homeward tempts his way, 
 To bless his family, and to serve his God, 
 In all the sacred duties of the day. 
 As fanciful, let none despise the lay 
 Sweet peace in all her forms Devotion brings; 
 But doubly sweet her animating ray, rings, 
 
 When, round the social hearth, Heaven's anthem 
 
 And Hope exulting smiles, and Faith expands her 
 wings. 
 
 XIV 
 
 The soothing satisfaction who can tell, 
 Th' emotions dear, that warm the father's heart, 
 As, rising sweet, these strains of Zion swell 
 Around his little ring, devoid of art ? 
 Perhaps, how God beneath oppression's smart 
 Beholds the poor, and listens to their sighs; 
 Or, how in wilds and deserts far apart, 
 To glad the thirsty soul that fainting lies, 
 
 He bids the flowerets spring, and bubbling streams 
 arise. 
 
14 
 
 XV. 
 
 Or what, when read, while all attentive hear, 
 Is some marked portion of the sacred word; 
 Perhaps, in Sinai's thirsty desert drear, 
 Or Arnon's brooks, the doing of the Lord. 
 Or how, when Persecution's cruel sword 
 Awoke, in fury, burning to devour, 
 By Cherith's brook conceal'd, the Prophet's board, 
 The ravens, mission'd by Almighty power, 
 With bread and flesh supplied, at morn and evening's 
 hour. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Or, when amidst the drought-consumed soil, 
 Their empty urns the fainting brooks deplore, 
 How the poor widow's little cruse of oil 
 For many a day supplied the unfailing store ; 
 Or how the weeping Bard the briny shower 
 Poured for the children of his people slain, 
 While low on earth, with ashes covered o'er, 
 Zion for help stretched forth her hands in vain, 
 A hissing and a scorn to spiteful foes profane. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Perhaps, when this green earth in morning prime, 
 To run its destined course had scarce begun, 
 How righteous Abel fell before his time, 
 By meekness, faith, and charity undone 
 And how the haughty, over-bearing one, 
 Though pitying earth the ruthless deed deplor'd, 
 Harden'd in pride and hate, in daring tone, 
 Braving the anger of th' Omniscient Lord, 
 Was driven out from man a vagabond abhorred 
 
15 
 
 XVI11. 
 
 Or how the peaceful Enoch walked with God, 
 Amidst a world of wickedness and strife ; 
 And how he was not found in earth's abode, 
 Caught up immediate to eternal life. 
 Or how, a comfort when his cares were rife, 
 And foam'd the curse in wraths o'er briming horn, 
 To woe-worn Lamech by his faithful wife, 
 Noah, amidst the ungodly scoffs and scorn 
 Of a rejected world, a Preacher bold was born. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Whom when the day of slighted patience clos'd, 
 And wrath's dark night arose in starless gloom, 
 A miracle of mercy interpos'd, 
 To save amidst the all o'erwhelming doom. 
 And how, when on a lost world's closing tomb, 
 Its relic, and its orphan poor he stood, 
 His grateful offering's savoury perfume, 
 Through precious faith in the Messiah's blood, 
 Rose with acceptance meet before the throne of God. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Who on his weakness turn'd a pitying eye, 
 Resolv'd in such sort never to contend 
 Again with sinful flesh but wet and dry, 
 In measure meet, with heat and cold to send. 
 And seasons, round the rolling earth to blend 
 Beauty and grandeur in successive rise; 
 And day arid night, until th' appointed end 
 Of all within man's visive range that lies, 
 The garniture of earth, the glory of the skies. 
 
16 
 
 XXL 
 
 And how he bade him love and multiply, 
 And fill the earth, yet fair for him outspread, 
 And rule o'er all that run, creep, swim or fly ; 
 The rightful owner, and the sovereign head. 
 And how, least in his breast a secret dread 
 Might harbour, and his better thoughts confine, 
 Of wrath remov'd, and reconcilement made, 
 The glorious symbol, dipp'd in dyes divine, 
 Bright on the rising cloud he bade the rainbow shine. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Beneath his oak, in Mamre's fertile vale, 
 His browsing flocks around him peaceful spread, 
 Abram, they see, God's Messengers regale 
 And here him warm for Sodom intercede. 
 Awestruck, they mark that careless city laid, 
 Full fed upon the wanton lap of ease, 
 Fast closing o'er her wrath's eternal shade, 
 Yet hoarse her tumult, rising on the breeze, 
 Wild as the boreal winds, or tempest stricken seas. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Her doom how dread ! the grey dawn's placid beam 
 Has scarcely still'd the maddend night's uproar, 
 Sloth on her pillow grasps the feverish dream, 
 And gorg'd intemperance deep begins to snore. 
 The rising sun glints soft on tree and tower, 
 And love and joy awakes the woodland choir 
 When lo ! it bursts one sulphurous flash of power, 
 And, in a tempest of eternal fire, 
 In one dread moment whelm'd the ungodly race 
 expire. 
 
17 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Unhappy Lot, didst thou not now reflect 
 Upon thy selfish choice, thy love of gain ; 
 Thy comfort, and thy dutiful respect 
 For generous Abram sacrific'd in vain. 
 That rich, well water 'd, ever verdant plain, 
 So captivating to thy carnal eye, 
 With all upon it, swallow'd up amain 
 Leaves thee in widow'd solitude to sigh, 
 The weeping child of woe, and cheerless poverty. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Or Isaac meek, come forth at eventide 
 
 To meditate at La-hai-roi well, 
 
 By fair Rebekah met in maiden pride, 
 
 Awakes their pious feeling's gentler swell. 
 
 And Jacob, how they lingering love to dwell 
 
 On portions of thy strangely varied tale, 
 
 Thy patient toil, thy faith that did excel, 
 
 Thy strength with th' angel wrestling to prevail, 
 
 Whence came, a prince with God, thy new name 
 Israel. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Or Pisgah mount with Moses they ascend, 
 The distant land of promise to survey ; 
 That goodly land, where hills and vallies blend, 
 Woods wave, streams glide, and living fountains 
 
 play. 
 
 A land for which God careth every day 
 Refreshed with rain and fertilized with dew ; 
 A land whereon his strong right hand for aye 
 Shall rest conspicuous in creation's view, 
 
 Astonishing in grace, in judgment fearful too! 
 
18 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Or of th' Eternal One, a child of days, 
 All lowly in a humble manger laid ; 
 Or toil-consurn'd in life's laborious ways, 
 A man of sorrows, wanting daily bread ; 
 Nor having where to lay his aching head, 
 In his own world by his own chosen race, 
 His love with heartless apathy repaid, 
 His office power rnalign'd, and, to his face, 
 Charged with demoniac aid his highest acts of grace. 
 
 XXVIIL 
 
 Or, through the frail humanity he wore, 
 How brightly to the eye of faith it shone, 
 Although at times with more or less of power, 
 The glory of th' alone begotten Son. 
 Image express of him th' unseen One, 
 He made his pathway the wide weltering wave ; 
 He spoke the winds were still, disease was gone, 
 And, yielding up its charge, th' oblivious grave 
 Proclaimed him Lord of all omnipotent to save. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Perhaps they read, while rapture speaking tears 
 Like dew drops o'er their sunburnt faces stray, 
 How free'd from all his woes and all his fears, 
 Death's bands he burst upon this hallow'd day : 
 And gracious, as his friends pursu'd their way 
 Towards Emmaus, their faith and hope nigh gone, 
 Reviv'd their spirits with a rich display 
 From his own word how all that had been done 
 Must needs have met on him, as from the first 
 foreshown. 
 
19 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Foreshown in Eden by the bruised heel 
 The woman's seed was destin'd to sustain ; 
 And by his faith's accepted sign and seal. 
 Good Abel's firstlings for an offring slain 
 And by the door posts sprinkled, not in vain. 
 With blood, when vengeance Egypt's first born 
 
 slew; 
 
 And by the Serpent rear'd on Petra's plain, 
 By Moses, in the congregation's view, 
 
 On which when bit they look'd, and looking liv'd 
 anew. 
 
 XXXL 
 
 In David, from the haunts of man exil'd, 
 Pursu'd by Saul, and that vile Edomite, 
 Doeg, Gods priests who unrelenting kill'd, 
 Four-score and five men in his causeless spite ; 
 And by the prophets, in the sacred light 
 Of inspiration rising strong and clear, 
 Who hail'd the prospect with intense delight, 
 And, humbly searching, as the time drew near, 
 
 To Daniel 'twas vouchsaf d to tell th' auspicious year. 
 
 XXX1L 
 
 Then, on their knees, with fervour deep they pour 
 Out all their hearts into his gracious ear. 
 Who, having prov'd temptation's evil hour, 
 Feels all the sorrows of his people here. 
 And o'er their sinful lives, their wanderings drear 
 From that which all their better thoughts approve, 
 They deep lament, with many a bitter tear, 
 Imploring, all his other gifts above, 
 An increase to their faith, their charity and love. 
 
20 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 But not to mourning nor requests alone 
 Confin'd their grateful adorations rise 
 For countless mercies daily to them shown, 
 For life and all its bountiful supplies. 
 For all those tender and endearing ties 
 That link them in affection's golden chain 
 For hope, that anchoring' far above the skies. 
 Give's them the soul's calm sunshine to maintain, 
 Though daily prest with toil, with poverty and pain. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 And humbled to the dust, they ardent pray, 
 His promised Spirit still to be their guide, 
 Amidst the snares in life's bewildering way, 
 That, watchful, lurk unseen on every side. 
 And in their lot, whatever may betide 
 The sunny calm or tempest howling high, 
 He in the cloudy-skirted storm may ride, 
 And whisper soft, as fainting low they lie, 
 " My friends, be not afraid, for see, behold, 'tis I !" 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 The humble meal is now in haste brought forth, 
 No dainties smile upon their humble board, 
 One homely dish each morn rewards their worth, 
 'Tis all they ask, and all they can afford. 
 Yet still, within their frugal pantry stor'd, 
 A savoury cheese remains, to grace the day 
 Of holy rest and joy, when Care abhorr'd, 
 Wrapt in his cloud of darkness, shrinks away 
 Before the radiant rise of Hope's high-streaming ray. 
 
21 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Then, forth they go, for now before the door 
 The short'ning shadow marks the hour of nine ; 
 And by the broom y hill are coming o'er 
 Their village neighbours, glittering, clean and fine. 
 Upon the road, with neighbours, neighbours join, 
 And converse sweet beguiles the tedious way 
 Some trace, in Nature's works, the hand divine, 
 Some through the flowery fields of Scripture stray, 
 And some, alas ! retail the nonsense of the day. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 The sun burns bright wide through the fervid air, 
 Of insect wings the hum unceasing flows ; 
 And stretch'd around, beneath th' oppressive glare, 
 The flowery field with dazzling splendour glows. 
 Adown the vale, beneath the shady boughs. 
 The herd seek shelter from the sultry beam, 
 Or under yon tall rock, that, rising, throws 
 All hoary, through the trees a dusky gleam, 
 Their panting sides they lave, deep in the silver stream. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 The peaceful valley smiles with wanton glee 
 The hare, leaps, playful, in the broomy shade ; 
 And clear the wild-wood strains of liberty, 
 All rapt'rous, sweep along the sunny glade. 
 With eyes of jet, and swelling bosom red, 
 The little Robin, fluttering, flits on high ; 
 The russet Wren, beneath the brushwood hid, 
 Patters unseen, or on the careless eye, 
 Comes like a falling leaf in air light wavering by. 
 
22 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Sweet Nature's children ! these your haunts enjoy, 
 Nor yet for me one sportive round decline ; 
 No ruffian I, your pleasures to destroy ; 
 No, brethren, no ! the GOD ye praise is mine. 
 But ah ! what bands approach with fell design ! 
 Their faces dark, with guilty horror brown ; 
 Nor song, nor service is to them divine, 
 Nor holy times, nor tender ties they own, 
 The base, degenerate dregs of yonder smoky town. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Within their bosoms quench'd the light of Heaven, 
 In vain would Pity cross their guilty way ; 
 The harmless creatures fly, in terror driven, 
 As, dark, they sweep along with ruthless sway. 
 The warbling Linnet drops the unfinished lay, 
 Frantic, to see her little nestlings torn 
 For ever from her eyes : full many a day, 
 With feathers ragged, drooping, all forlorn, 
 Her plantive note shall flow from yonder milk-white 
 thorn. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Nor there will wanton cruelty in peace, 
 Her woe-fraught strains allow her time to pour ; 
 Crashes the bush, wide floats its flowery fleece, 
 As, aimed at her, resounds the stony shower : 
 Thus, oft the Bard, in silence must endure 
 The prideful pelting of the ruffian throng ; 
 Who spurn his holy flame, his feelings pure, 
 And arm'd in self-adoring maxims, strong, 
 Despise the charms of wit, and energies of song. 
 
23 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Ye reckless ones, why will ye scatter pain. 
 And carry wailing into scenes so fair ? 
 Let nature plead, the barbarous act refrain, 
 The toil-built nest, the little nestlings spare. 
 The flood of song shall well reward your care, 
 While glide the life renewing months of spring; 
 Through Summer leafy, many a grateful pair 
 Shall cheer your lonely walks with social wing ; 
 Yea, there, through winter wild, the Red-breast sweet 
 shall sing. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 But now, at length, in view the church appears, 
 An ancient pile, with moss-grown turrets grey, 
 The venerable work of other years, 
 Which Time's swift lapse hath placed far away. 
 There, oft the sons, to prayer on such a day, 
 In troublous times, the fathers fond have led, 
 Who, peaceful now, beneath the silent clay, 
 Lie with the congregation of the dead, 
 Their feet for aye from toil, their eyes from sorrow hid. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 How solemn to the eye the scene appears ! [crown'd, 
 The yew the porch, with pale Death's emblems 
 And sable -railed, bedecked with pompous tears, 
 The rich men's tombs, that, gloomy rise around ; 
 Of some, the smooth-hewn slab marks out the bound, 
 Preserving still the poor possessor's name, 
 Perhaps his years ; while level with the ground, 
 Many, by friendship mourned, unknown to fame, 
 Beneath the grass- green sod, no frail memorial claim. 
 
24 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Here, wrapt in thought, the poor man wanders wild, 
 And dark the days of other years return ; 
 For underneath that turf, his darling child, 
 His first-born son, lies in the mouldering urn. 
 He heaves a sigh, his heart begins to burn 
 The rough grey-stone still marks his fav'rite's head; 
 And o'er him, beauteous in the breath of morn, 
 To all her children, Nature's bounteous mead, 
 With scarlet gayly tipt, the lowly daisies spread. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 " Child of my love, confess'd before my eye 
 Thou standest, fair in all thy blooming grace ; 
 Wild on the wind thy sunny ringlets fly. 
 And dawning goodness brightens on thy face. 
 I see, I see thee in the sportive race, 
 Lur'd by the bright son of the summer beam; 
 I see thee, panting, drop the fruitless chase 
 For, glittering, far adown the silver stream, 
 He floats on air away, as fades the nightly dream. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 " So fadedst thou ! for never sportive more, 
 Bloated, and black, upon thy bed of pain 
 I see thee laid : thy short, short span is o'er 
 A mournful proof, that earth-born hopes are vain. 
 Yet, let me never pour the tear profane 
 Well hast thou 'scap'd a wicked world of woe ; 
 The spurn of pride Misfortune's driving rain, 
 And creeping chill, the baleful blast of snow ; 
 From poverty's cold sky, hath never laid thee low. 
 
25 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 *' Thou hast not heard the child of deep distress, 
 In bitterness pour forth the anguish'd groan ; 
 Thou hast not seen, and yet couldst not redress, 
 Poor Misery, pining, friendless and alone. 
 Nor was it thine in sorrow to bemoan 
 A wandering childhood, and a wanton youth 
 Ere sin had gathered strength, lo, thou wast gone, 
 Devotion's first note trembling in thy mouth, 
 Raptures for aye to drink before the throne of truth.'' 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 While thus he, meditative, pours the tear 
 Of pious resignation o'er his dead, 
 The rising psalm it swells upon his ear, 
 A psalm that made Israel's sweet singer glad : 
 Because to dwell in hades dismal bed 
 His soul would not be left, he felt secure ; 
 His flesh, besides, to rest in hope was made, 
 A joyful hope, even in death's darksome hour, 
 Plac'd far beyond the reach of foul corruption's 
 power. 
 
 L. 
 
 Perhaps the song is of creative might, 
 How this huge mass in shapeless darkness rose, 
 Arid God said, let light be, and there was light, 
 Till misty evening made the first day's close. 
 For thus, in wisdom infinite, He chose 
 To mark creation's age, the march of time, 
 While yet with life no creature living glows, 
 But over all the wide and watery clime, 
 Vast, on the shoreless sea, sat solitude sublime. 
 
 D 
 
26 
 
 LI. 
 
 Or how, at the same word, rock ribb'd the hills. 
 Inlaid with iron and brass, with gems and gold, 
 Upheav'd their heads, sparkling with silver rills, 
 And splintered pinnacles abrupt and bold. 
 While at their feet smooth spreading vales unfold 
 Their ample bosoms, as the waters blue, 
 Beneath th' impress divine together roll'd, 
 And toiling many a tortuous winding through, 
 Into the vast abyss, their destined path, pursue. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Another word adorns the naked scene 
 With herbage green, and flowers of every dye, 
 Trees full of fruit, and of the stateliest mein, 
 Tall forests nodding o'er the mountains high. 
 He said again, and, glowing from the sky, 
 Majestic shone the ruler of the day, 
 And, all her bright attendants standing by, 
 Right opposite the moon, with paler ray, 
 Of sober-suited night the sceptre soft to sway. 
 
 L1II. 
 
 And now th' Omnific word is on the floods, 
 That pregnant all with life prolific teem, 
 With fowl of every kind, to cheer the woods, 
 Or, hid in clouds, from mountain tops to scream ; 
 And fish disporting in the crystal stream, 
 Freckled with silver, crimson dropt and gold ; 
 Or, huge, laid slumberous in the noontide beam, 
 On far sea depths, in many a winding fold, 
 Sea monsters vast, whose names by man hath ne'er 
 been told. 
 
27 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Once more He said, and from the womb of earth, 
 Minute and vast, most wond'rously combined, 
 The beastial tribes, exulting, bounded forth, 
 Each fully grown and perfect in its kind. 
 But still there wanted, in the Almighty mind, 
 Th' extreme of power and wisdom shown in one, 
 Matter with spirit, soul with body join'd, 
 A somewhat to complete th' eternal plan 
 Come let us make, he said, and the result was 
 man. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Man, frarn'd of dust, but by Jehovah's hand 
 Compounded, and thy soul a breath divine, 
 Such as the love of angels to command, 
 How high and holy was that place of thine. 
 Thou wast of this magnificent design, 
 That in the bosom of the Triune God 
 Lay forming from an unbeginning line, 
 The consumation. Now he pausing stood, 
 Revised the glorious whole, and all was very good. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 He rested and refreshed beheld, well pleased, 
 His own Eternal Godhead thus displayed ; 
 And now, his vast idea realized, 
 He ceased from making all that he had made. 
 And let the day be holiness, he said, 
 A weekly witness how the world began 
 A bulwark to religion reason's aid, 
 What time creation's dawn she aims to scan, 
 A blest seventh day's release to labour-laden man. 
 
28 
 
 LV1I. 
 
 Or, mediately, they sing, by laws imprest 
 On nature, how he worketh out his will ; 
 Each element, beneath his high behest, 
 Awake and active, or inert and still. 
 And, how for promised good or threatened ill, 
 The ready means in order ranked they stand 
 The rain, the dew, the air have powers to kill, 
 Death points the sunbeam, and, if he command, 
 
 A breath, a worm, a fly, shall waste the wealthiest 
 land. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Or, if need be, with all his world of waves, 
 The sea upon the sinful land shall rise, 
 The solid earth shall gape with open graves 
 Before Rebellion's fury-flashing eyes. 
 From its broad base, o'erturn'd the mountain lies, 
 Deep burying every monument of man, 
 Or shoots an arch of fire o'er half the skies, 
 That terror blanch 'd through all their signs look wan, 
 
 While rueful ruin smokes beneath its awful span. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Or, sweeter, and with holier extacy, 
 They sing how glorious all his name above 
 Expands his mercy's vast infinity, 
 The boundless riches of redeeming love ; 
 The flood of joy which all his creatures prove 
 In instincts, passions, habits, feelings fine, 
 When peaceful, each in course, the seasons move, 
 And, all exultant in their breath divine, 
 The vales flow out with milk, the hills with oil and 
 wine. 
 
29 
 
 LX. 
 
 Or, how they joy, in meek humility, 
 Once more to stand within the house of God, 
 Where flows the stream of life, out welling free, 
 And he himself delights to make abode 
 Gracious, from him, worn out in life's rough road, 
 His hope, it may be, ready to expire, 
 To lift, insensibly, the galling load, 
 Rewaken faith, draw out the strong desire, 
 Till like a furnace glows his soul with heavenly fire. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Then rising all, the minister to heaven, 
 In suppliant mood, lifts up his hands on high, 
 Rich with the light six thousand years have given, 
 The fire of genius brightens in his eye : 
 But on his brow sits meek humility, 
 With ardent love and awful reverence join'd, 
 In sight of Him who, bending from the sky, 
 Regards the contrite heart with aspect kind, 
 But spurns, with loathing deep, the self-elated mind. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 With him their souls in adoration rise, 
 Through him their deep contrition they express 
 For countless follies, grave iniquities, 
 Abused mercy, and neglected grace. 
 For churlish discontent and thanklessness 
 Beneath the joy which every day renews ; 
 For obstinate and heartless pride of face, 
 Through which th' obedient shoulder they refuse, 
 Though law, and light, and love have left them no 
 excuse. 
 
30 
 
 LXIIL 
 
 But while the power and prevalence of sin. 
 With tears of genuine sorrow they bemoan, 
 They think of Him their advocate, within 
 The highest heaven, a priest upon his throne, 
 Which by obedience to the death he won, 
 With power o'er all existences conjoined, 
 Eternal life to give to every one, 
 Who, in the purpose of th' All-seeing Mind, 
 For that vocation high was to his care consigned. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 And now, that he would graciously shed down 
 His Spirit on their souls, they humbly plead, 
 That so the word from faith to faith made known, 
 May prove to them the true life giving bread. 
 That, the Great Shepherd, he would stand and feed 
 This day in all the majesty of God, 
 Administering, to all who sow, the seed, 
 Breathing of grace the fructifying cloud, 
 And waking warm to blow the south wind soft abroad. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 And as he stills the forest rending wind, 
 Of seas, and all their waves the wild uproar, 
 So speak conviction to the sinner's mind, 
 And bid corruption rage and rule no more: 
 And on the soul, in grief afflicted sore, 
 Temptation toss'd, in darkness all forlorn, 
 The healing balm of consolation pour^ 
 While rises bright, his pathway to adorn, 
 Heaven-breathing Hope, arrayed in all the hues of 
 morn, 
 
31 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Prayer ended now the Scripture page is read 
 And brief expounded to the simple hind, 
 How, by the serpent's guileful speech betray'd, 
 Our first grand parents from the truth declined, 
 By one rash act themselves, yea all their kind, 
 To sorrow, toil, and death delivering o'er, 
 Hence wide o'er earth diffused the hateful mind, 
 Hence groans the forest track'd with living gore, 
 And war with baleful breath has blasted every shore. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Hence wrathful ruin sweeps the troubled sky, 
 Or slumbers in the congregating clouds, 
 Or in the depths of earth, from every eye 
 Concealed, the fell resolve in silence broods. 
 In cheerless gloom the face of day she shrouds, 
 Her breath is thunder, or with frost burns frore, 
 Beneath her feet the trembling earth explodes 
 With direful crash, prelusive to the hour 
 When wrapt in flame the world shall sink beneath 
 her power. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 The love of God this painful theme relieves, 
 A love which doth all knowledge far transcend, 
 Which yet the babe in knowledge, who believes, 
 In some degree is taught to comprehend: 
 Whence came the Lowly One, the poor man's friend, 
 And from his lips snatch'd wrath's red cup of gall, 
 Which drinking, he had laboured without end, 
 In direful din shut up stern justice' thrall, 
 Debar'd the light of hope or soothing mercy's call. 
 
32 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 But he, though frowning Death stood interposed. 
 At one full draught the dregs unshrinking wrung. 
 While round him fierce, in fiery phalanx closed, 
 Princedoms and powers, rulers of darkness strong; 
 Who saw him laid the long lost dead among, 
 And numbered him with malefactors vile, 
 Presuming to have marr'd for aye the song, 
 Through life that soothed the mourner's weary toil, 
 
 And even in death's dread hour gave him the victor's 
 smile. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Presumption vain although the insatiate tomb 
 Was closed upon him with the seal of power, 
 And men of war, the invincibles of Rome, 
 Set sentinels to make his prison sure. 
 God's angel, as it came the appointed hour, 
 Another watcher, clothed in flame, descends, 
 Rolls hack, and sits upon the huge stone door; 
 Blood-cruddling fear each soldier's breath suspends, 
 
 While earth's foundations deep the heaving earth- 
 quake rends. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 And Jesus, self-reviving, takes again 
 That life for man he in his love laid down, 
 Up with him, too, he brings a glorious train, 
 First fruits to gem his m editorial crown : 
 And trophies of eternal victory, won 
 On that dark shore wash'd by oblivion's wave, 
 Sure pledges that he holds them for his own, 
 The keys of death arid of the dismal grave, 
 Omnipotent, alike or to condemn or save. 
 
33 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Now, having died once, he dies no more, 
 But sits a Priest and King upon his throne; 
 The head of principality and power 
 Throughout all worlds supreme, th' Anointed One. 
 Because he made himself man's feeble son, 
 Heir to his grief, his penury, and pain, 
 He, hy the high decree, and he alone, 
 With office power is vested, to sustain 
 Wrath's adamantine bars, and mercy's golden chain. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 In faith of this, sublime the Sabbath song 
 The ancient church raised to the Righteous One, 
 Which now far lands and distant isles prolong, 
 And ever shall, till time's last sands are run. 
 And, when on earth the work of God is done, 
 And tears, and sighs, with sin have fled away; 
 The same glad notes shall before the throne, 
 No voice discordant, and no heart astray, 
 
 Still new, and still the same, through glory's endless 
 day. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Stranger to this consolatory theme, 
 Beware the atheist's hiss, the sceptic's sneer; 
 Here plain to all, as with a sunbright beam, 
 A future judgement day is written clear. 
 Yes, as he went again he shall appear, 
 With clouds and darkness round about his throne; 
 His voice shall yet resound in every ear 
 That lives, or e'er hath liv'd the earth upon, 
 
 To him each knee shall bow, him every tongue shall 
 own. 
 
 E 
 
34 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Once, deem'd the meanest of the mean, he stood 
 At Caiapha's and Herod's partial bar; 
 Was spit on by a base and brutal crowd. 
 And set at nought by ruffian men of war. 
 Nor did that truckling Roman, Pilate, dare, 
 Though awe-struck with his spotless innocence, 
 Aught better for his safety to prepare, 
 Than rods and scourging, on the vile pretence, 
 In sordid minds, by wrong, t' awaken moral sense. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Then he was in the greatness of his strength, 
 Humiliation's dreary vale within, 
 Wrath's ample winepress treading out at length, 
 Beneath the burden of his people's sin. 
 Now he is come, in majesty, to win 
 The full reward of all his travail sore, 
 A new career of glory to begin 
 Glory with God the Father, kept in store 
 Unseen, yea, unconceived in earth or heaven before. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Now it shines out, that glory all his own, 
 Ere time his silent course began to run 
 That glory to the world's wise one's unknown, 
 Th' eternal glory of th' Eternal Son. 
 Nor comes he glorious as the Son alone, 
 With that of the Eternal Father seal'd, 
 But glorious as the Economic One, 
 By whom, in every age, have been reveaVd 
 The counsels high of Heaven, and in him all 
 fulfill'd. 
 
35 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Think, thou, his grace who darest to despise, 
 How thou wilt meet him on this day of ire, 
 When conscience, with demonaic strength, shall rise 
 To dash thy soul with accusations dire. 
 Creation burns immense, one sea of fire, 
 Worlds suns, and stars, and systems are no more. 
 Where wilt thou fly ? how will thy dreams expire, 
 Cast out thy boundless folly to deplore, 
 
 Where death's dark waters lave despair's still darker 
 shore. 
 
 LXX1X, 
 
 For thee in vain new heavens and earth arise, 
 The abodes of peace, of love, and holiness ; 
 This found no favour in thy blinded eyes, 
 And these of course thou never canst possess. 
 Ah ! yet bethink thee, while, with peaceful voice, 
 He stands, th' atoning High Priest, full in view ; 
 His precious blood, his sanctifying grace 
 Profering to all, with admonition due 
 
 To faith, repentance, love, and prompt obedience new. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 The preacher thus, with that impressive air 
 Subjects so awfully sublime require, 
 Adjures his audience all with many a tear, 
 To 'scape the vengeance of eternal fire. 
 To rest on God, who is the warm desire 
 Of those that fear him, faithful to fulfil : 
 Who oft to rapture tunes the mourner's lyre, 
 Even when the rain of sorrow, falling chill, 
 Hath drench'd the flowers of hope, that bloom on 
 Faith's green hill. 
 
36 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 The sermon closed again in prayer they join f 
 Prayer not preferred for sordid selfish ends, 
 But, drinking at the fount of love divine. 
 Wide as the world their soul's warm wish extends. 
 And sweet the grand prophetic song ascends 
 " Mercy is built for ever firm and sure ;" 
 On God her strong stability depends, 
 And still her seed, brought forth refined and pure ? 
 Shall, as the sun in heaven, from age to age endure, 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Now westward driving far, with prone career, 
 The red-hair'd sun rolls on his fiery road ; 
 (Jay, golden hues the green-topp'd mountains wear, 
 And deeper shades invest the waving wood. 
 When closed the sacred work, they come abroad, 
 Devoutly rais'd to holy rapture some ; 
 Some pond'ring dark, the fix'd decrees of GOD, 
 His awful wrath, the Sinner's final doom, 
 
 With all the shadowy shapes that frown behind the 
 tomb. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Ah! Christian, cease! these dangerous themes forbear,. 
 Or farewell hope ! farewell departed joy ! 
 There, Frenzy wild, a legion in her rear 
 Of phantoms fell, lies lurking to destroy. 
 Surrounded once, in vain shalt thou employ 
 Thy powers, to force her dark entrenchments strong, 
 No art can soothe, no argument annoy 
 Her baleful train, that thick and thicker throng, 
 
 Till whelm'd, thy reason falls, in darkness stretch'd 
 along. 
 
37 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 Mark, yonder, where the bean-field fragrant blooms, 
 Diffusing grateful odours all around, 
 Woful and wan the moping maniac roams, 
 Within her mazy fetters, mournful, bound. 
 His looks are ever fixed on the ground, 
 Despair's dark tear dim glistens in his eye ; 
 Now he stops short, now starts with sudden bound, 
 While, from his bosom bursts the rending sigh, 
 And hell and horror still accent his wailing cry. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Upon his faded form and gestures wild, 
 The lowing heifer stares with wondering gaze ; 
 And o'er him, sweet Devotion's ruin'd child, 
 Th' unconscious warbler mends his love- taught lays ; 
 The lark, descending in the sunny rays, 
 Bends down the flowery turf with slender feet, 
 His spreckled breast, his rising plume displays, 
 The gently-breathing, balmy, breeze to meet, 
 
 And pours his raptured strain in warblings wildly 
 sweet. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 But what are warbling birds, or flowery fields, 
 To him whose heart still bleeds, whose spirit grieves 
 Say, what the joy a smiling prospect yields, 
 When grim Despair the web of terror weaves? 
 " Sing on, "the bruis'done cries; " your happy lives, 
 " Ye birds, are pure; arise on spotless wing; 
 " Spurn earth, vile earth ! 'tis but a placeof graves 
 4 6 Ah ! why should death your gentle bosoms wring? 
 
 " 'Tis I poor wretched I, have forged the fatal 
 sting. 
 
38 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 " Thy fires, O vengeance! in what corner hid? 
 " Thy victim I, thy speedy act implore ! 
 66 Why hangs thy red bolt. Justice, o'er iny head ? 
 66 Exact thy due, and I shall be no more. 
 " In vain I call ! those skies must ever lower ! 
 " This dreadful shade, Remorse, still crush me down : 
 " O Mercy ! Mercy ! is thy season o'er ? 
 u Will God for ever, thus in anger frown, 
 " And stalking terrors guard all access to his throne ? 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 " Yes, still to me I see the dark decree 
 " Firm as the pillars of th' eternal throne! 
 " O Hope, sweet Hope ! on all thy flowery tree 
 " No blossom blows, to ease my dying groan." 
 Thus hapless, day by day, his life glides on 
 Not so where Reason aids Religion's reign; 
 There, though the tempest howl, fair Hope, anon, 
 Far beaming, brightens Faith's immense domain, 
 Where free the soul expands, exults, and smiles 
 serene. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 From church returned, our simple cottar see, 
 His babes around him innocently smile; 
 His spouse, with looks of kind complacency, 
 Hastes to present again the frugal meal. 
 And as they eat, what text was read hell tell ; 
 What doctrines thence deduced, what sins reprov'd, 
 What motives given to cherish holy zeal, 
 What views to faith of Him her best Belov'd, 
 By whom upheld, she stands in fiery storms unmov'd. 
 
39 
 
 XC. 
 
 To him, their guide, they lend a willing ear, 
 While he at large instructs them as he can, 
 The path of truth to tread, their God to fear, 
 And thus fulfil the great design of man. 
 Nor sneer ye sages though unfit to scan 
 Your systems jarring, intricate, and wild ; 
 Some previous outlines of Salvation's glory, 
 How man far, far from happiness, exiPd, 
 By grace may be restored, he yet can teach his child. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 Nor can the simplest here be at a loss, 
 Thanks to our great forefather's pious care, 
 Who, shunning doctrines crude, and customs gross, 
 Built up our church compact, a fabric fair; 
 With formularies, rich, beyond compare, 
 In all the elements of truth divine, 
 Especially the Shorter Compend, where, 
 Concise and neat, in each perspicuous line, 
 Great thoughts with simplest words felicitously join. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 Ranged in due order, there the little ones 
 A sight which seraphs stoop from heaven to see 
 Each in its gravest mood, and firmest tone, 
 The running question answers full and free. 
 Even he, the infant on his mother's knee, 
 A lisping lamiter, of feeble frame, 
 Distinguish'd as his elders, too, must be, 
 To speak the Spirit's grace, the Saviour's fame, 
 Although 'tis but by halves he can pronounce the 
 name. 
 
40 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 And one whose life seems drawing near the grave, 
 Darkened her day, her nights with pain opprest, 
 She, too, her custom'd place and say must have, 
 Leaning her head upon a sister's breast. 
 A psalm, too, she has got as well's the rest, 
 Though ears do now the want of eyes supply 
 " How truly every humble soul is blest 
 Who can, by faith, on Jacob's God rely, 
 Who made and peopl'd earth, the sea and heaven 
 high. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 " Who giveth, gracious, to the blind their sight, 
 And leads them by a way they do not know ; 
 The bowed down doth make to walk upright, 
 And the pale cheek with roseat health to glow. 
 In whom compassions, never ceasing, flow, 
 And mercy reigns an attribute supreme, 
 Long suffering, to aught like anger slow, 
 And bounteous, in the trying hour extreme, 
 From all iniquity his Israel to redeem. " 
 
 xcv. 
 
 Thus, from the mouth of babes, the song of praise 
 Ascends to heaven, at eve or dewy morn ; 
 Hence honest honour, with unborrow'd rays, 
 In humble life the meanest may adorn. 
 Yes, oft the hind, thus taught, can laugh to scorn 
 The varnish'd vices of the vulgar great, 
 And, on the wings of faith and reason, borne 
 Above the mists that cloud his mean estate, 
 Turn them to blessings rare the rigours of his fate. 
 
41 
 
 XCVL 
 
 Parental teaching clos'd with family prayer, 
 Each seeks, for soft repose, the peaceful bed; 
 The sire except, who, by the evening fair, 
 To muse along the greenwood side is led. 
 The setting sun, in robes of crimson red 
 And purple gorgeous, clothes the glowing west; 
 While sober eve, in misty mantle clad, 
 One bright star, lovely, beaming on her breast, 
 With feet all bathed in dew, comes slowly from the 
 east. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Now clos'd the daisy droops its dewy head, 
 Hush'd are the woods, the breathing fields are still, 
 And soft beneath the meadow's flowery pride, 
 Creeps gurgling on its way the mossy rill. 
 Sublimely solemn rolls the mingling swell, 
 At times with many a mournful pause between, 
 Of streams rude, rushing down the sounding dell, 
 Re-echo'd wide from distant wilds unseen, 
 And lambs that softly bleat far o'er the flowery green. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 Fast follows on the cloud of night's dark noon, 
 And bright the fires of heaven begin to blaze; 
 While o'er the misty mountain's head, the moon 
 Pours, in a streaming flood, her silver rays. 
 White on the pool, her radiance, flickering, plays, 
 Where shadows, faintly glimmering, shadows mar; 
 And clear, the cottage window, to the gaze 
 Of solitary wanderer, gleaming far 
 Up yonder green hill side, appears a glittering star. 
 
42 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 Our Poor Man here, in converse with the sky, 
 Lone, o'er the uplands holds his wandering wajr; 
 His hosom swells, he heaves the frequent sigh, 
 And tears start sudden, ere he well knows why. 
 'Tis nature stirs him verging to decay, 
 Through all her works, she pours the weary groan ; 
 Even now, by faith, he hails th' eventful day- 
 He hears the trump of God the great white throne 
 
 Is raised creation melts lo, heaven and earth are 
 gone! 
 
 C. 
 
 " And thou my soul!" he cries, " shalt thou survive, 
 " When queneh'd in years, these living fires shall 
 
 fade? 
 
 " Yes, in immortal vigour thou shalt live, 
 " And soar and sing when every star is fled. 
 " For so hath GOD GOD thy Redeemer said: 
 " A higher song than seraph's shall be thine, 
 " Yea, though in mould'ring clay this flesh be laid, 
 " These very lips, with energy divine, 
 
 ** Heaven's high resounding harp in holy hymns shall 
 join. 
 
 CI. 
 
 " To GOD, for ever let thy song ascend, 
 " Though stormy bowlings sweep thy rugged path; 
 " Though weeping woe thy straiten'd steps attend, 
 u And sin thy green leaves soil with burning breath ; 
 " There yet remains a rest reveal'd to faith, 
 " A rest from sin and all its dire distress; 
 ".A Sabbath sweet, beyond the realm of death, 
 " Bright with the beams of God's all- gracious face, 
 
 " The gift of sovereign love, the rich reward of grace." 
 
43 
 
 GIL 
 
 Sooth'd with this sweet idea, he retires, 
 His brow serene with calm contentment's smile, 
 To rest, till ruddy morning's glowing fires 
 Again awake him to his weekly toil. 
 FOUNTAIN OF GOOD! grant me to keep, the while 
 My span extends, thy Sabhaths thus alway; 
 My reason clear, my spirit free from guile: 
 And of thy light still shed a purer ray, 
 Till glory's sun arise in bright refulgent day. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 " His milky charge there too, the farmer feeds." 
 
 Stanza iv. p. 10. 
 
 THIS refers to a practice which was common in the days when 
 the Author was conversant with these matters, but which is now, 
 from the change of circumstances, in most places of the country 
 but little known. From the want of inclosures, herds were 
 then universally necessary, and they were sometimes but of very 
 tender years, in which case it was common for the Gudeman, 
 as the master was styled, sometimes the Gudewife, to take 
 charge of the cattle on the Sabbath mornings, by which means 
 the herd had the privilege of a rest like the other servants. 
 The cattle had also a peculiar enjoyment, as the superior skill 
 or care of the master, generally led them into corners, which, 
 from their confined boundaries, were difficult to the inexperience 
 of a child, and of course were hained riggs. The text gives a 
 reason for this indulgence on the Sabbath ; which he, and he 
 alone, who has been a^country labourer in the busy periods of the 
 year, can appreciate. 
 
 The ravens, mission'd by Almighty power. 
 
 Stanza xv. p. 14. 
 
 The miraculous manner in which Elijah was fed, during the 
 bloody persecution carried on against the worshippers of the 
 true God by Ahab, under the influence of the odious Jezebel, 
 is here supposed to be a grateful subject of meditation for a 
 poor man in ordinary cases, as indicative or corroborative of a 
 particular providence. King James VI. of power-loving 
 memory, found in it an irrefragable argument for passive 
 
45 
 
 obedience. In his Trew Law of free Monarchies, which he 
 intended as an antidote to Buchanan's De Jure Regni, he thus 
 unanswerably enforces upon the people unlimited obedience. 
 " Even when a king, as described by Samuel, takes their sonnes 
 for his horsemen ; and some to run before his charet, to eare 
 his ground, and to reap his harvest, and to make instruments of 
 warrj^ and their daughters to make them apothecaries, and cooks, 
 and bakers ; nor though he should take their fields, and their 
 vineyards, and their best olive trees, and give them to his ser- 
 vants ; and take the tenth of their seed, and of their vineyards, 
 and of their flocks, and give it to his servants, had they a right 
 to murmur ; the king was only accountable to God ; and the 
 chiefs of the people had the example of Elias pointed out for 
 their imitation, who, under the monstrous persecution and tyranny 
 of Ahab, raised no rebellion, but did only < flie to the wilderness, 
 where, for fault of sustentation HE WAS FED BY THE CORBIES/ v * 
 This is that King James, who in a General Assembly of the 
 Church of Scotland, thanked God for being " born in the time 
 of the light of the gospel, and in such a place, as to be king of 
 the sincerest kirk in the world. The Church of Geneva keep 
 pasche and yule ; What have they for them ? They have no 
 institution. As for our neighbour kirk of England, their service 
 is an evil said mass in English ; they want nothing of the mass 
 but the liftings. I charge you, my good ministers, doctors, 
 elders, nobles, gentlemen and barons, to stand to your purity, 
 and to charge your people to do the same. And I, forsooth, as 
 long as I brik my life, shall do the same." When he afterwards, 
 however, succeeded to the crown of England, and was, by the 
 dignitaries of the English Church, complimented with the ap- 
 pellation of the modern Solomon, he declared that "Scottish 
 Presbytery agreed as well with monarchy as God and the devil;" 
 and when the English presbyterians begged to have their con- 
 sciences eased from the burden of what he himself had declared 
 to be " an evil said mass in English," commanded them to 
 " conform, or he would herry them out of the land." He, too, 
 by stretching prerogative, packing juries, bribing judges, &c. 
 imprisoned and banished the most able ministers of the Scottish 
 Kirk, for asserting her independency, and standing up for the 
 
 * King James' Works, p. 198. 
 
46 
 
 rights of the people.* He also, no doubt, to preserve and pro- 
 mote piety and purity among the people, had a Book of Sports 
 compiled for the Sabbath, and promulgated and enforced by his 
 royal authority, commanding it to be read from all the pulpits 
 on the Lord's day, under pain of deprivation. This is that 
 King James. 
 
 " The short'ning shadow marks the hour of nine." 
 
 Stanza xxxvi. p. 21. 
 
 In several remote situations where the author was once fa- 
 miliar, the inmates had often no mode of knowing the hours 
 but by the course of the sun, to which the humble dwelling 
 served as a dial-style, and by this simple expedient in a clear 
 day, they determined the time with great accuracy. 
 
 Upon the road, with neighbours, neighbours join. 
 
 Stanza xxxvi. p. 21. 
 
 This is one of the most delightful parts of social intercourse 
 and also, when properly managed, one of the most improving. 
 In such circumstances, many fine thoughts are elicited ; and 
 many rich experiences communicated, which otherwise had 
 never been called into existence, or had lain dormant in the 
 bosom of the happy possessor. Many young minds have been 
 excited to the search after truth, by thus learning the pro- 
 gress of the old ; and the old have been encouraged to persever- 
 ing constancy, by the docility and diligence of the young. 
 Whoever has had the happiness, for any length of time, to make 
 one in any of these little groups, which used to be formed prin- 
 cipally upon the outskirts of our country congregations, and in 
 sweet fellowship to go and come from the house of God, will be 
 at no loss to conceive, how, in such situations, are always to be 
 found the best informed, as well as the most diligent attendants 
 upon divine worship. 
 
 * See Lord Halle's Memorials, &c. 
 
47 
 
 ' Till misty evening made the first day's close." 
 
 Stanza 1. p. 25. 
 
 The man who through faith understands that the world's were 
 framed by the word of God, so that things which are seen were 
 not made of things which do appear, has no difficulty in receiv- 
 ing the record of God, given by Moses, respecting the genera- 
 tion of the heavens and the earth. He who has not this faith, 
 understands nothing of the matter, and though he please him- 
 self with strange fancies and hard words, may rest satisfied that 
 he has not received the divine testimony concerning it. To such 
 an one the words of the Lord Jesus Christ: " If I have told 
 you earthly things, and ye believe not, how shall ye believe if I 
 tell you of heavenly tilings ?" are big with the most important 
 meaning. Philosophising divines flatter themselves, no doubt, 
 with an idea of superior wisdom, by extending these days of 
 Moses into periods containing more years than they contained 
 minutes; but have they, by so doing, added anything to the 
 credibility of the creation ? No ! not the weight of a feather. 
 They have only detracted, so far as their influence extends, 
 from the dignity and the authority of the sacred narrative. 
 Some of them, ashamed of the periods, have of late taken refuge 
 in "the beginning," which, bolstered up with the chaos of heathen 
 philosophers and heathen poets, they conceive they may make 
 as long as they please. And what is this beginning^? Neither 
 more nor less than the evening which preceded the morning of 
 the first day, a day not different in point of length from any 
 that have succeeded it ; that one excepted, when the sun stood 
 still upon Gibeon, and the moon in the valley of Ajalon. Be- 
 yond this first day there is nothing comprehensible by man, or, 
 may I not add, by created intelligence, nothing but eternity 
 and the awfully mysterious Father of eternity, unmanifested 
 Deity. 
 
 " To him, their guide, they lend a willing ear, 
 While he, at large, instructs them as he can." 
 
 Stanza xc. p. 39. 
 
 This was universally the mode of religious tuition formerly 
 practised in Scotland, to the neglect of which may be attributed 
 great part of the evils that afflict and deform the moral aspect 
 
48 
 
 of the country, and for which the present fashionable mode of 
 teaching in schools upon the Lord's day, is, to say the least of 
 it, a very poor substitute. By this means, the parents themselves 
 became proficients in the knowledge of divine things, they be- 
 came more thoroughly acquainted with the powers and the 
 dispositions of their children, and more deeply attached to them 
 in religious, as well as in natural affection ; while the children, 
 at the same time, tanght to venerate superior knowledge, joined 
 with so much earnest anxiety and labour, so much affectionate 
 counsel and importunate prayer, drank deep into their spirit, 
 and felt no higher ambition, nor desired other honour, than to 
 follow their pious and upright example. 
 
THE 
 
 HOUSE OF MOURNING; 
 
 THE PEASANT'S DEATH. 
 
 WRITTEN 1806. 
 
" The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning." 
 " Mark the perfect and behold the upright, for the end of that man is 
 peace.'' 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THERE is something in the silent prosecution of 
 humble industry, and especially in the unambitious 
 pursuits of rural life, that the contemplative mind 
 dwells upon with peculiar satisfaction. These pur- 
 suits are, in such a mind, naturally associated with 
 considerable privations, but, at the same time, with 
 simple innocence, artless gaiety, and unsuspecting 
 integrity, while their daily results, not only all the 
 necessaries of individual life, but all the luxurious 
 elegancies that ornament and enliven the social circle, 
 give them a positive importance, before which the 
 fictious assumptions of vanity and pride, sink into 
 utter insignificance. 
 
 It is not, therefore, wonderful that they should, 
 for the most part, form the basis of all that variety 
 of illusion, with which the imagination of the indo- 
 lent, the feeble, or the dissipated victim of wealth, 
 wiles away, in dreaming extacy, the sleepy hours, 
 that would otherwise, from their leaden wings, shake 
 poison into the very fountains of existence; for even 
 men of the deepest intelligence, the most indefatigable 
 perseverence, eminent in the practice of all the vir- 
 tues, and honourably distinguished by success in the 
 
60 
 
 noblest pursuits, are often fain to refresh their weary 
 spirits with a glimpse of this same rustic, and, to 
 them at least, visionary felicity. 
 
 How often has the man who, putting his life in 
 his hand, has become the saviour of his country, 
 burdened with honours, sick of that deafening adula- 
 tion which expectant sycophancy is ever pouring into 
 his ears, and, perhaps, inwardly writhing under the 
 cruel reproaches of causeless malice and relentless 
 envy, been constrained to pronounce him the happy 
 man, who, shutting out day-dreams of immortality, 
 and with a felicitous selfishness, attending to his own 
 private interests, studying ease and personal enjoy- 
 ment, has continued to handle the goad, to talk of 
 bullocks, and to plough, undisturbed, his own pater- 
 nal acres. 
 
 But it is unnecessary here to produce particular 
 examples. Though satiety, disappointment and 
 chagrin may make the longing more ardent, and 
 the expression thereof more vehement, the love of 
 simple nature is interwoven in the human constitution, 
 and no rational plan of retired and tranquil enjoyment 
 was ever formed, in which rural toils and rural cares, 
 did not, in some degree, form a component portion. 
 Hence, with the exception of ancient Egypt, where 
 the feelings of nature were perverted by the most 
 abominable idolatry, shepherds and husbandmen, 
 among all nations, have ever been accounted char- 
 acters of high respectability ; and they certainly hold 
 the first place in some of the finest poems of all an- 
 tiquity. Greece, when she was illuminated by learn- 
 
61 
 
 ing, the nurse of the sciences, and the patron of 
 refinement, listened with rapture to the simple reed of 
 Theocritus; and Rome, when she had spread her 
 eagle wings over a subjugated world, smoothed her 
 awful brows an entranced auditor, while Virgil un- 
 folded, in all the harmony of numbers, pastoral cares 
 and rural economy, to the applauding court of Au- 
 gustus. 
 
 In our own country, this species of poetry has been 
 carefully cultivated ; and, from the superior character 
 and attainments of her peasantry, it has here acquired 
 a cast of peculiar elevation, Scotland inherits, in- 
 deed, only a barren soil, and enjoys but an ungenial 
 climate, and severe labour, with simple, it may be 
 scanty fare, is the portion of the far greater number 
 of her children. The mountain daisy, the heath's 
 empurpled bell, the downy cannach, or the thistle's 
 flexile beard, are often the only ornaments upon her 
 verdant mantle, and the voice of the storm, joined to 
 that of the roaring cataract, for a great proportion of 
 the year, is her only music ; but, awakened by the 
 genial breath of Freedom, watered by the rain of 
 Divine Influences, and invigorated by the beams of 
 the Sun of Righteousness, her wild blossoms have 
 breathed a richer fragrance, her streams have mur- 
 mured sweeter melody, and her mountains have given 
 forth a more delightful voice than Ausonian or Ar- 
 cadian vallies ever knew. 
 
 Enjoying a comparatively cloudless sky, a climate 
 for ever breathing somewhat of the fervour of spring, 
 a landscape glowing with the rarest and the richest 
 
62 
 
 products of nature, and a state of society patriarchal 
 and pastoral, in the true sense of the terms, the ancient 
 inhabitants of the delightful regions of Greece and 
 Italy, in cultivating the imaginative faculties, pos- 
 sessed many advantages. But there was on the part 
 of their ancient poets, one capital want y which no 
 genius could possibly supply, the knowledge of that 
 "life and immortality which has been brought to 
 light by the Gospel.-' 
 
 Possessing nothing more than the dim light of 
 incoherent and uncertain tradition, and that, too, 
 clouded with a mass of impertinent and ridiculous 
 fables, age must have been to them, indeed, " dark 
 and unlovely," and the grave, in a great measure, 
 the burial place of their expectations, as well as of 
 their bodies. Even the fragments of immortal hope, 
 that has been saved from the wreck of that Revela- 
 tion originally common to man, embodied in mystic 
 ceremonies, in explicable allegories, or in bloody and 
 expensive rites, were calculated to disquiet and dis- 
 tract, rather than to soothe the weary spirit, in the 
 prospect of dissolution, and that even to the favoured 
 few, who alone had leisure arid opportunity to be 
 acquainted with them. 
 
 From the hill of Parnassus the map of human life 
 could be distinctly seen, and the weight and worth of 
 merely human hopes and fears in some small degree 
 ascertained, while the inspired voice of Genius gave 
 a tone of temporary triumph to the tremulous song of 
 time ; but from the mount of Revelation alone, could 
 be discovered "all the land beyond Jordan, that 
 
63 
 
 goodly mountain, and Lebanon." Here only it was 
 possible to explore the windings of mortality, as lead- 
 ing to the land of unfailing felicity, and here alone, 
 from the converse of prophets and apostles, was to be 
 acquired that power of voice, which, amidst the wail- 
 ings of time, could awaken the song of eternity. 
 
 The Scottish peasant, however, having already 
 been delineated on the poetic page in so many inter- 
 esting points of view, and with so much felicity, the 
 charge of temerity can scarcely be escaped by him 
 who attempts to add another to the number, and the 
 author candidly acknowledges that the present has 
 not been made without painful misgivings: yet, if 
 there be any credit due to the Royal Philosopher, if 
 it be " better to go to the house of mourning than to 
 the house of feasting," and, if " the day of a man's 
 death is better than the day of his birth," that which 
 is attempted in the following pages should not be less 
 worthy of attention than some of those that have 
 preceded it. 
 
 Dropping into the grave in the midst of his years 
 and his usefulness, an affectionate wife weeping over 
 him, and his infant children weeping around him, 
 but, in the exercise of faith, resigning his soul into 
 the arms of his Saviour, and leaving his helpless 
 family upon the care of an allwise Providence, what- 
 ever he maybe to the indifferent or the reckless scorner, 
 to all who admit death to be generally the test of a 
 man's principles and character, and who believe the 
 great business of the present life to be to secure its 
 happy termination, if the- representation be at all true 
 to nature, he must be an object deeply interesting. 
 
64 
 
 For the faults of this little piece, whether with re- 
 gard to plan or execution though he is fully sensible 
 that in hoth these respects it has many the Author, 
 does not attempt any apology. He might, indeed, 
 enumerate a long list of extenuating circumstances, 
 with as much propriety as any who have gone before 
 him ; but he is aware, that such enumerations are 
 generally suspected to be the offspring of conceit, 
 rather than of humility ; and, that, though adventi- 
 tious circumstances may give to any sort of work a 
 temporary popularity, merit alone can be a preserva- 
 tive against the all-wasting influence of time. 
 He, moreover, candidly confesses, that he is unwilling 
 to receive that from the reader's compassion, which 
 can only be valuable when awarded, by candour, 
 and, in some degree, dictated by justice. 
 
 He has only to add, in conclusion, that the end he 
 had principally in view in composing the poem, was 
 to impress more strongly upon his own mind, the 
 certainty and solemnity of that hour, when his dust, 
 too, must return to dust, and his spirit to God who 
 gave it; and he cannot help entreating his reader, 
 that, approaching the gate of the narrow house, and 
 taking a view of that thick darkness that overhangs 
 the land of forgetfulness, he seriously consider whether 
 with the unlettered, but divinely enlightened peasant, 
 he will take his departure with the staff of faith in 
 the one hand, and the lamp of hope in the other, 
 having the happy regions of promise in full prospect 
 before him, or blindfolded in the impervious bandage 
 of sceptical philosophy, and linked in the iron fetters 
 of doubt, plunge into the untried gulf in joyless 
 apathy, or in all the horrors of unutterable despair. 
 
THE 
 
 HOUSE OF MOURNING, &c. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOST RESPECTED 
 FRIEND, THE LATE MR. THOMAS HART. 
 
 I. 
 
 I, who e'erwhile in artless numbers sung 
 The Sabbath service of the simple swain. 
 Whence peace, content, delight for ever young, 
 And heavenly Hope, rose smiling in his train; 
 Now to the tremulous, sorrow breathing strain, 
 With faltering hand attune the plaintive lyre: 
 How sick dejection, poverty and pain, 
 And weeping sympathy, in death conspire 
 To dash his high form'd hopes, and quench his 
 heavenly fire. 
 
 II. 
 
 But all conspire in vain. In this cold clime, 
 Though oft obscur'd the spark of grace may lie, 
 Surmounting all the heavy damps of time, 
 A blaze, at length, it mounts its native sky. 
 Thou, who, of old, awok'st the Bard to cry 
 For help, because of faithful men's decay, 
 O turn on me thy light dispensing eye, 
 Teach, as I trace in tears the lonely way, 
 In faith and hope resign 'd to meet my dying day. 
 
 H 
 
66 
 
 III. 
 
 Hail January, hoar father of the year, 
 Deep in the north's peculiar blue enthroned, 
 Thy piercing eye fill'd with a sleety tear. 
 Thy blighting breath in cranreuch falling round ; 
 Thy temples, bald, with leafless osiers crown'd, 
 JewelPd with ice drops pure as orients rare, 
 Thy flowing robe of mountain mist, upbound 
 In radiant zone, embossed with frost-work fair, 
 Wrought rich, beyond all art, by nature's curious care. 
 
 IV. 
 
 How does the heart of buoyant youth expand, 
 To mark thee joyous burst upon the view, 
 While health and friendship, love and humour bland, 
 In rich luxurance bud and bloom anew. . 
 And thrifty housewives, with devotion due, 
 Their parts perform'd their household business sped, 
 Blythe as the July morning breathing dew, 
 And as the bounding lambkins light of tread, 
 The blazing ingles heap, the festive tables spread. 
 
 V. 
 
 And care looks gay, and drooping toil foregoes 
 The accustomed sigh, to see that cordial smile, 
 The greybeard grave, by thee inspired, bestows 
 On all his guests and how he warms, the while 
 Smooth elocution, rhetoric void of guile 
 From mouth to mouth around the table glows, 
 And pleasure's cup, pure, sparkling, smooth as oil, 
 By wisdom bless'd in temperate measure flows, 
 And still their wit expands, and still their learning 
 grows. 
 
67 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet there are men, and men of sterling worth. 
 Yea families to the God who made them dear, 
 For whom thy jovial step brings nothing forth, 
 Not even a smile their solitude to cheer. 
 Who wrestling with a world to them severe, 
 Find all its ills in one black band combined, 
 Sickness and want, despondency and fear, 
 The causeless foe, the faithless friend unkind, 
 And last, and worst of all, perhaps a wounded mind. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But gracious, o'er such poor desponding ones, 
 His skirt of love the dear Redeemer flings, 
 And precious are the tears, the secret groans, 
 Which from the heart renew'd affliction wrings. 
 Drink, ye who choose, among the limped springs, 
 Around the tents of mirth that pople clear, 
 There are, who, under grief's expanded wings, 
 Feel pleas'd to sit beside the lonely bier, 
 And from the yawning tomb truth's awful mandates 
 hear. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 With such, in meditative mood to spend 
 The night, afar, to yonder cottage low, 
 Across the heath my steps I pensive bend, 
 And all thy gay festivities forego. 
 There, health was wont to shed her roseate glow, 
 There, meek contentment show'd her smiling face, 
 And love, the greatest gift to man below, 
 With prudence, wise to judge of time and place, 
 Presided over all with dignity and grace. 
 
68 
 
 IX. 
 
 There, late at gloaming hour the ingle clear, 
 The well-swept floor, the frugal table spread, 
 The mother pleas'd, the prattling children dear, 
 The husband and the father's heart made glad. 
 Behind the door set by his weary spade, 
 Water to wash the children fond would bring 
 And stockings clean thus comfortable made, 
 Down he would sit, amid the social ring, 
 Ah ! happier sure, by far, than either prince or king. 
 
 X. 
 
 But chang'd, alas ! for late upon the hill 
 Loud roar'd the winds, with drenching sleet and rain, 
 Yet there his labour he continued still, 
 That so his week unbroken might remain. 
 And ever since perplex'd with racking pain, 
 And heart-consuming sickness, sad he lies ; 
 Its skill the village, too, has tried in vain ; 
 Unnerv'd his arm, and death-like dim his eyes, 
 No strength the healing herb, nor cordial draught 
 supplies. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Clos'd is the door whence eager peeping forth, 
 The youngsters watch 'd, the darger's blyth return; 
 Foxy, supine, lies stretch't before the hearth, 
 That smouldering, dim and sickly seems to burn. 
 The well darn'd hose at last day's labour worn, 
 The strong grarnashins, stiff with miry clay, 
 Beneath the sautfat, hung upon the horn, 
 Unsightly, to th ? observant eye display, 
 That all keep undesir'd a mournful holiday. 
 
69 
 
 XII. 
 
 The table still is spread but, ah ! their cheer 
 The father and the husband cannot bless ; 
 The mother, though she strives to hide her fear, 
 All wild her looks declare extreme distress. 
 Her tears to her are meat ; yet not the less 
 Her helpless children occupy her care ; 
 Often she stroaks their heads, and oft will press, 
 Yea oft, will help them to their simple fare, 
 For poor, alas ! erelong, she fears must be their share, 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The father, too, tho' dreadful in his face 
 The grim and grisly King of Terrors stare, 
 Yet hears their plaint, beholds their helpless case, 
 And all his woes a blacker aspect wear. 
 Only to die his better thoughts might bear, 
 Tho' from the light of life untimely torn. 
 But ah, his babes, abandoned to despair, 
 To toil, to hunger, nakedness and scorn, 
 Rush on his bleeding heart, too heavy to be borne. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 To hide the grief that in his bosom burns 
 The melting magic of their looks to shun, 
 Round from the light his faded face he turns, 
 And o'er his cheeks the tears in^ silence run. 
 And soon, their solitary dinner done, 
 The careful mother rouses^up the fire, 
 Arid trims her wheel for something must be won 
 To independence still her thoughts aspire, 
 And all her efforts now their pressing wants require. 
 
70 
 
 XV. 
 
 But first the children must be put to bed, 
 For drowsy languors, listless, o'er them creep, 
 No father's fond caress to make them glad, 
 Nor artless tale, to shift the hour of sleep. 
 Yet still awake her little boy will keep, 
 With filial care, her company awhile, 
 Will listen to her plaint, arid with her weep, 
 Or dwell with transport on the transient smile, 
 With which her rising fears she struggles to beguile. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Yet soon overcome, he too begins to doze, 
 His closing eyes confess the drowsy power, 
 And, said his prayer, he hastens to repose, 
 For tir'd attention can apply no more. 
 Then, solitary, all the long night o'er, 
 She counts the lagging moments one by one, 
 Listening, at times, the wild wind's stormy roar, 
 At times her poor companion's deep'ning groan, 
 Which, as it rises slow, she mingles with her own. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Meantime, the storm more strong begins to blow, 
 Behind the hearth the hail thick rattling rings, 
 And rising wildly shrill the notes of woe, 
 Sweep mournful from a thousand viewless strings. 
 And Chanticleer, unwonted, claps his wings, 
 And thrice he fills the cot with echoes drear ; 
 Forc'd by the blast the door wide open flings, 
 As raising up its voice, distinct and clear, 
 Above the sick man's bed the dead-chack strikes 
 her ear. 
 
71 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Her task unable longer to pursue. 
 
 She rises up to go she knows not where. 
 
 Walks round the floor as something she would do. 
 
 Which yet she cannot for the blinding tear. 
 
 Out to the night she looks there all is drear 
 
 No silver moon nor starry clusters rise; 
 
 Terrific Winter rides the groaning air, 
 
 And sullen, shades with sombrous wing the skies, 
 
 While thick the shapeless drift tempestuous round 
 him flies. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Back from the gloom she shrinking shuts the door, 
 Thankful that yet a house remains her own, 
 While even now some friendless wretch and poor, 
 Far o'er the waste fatigued may lay him down, 
 Bewildered, faint, and hand to help him none ; 
 The drift his covering, the cold earth his bed, 
 The wild blast answering dreary to his moan, 
 And from his view fair Hope for ever fled, 
 
 The thick cold damps of death swift closing round 
 his head. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But soon recall'd her thoughts, for out of sleep 
 Awaking sudden with a feeble cry, 
 The sick man starts, in spirit groaning deep, 
 And staring round with wildly frantic eye. 
 Yet soon composed, he with a softer sigh, 
 Happy to find th' appalling vision fled, 
 And now, the hour of rest supposing nigh, 
 Desires their night devotions should be made, 
 
 That safe they all may sleep beneath th' Almighty's 
 shade. 
 
72 
 
 XXL 
 
 Oft was he wont, on such a cheerless night, 
 With Israel's royal Bard, in rapture high, 
 To traverse wide the fields of dewy light, 
 Beholding vast the treasures of the sky. 
 The hail, the snow, the lurid clouds that fly, 
 Around the footsteps of th' Eternal King, 
 When to the trouhPd earth approaching nigh, 
 Enveloped in the whirlwind's withering wing, 
 And an approaching God, the good in triumph sing. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But troubles great against him now prevail, 
 Untun'd his tongue, and dim his closing eyes, 
 Yet, pillow'd up his frame infirm and frail, 
 Once more to lead the song divine he tries. 
 Before him his delight, his bible lies, 
 With trembling hand the sacred leaves he turns, 
 To find some strain that to his case applies, 
 Some strain, perhaps, that pamper'd Folly spurns, 
 But where the precious fire of holy fervour burns. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The ardent breathings of the man of God, 
 When, by the mandate of a cruel king, 
 Shut out in desert drear to make abode, 
 Far from the social haunt of living thing ; 
 Yet, borne on Contemplation's glowing wing, 
 Bright scenes he nightly through the gloom 
 
 descries : 
 
 Bold notes of triumph wake the sounding string, 
 God was his help ; on God he still relies, 
 Who counts his wanderings all, his tears and painful 
 sighs. 
 
73 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Or, of our God the mercy and the grace 
 A face of wrath he will not always wear ; 
 For, as a father doth his infant race, 
 He pitieth such as truly do him fear. 
 Our frame he knows, our short continuance here. 
 Frail man, alas ! like flower in field he grows 
 Fair in the dewy morn its leaves appear, 
 Drooping at noon the breeze of evening blows, 
 And, lo ! 'tis gone, its place again it never knows. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And let no scoffer think his labour vain, 
 If in desertion's dreary gloom he pine 
 No ; tho' compell'd the melancholy strain 
 Of troubl'd Asaph's plaintive harp to join, 
 When he beheld the wicked's wealthy line, 
 Encompass'd round with violence and pride, 
 Lofty and loud blaspheming power divine, 
 Or digging deep their horrid thoughts to hide, 
 Yet safe, from day to day, in peace and ease abide 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Or with the mournful Heman, day and night 
 
 Who lifted up to God his fervent prayer, 
 
 Yet to his weary soul found no respite, 
 
 Brought to the very borders of despair 
 
 In dreadful deeps, and dismal darkness, where, 
 
 Boiling and black the frowning cliffs among, 
 
 On which grim Vengeance stands with red arm 
 
 bare, 
 
 Tli3 tu rbid tide of terror, deep and strong, 
 With hoarse horrific roar, tremendous flames among. 
 
74 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 So childlike and so soft, his very fears 
 Have in them that which proves their source divine ; 
 And sweeter far these penitential tears 
 Than smiles that rise o'er heaps of corn and wine. 
 Yea, though Despair the tissue seem to twine 
 Impervious to the light, full comfort proof; 
 Yet all unseen, bright Faith and Hope combine, 
 Though nerveless now they seem to stand aloof, 
 Their golden threads so shoot across the glowing woof. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 In words like these, his cry to God is sent, 
 Before whose throne, found waiting he would be, 
 Hear, Lord ! my prayer at morn shall thee prevent, 
 O wherefore hid'st thou thus thy face from me ? 
 Then to the page proclaiming pardon free, 
 Through Christ, who came the dying to redeem, 
 He turns hut this his spouse must read, for he 
 No more can bear the taper's trembling beam, 
 So deep before his eyes the dark mists thickening swim. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 With fervent heart, though broken voice she reads, 
 Pausing at times to wipe the blinding tear, 
 How holy Job, in faith and patience pleads, 
 Beneath the weight of numerous ills severe 
 Of sleepless nights, with mental horrors drear 
 Perplex'd with pain, of cheerless days forlorn 
 Of friends estrang'd, that once to him were dear 
 And O ! most hard and grievous to be borne ! 
 Th' approbrious beggar's sneer, the houseless caitiff's 
 scorn ! 
 
75 
 
 XXX, 
 
 Wide like the sea his breach, and heavier than 
 Its bounding sands the measure of his woe ! 
 Well might his spirit fail were it to man 
 His poor complaint, as all the wretched know ! 
 Corruption and the worm are all below, 
 With whom he dares relationship to claim 
 And close they here, his hopes, his prospects ? No. 
 Within his breast there burns, heaven-fed, a flame, 
 Which earth's united woes, hell's malice cannot tarne. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 What though, he cries, to rottenness be turn'd 
 My strength, within me though my reins consume, 
 And under pains derided, waitings spurn'd 
 My weary flesh longs for the peaceful tomb 
 I know my Saviour lives, who yet shall come 
 In flesh, Heaven's matchless mercy to display 
 I know his voice in death's cold ear shall boom 
 Instinct with life, and this oblivious clay. 
 Breathing immortal bloorn, shall hail th' Eternal 
 day. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Perhaps she reads, of him th' incarnate One, 
 When tabernacling in this vale of tears, 
 And supplicating low at mercy's throne, 
 How weeping, he was sav'd from all his fears. 
 And now, though seated on his throne he wears, 
 In highest heaven, salvation's many crowns, 
 Yet still the sympathetic heart he bears 
 Still mindful of his tears and secret groans, 
 The smoking flax he fans, the bruised reed he owns. 
 
76 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Up to Him then, by prayer they lift their eyes, 
 For strength to bear them up in this distress, 
 When far away each earthly comfort flies, 
 And rising griefs on griefs their spirits press ; 
 That, water'd by the living streams of grace, 
 Fed from the fulness of His bounty still, 
 They, even in tribulation, may rejoice, 
 Submission learning to his holy will, 
 Since all His works are good, and wrought with 
 matchless skill. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 That, if his end be now in the decree, 
 Of those behind the guardian and the guide, 
 The father and the husband He would be, 
 All needed help and comfort to provide 
 And from his present prospect, wild and wide, 
 The dreary gloom, the shades of doubt remove, 
 Bestowing, death's dark Jordan to divide, 
 The mantle of his righteousness and love, 
 True faith, and heavenly hope still anchoring firm 
 above. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Thus finished their devotions, he again 
 Lays down his weary head in anguish deep ; 
 She, faithful by his bed side will remain, 
 Over his rest a mournful watch to keep. 
 For tremblings o'er him, chill, begin to creep ; 
 His leaden looks assume a ghastlier hue ; 
 Convuls'd his nerves with frequent flutterings leap, 
 And large, in drops, in her astonish'd view, 
 Stands on his pallid face death's cold and clammy dew. 
 
77 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 His eyes are clos'd but soothing sleep is gone, 
 Scar'd by dark thoughts conflicting fierce and foul, 
 His lips are silent, save the plaintive moan, 
 That now and then bespeaks his troubled soul. 
 Plac'd on the verge of Time's receding gaol, 
 The eternal world expands before his eyes, 
 Yet still within him, dark, deform'd and foul, 
 The motely offspring of Corruption rise, 
 While far away his God the wonted smile denies. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Mock not, ye sons of ease, who never knew 
 What 'twas beneath affliction's hand to lie, 
 On whom chill Sorrow's rough wind never blew. 
 Nor lower'd Temptation's wildly troubled sky. 
 Think, while ye riot in the rich supply 
 Of all your souls can wish, or bodies crave, 
 O ! think on him who pours the ceaseless sigh, 
 Plac'd on the precincts of the dismal grave, 
 While darkness reigns within, and storms around him 
 rave. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Nor you, ye scorn ers bold, in whom, profane, 
 The atheist fires of hell, Heaven-daring, burn ; 
 Who with audacious front, in folly vain, 
 At judgment scoff, and mercy proudly spurn. 
 Think, when with cares, with years, and sorrows 
 
 worn, 
 
 Where, or on what your feeble hopes shall rest ; 
 Bereav'd, alas ! how will ye sink forlorn, 
 When rises up, before your eyes confessed, 
 Tremendous, Truth, sublime, in all her terrors 
 dressed. 
 
78 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 For who can tell th' amazement of the soul. 
 When Christ, the day-star, hides his blessed beam. 
 When long and loud, the Law's dread thunders roll, 
 And through the gloom the fires of Tophet gleam 
 When Conscience rous'd sends forth a fiery stream, 
 That hissing, thunders wild from steep to steep 
 When giant Doubt leads forth his dragon team 
 In Faith's fair field to draw his furrows deep, 
 And wild, o'er Hope's green hill, Despair's dark 
 whirlwinds sweep. 
 
 XL. 
 
 The pangs of him, the beastly debauchee, 
 At length laid low in Horror's dismal cell 
 Or of the crooked slave of Penury, 
 The woeful end, in proof 'twere vain to tell 
 Or his, whose heinous blasphemies excel 
 The dreadful darings of the damn'd below ; 
 On whom, even here, th' undying worm of hell 
 Infuriate fastening, sometimes gives to know, 
 The gnashing of despair, th' approaching world of woe. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 E'en he, who with the just hath come and gone, 
 Sabbaths and solemn times his chief delight, 
 Brought into deeps, where standing there is none, 
 Gropes, darkling, through temptation's dismal 
 
 night 
 
 Where ever rises on the doubtful sight, 
 Shadows more vast, and clouds of deeper dye 
 Thought overturning thought in mournful plight, 
 And still 'tis at his breast the hell-born sigh, 
 " To hope is labour vain, and God's own word a lie." 
 
79 
 
 XLII. 
 
 What though he oft, with extacy divine, 
 Hath drunk at Shiloh's soul-sufficing stream, 
 When all without, within him seems to join 
 In witnessing the whole was but a dream 
 His hope, the self-deceiver's transient gleam, 
 That, glistery, glimmers on the dazzled eye, 
 Then far and faint, in darkness fading dim, 
 Adds tenfold horror to the murky sky, 
 
 Where, wrathful, brooding grirn, the fires of venge- 
 ance lie. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Forward he cannot, backward if he look, 
 His eye, in secret, pours the silent tear, 
 Remembering how sweet Peace hath often shook 
 Her healing dew upon his wanderings drear. 
 And, oh ! to think, his griefs howe'er severe, 
 Her gentle voice, in soothing whispers borne, 
 May never more entrance his raptur'd ear ; 
 His soul, with horror breathing terrors torn, 
 
 In deeper darkness sinks, unspeakably forlorn. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 As one benighted on the pathless waste, 
 
 Of fellow men, far from the blest abode, 
 
 Toils on in hopeless agony, aghast, 
 
 The stormy north around him raging loud ; 
 
 When lo ! the moon, light through the opening 
 
 cloud, 
 
 Upon him sudden pours the whiten'd blaze, 
 And straight before his eyes the wish'd-for road, 
 The distant city dim and huge, displays, 
 While all around their heads his native mountains 
 
 raise : 
 
80 
 
 XLV. 
 
 So he, in darkness verging on despair. 
 Roams far and wide, with unabating toil, 
 In dread distraction oft yet many a prayer, 
 To Heaven for succour, breathing out the while. 
 And sudden on his soul the gracious smile, 
 Effulgent beams, the shadows melting fly ; 
 No dubious cloud the prospect to beguile, 
 Faith grasps the promise, Hope unveils the sky, 
 And radiant Glory bursts upon his raptur'd eye. 
 
 XLVL 
 
 Meantime, her bosom torn with anxious pangs, 
 The silent sorrow streaming from her eyes, 
 O'er him his spouse in deep compassion hangs, 
 And breathes into his ear the softest sighs. 
 And oft, in sweet ejaculations, rise 
 Their ardent wishes to th' Eternal throne, 
 Where hid the hope of all the righteous lies, 
 And whence, abundant, while the weary groan, 
 The soul-reviving dews of grace are showered down. 
 
 XLVIL 
 
 O exercise exstatic, prayer divine ! 
 
 Which fools neglect, and worldly-wise men spurn, 
 
 To feed afresh the lamp of Hope 'tis thine, 
 
 What time its fires with faded lustre burn : 
 
 By thee, the soul, that cleaves to dust forlorn, 
 
 Feels secret vigour animate her wing ; 
 
 By thee, the spirit, with distraction torn, 
 
 Drinks soothing draughts from Mercy's living 
 
 spring, 
 And in the very fire lifts up its voice to sing. 
 
81 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 With hopes and fears, through this dark night of 
 
 woe. 
 
 Thus exercis'd, with grateful hearts they hear 
 The chirping hen, the shrill cock's frequent crow, 
 Declare the long, long look'd for morning near. 
 The cloudless north burns bright with frost severe, 
 Blirty the blast with drift encumbered flies, 
 Far south the beams of morn yet scarce appear, 
 The moon, pale, wanders o'er the western skies, 
 And wild, the wailing owl her plaintive ditty plies 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 When forth she fares to wake a neighbouring Hind, 
 But midst the drifted snow, sinks down oppress'd, 
 Through rising wreaths a way unfit to find, 
 Till day's glad beam illume the trackless waste. 
 So turning back, the tumult in her breast, 
 Once more, with patience, labouring to still, 
 Her babes, arous'd untimely from their rest, 
 Around the fire she finds them weeping, chill, 
 Whom now to soothe and dress a while employs her 
 
 skill. 
 
 L. 
 
 Then by their father's bed she sets them down, 
 His last advice and blessing to receive, 
 For, though to all his diligence was known, 
 No other patrimony he can leave, 
 Nor you, ye children of the lowly grieve, 
 And foolishly the ways of God arraign ; 
 Possessions large a father's care may give, 
 But can he soothe the sordid rage for gain 
 Or from the hoarded heaps God's wasting curse 
 restrain ? 
 
 K 
 
82 
 
 LI. 
 
 No; robbery legalized, and smooth deceit, 
 May gather much, and after more aspire; 
 On lazy couch may loll in silken state, 
 Sooth'd with the idle chaunting of the lyre. 
 But surely God will in the end require 
 The cruel grinding of the helpless poor; 
 Will judge the smooth deceiver, and in ire, 
 Even while he laughs beneath the vernal shower, 
 
 At once his branches green, and deep struck roots 
 devour. 
 
 L1I. 
 
 Behold that roofless tower adown the vale, 
 The storm howls hollow in the time-torn walls, 
 And rushing from the hill with weary wail, 
 A wizard stream behind it ceaseless brawls. 
 There learn the hapless fate that pride befals; 
 Rude time, remorseless, sweeps it all away; 
 In vain the turrets huge, the sumptuous halls, 
 Did some designer's mighty mind display 
 
 A Wren, a Jones, perhaps, or Adams of his day. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 For there Oppression's crouching lion filPd 
 His den with ravin, and his holes with prey ; 
 While gorg'd with fat, in sloth supinely lull'd, 
 His lioness and strong young lions lay. 
 And there, out-stretching wide with sweepy sway, 
 Offended at the poor man's humble shed, 
 His simple life, his children's noisy play, 
 His ruthless rage, the land a ruin made, 
 That streams unseen might glide, and sullen forests 
 spread. 
 
83 
 
 LIV. 
 
 What seem'd eternal transport shook the hall, 
 Where fires of grandeur, nightly wont to blaze 
 As wanton Folly, in the midnight ball, 
 Led youth and beauty through her dizzying -maze, 
 And that too, in the dark and dismal days 
 When meek Religion to the desert fled 
 Unoccupy'd were all her public ways, 
 Butchered her sons, in fields, on scaffolds bled, 
 Or with the bestial tribes, in dens and caves were hid. 
 
 LV. 
 
 But Vengeance, though she seem'd to slumber long, 
 With tenfold fury at the last awoke, 
 And of its gorgeous state, its turrets strong, 
 The glory withered with a single stroke. 
 And lo! his rod of rude oppression broke, 
 An outcast vile, the owner roams distress'd, 
 Happy to court the hospitable look, 
 Yea, happy to become the humble guest 
 Of those, whom in his pride, he wantonly oppress'd. 
 
 LV1. 
 
 And in his palace Desolation brown, 
 And awful, ever-during silence dwells, 
 Save when the grey owl to the cloudless moon, 
 At midnight hour her rueful story tells. 
 And save the hunter, wandering o'er the fells, 
 Who o'er its fate will sometimes turn to muse, 
 And yonder maniac wild no footstep else 
 E'er brushes there away the falling dews, 
 Or on the grass-grown path the faded print renews. 
 
84 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Behind it dark the sullen yew tree weeps, 
 And shrivell'd in the blast, with branches bare, 
 One solitary oak its station keeps, 
 Dimly to point where other oak trees were. 
 Its silver lake lies a waste puddle, where 
 Is nightly heard the solitary hern, 
 And wandering seamaws glean their filthy fare, 
 Among the broad sedge roots and faded fern, 
 What time they, dark, afar, the coming storm discern, 
 
 LVIIL 
 
 The very heavens above it seem to lower; 
 Mists hide it oft by day, and fires by night, 
 Terrific on the topmost tottering tower, 
 Far blazing, shakes the peasant with affright. 
 And gorgeous oft, 'tis said, array 'd in white, 
 With tearful eye, and sallow aspect lean, 
 Or terrible, as warlike vizor'd wight, 
 The troubled spirits of the dead are seen, 
 To round, with gliding pace, the solitary green. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Such felon fate is ever found to lye 
 In wait for pride, on grandeur's dizzying steep; 
 And thus, o'er dazzling honour's burning sky, 
 The dismal shadows of oblivion sweep. 
 Far happier he whose noiseless pathways creep, 
 Lone, through the wilds obscure of humble toil, 
 Whose patient steps integrity doth keep 
 From envy free, arid hatred's dark turmoil, 
 Bless'd with a conscience pure, a spirit free of guile. 
 
85 
 
 LX. 
 
 This poor man, lifting up his death-dimm'd eye, 
 Of those he lov'd to take a last adieu, 
 And giving them, by faith, to God on high, 
 Finds in his soul more satisfaction true, 
 Than if he saw, with every wind that blew, 
 Wafted for them, the wealth of Asia's shores; 
 Than if he left them crowns, or rich Peru 
 Were opening, vast, her subterranean doors, 
 For them th' astonished world to heap with all her 
 stores. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Yet still no Stoic he, with cold neglect 
 To treat his own, despising nature's tye; 
 Nor raving, rapt, enthusiast, to expect 
 A miracle from heaven for their supply- 
 No, no; the dew that moistens either eye, 
 The heavy sigh he labours to suppress, 
 While stretching forth his feeble hand, to dry 
 The stream of grief that flows on every face, 
 Compassion, love sincere, and deep regret confess. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 " My little ones," he cries, " for whom e'en toil 
 Was sweet at morn, at noon, or twilight grey, 
 If still I found you with complacent smile, 
 Around me gather'd at the close of day. 
 Oft, while the silent hours have wing'd their way, 
 Each shedding soft on you its soothing power, 
 Watchful, have I remain'd behind to pray, 
 That Heaven might long defer this trying hour, 
 And kind, upon your heads, its choicest blessing pour: 
 
86 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 " But Heaven denies in part This arm no more 
 Shall lend you aid, my sands of life are run ; 
 Alas ! I see you, worn with travel sore, 
 In life's lorn pathways friendless and alone. 
 But turn, O turn your eyes to Mercy's throne, 
 There fix your hopes, lodge all your sorrows there; 
 He never met the suppliant with a frown, 
 Though doom'd by man the victim of despair, 
 O sweet! His gracious smile can every loss repair. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 " Farewell, my babes! afar from rude alarms, 
 In life's low valley be your quiet abode ; 
 Around you be the everlasting arms, 
 And your strong refuge still th' Eternal God. 
 And, O! my spouse, the stream of woe how broad ! 
 A heavy, heavy charge devolves on you ; 
 On Jesus lay the overwhelming load, 
 His grace alone can bear you safely through 
 Let him have all the work, and all the glory too. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 " And as ye all shall answer in that day, 
 When melting, every element shall burn, 
 When heaven and earth for fear shall fly away, 
 And Time expire upon his broken urn. 
 Beware from duty's path ye ever turn, 
 To sport in wanton Folly's circling maze, 
 Or basely Reason and Religion spurn, 
 As oft is done in these degenerate days, 
 To catch the sickly gleam of Error's meteor blaze." 
 
87 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 He adds not for beneath the frost of death. 
 Heavy, life's clogged wheels can scarcely play. 
 Falters his speech, and weak his fluttering breath, 
 At every pause seems dying quite away : 
 Yet as his help-mate shrieks in wild dismay, 
 He lifts a look of pity on her case, 
 And, stretching forth his hand with faint essay, 
 Exclaims, while pleasure brightens on his face, 
 
 " Weep not, my woes are o'er the path I tread is 
 peace." 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Heavy, meanwhile, the long expected morn, 
 Pale, lifts upon the world her languid eye; 
 Hoary the weary forests bend forlorn, 
 And hill and vale one dazzling ruin lye. 
 SwelPd huge around, the distant mountains high, 
 Cold on the view their lofty summits raise, 
 Like white clouds gleaming from the middle sky, 
 And broad, the rising sun upon the gaze, 
 
 A dark red globe of fire streams through the frosty 
 haze. 
 
 LXVIIL 
 
 Dim creeps along the heath the misty hoar, 
 Dogs, answering dogs, a ceaseless barking keep, 
 And wild, by turns, it swells the inconstant roar 
 Of yonder torrent's shrilly sounding sweep. 
 Scatter'd upon the hill the bleeting sheep, 
 And shepherd's voice, afar responsive rings; 
 Cold, from his turf beneath the drifty heap, 
 With clamour loud, the gorcock whirring springs, 
 
 And wild ducks, circling, shake the marsh with 
 sounding wings. 
 
88 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 When cross the muir to call a Christian friend, 
 Their little boy advent'rous plods his way, 
 Now in the hollow of the deep wreaths penn'd, 
 Now struggling o'er their tops as best he may. 
 When lo! the friend he seeks, his thin locks grey, 
 And bonnet blue, with cranreuch clustering hung, 
 Approaches, having with the dawn of day, 
 His breast with dark anticipations wrung, 
 From of a restless bed and broken slumbers sprung 
 
 LXX. 
 
 And thus far, by a fond affection led, 
 Upon his way, the best or worst to know, 
 He learns the issue with a heart most sad, 
 And seeks the weeping cot in silent woe. 
 For as he leads the son, the father so 
 O'er this same heath of old time hath he led, 
 Ere Time upon his head had showered his snow, 
 Ere with repeated strokes his heart had bled, 
 And all he priz'd of life, in death's cold urn was laid, 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 And hence arose that intimacy warm, 
 Which gather'd strength from every passing year, 
 Where piety and passion join'd to charm, 
 In friendship ardent, generous, and sincere. 
 In toils united, they were wont to bear, 
 The scorching summer noon, the wintry morn, 
 And often have they lingered long to hear 
 The redbreast warbling from the wintry thorn, 
 Or soft, on May's fair eve, the beetle wind his horn. 
 
89 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 And soothing oft the hours of painful toil. 
 Digressive they would quote from history's page. 
 How kingdoms vigorous wore the beamy smile, 
 Or doz'd through dull Oppression down to age. 
 How, in the winning garb of wisdom sage, 
 Villains have, fawning, seized the rod of power, 
 Then driving, headlong, with the whirlwind's rage, 
 Than death more cruel, bloody, bath'd in gore, 
 O'er earth gave war to waste, and famine to devour. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 But still more sweet, and more sublime by far, 
 Redemption form'd their heart-enlivening theme ; 
 And Him, who doth in righteousness make war ; 
 The King of kings, and Lord of lords, His name ! 
 Of Providence who plan'd th' amazing scheme, 
 And rapid rolls along the burning wheels, 
 Unerring, while the fierce devouring flame, 
 Or darkness dread, their steady course conceals, 
 
 And, shook through all her powers, astonish'd Nature 
 reels. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 And of experience past, or future hope, 
 Now from his dying friend he hastes to .hear; 
 Or, if involv'd in gloom, that he may drop 
 Some soul-reviving word into his ear. 
 Too late, his friend hath pass'd that portal drear, 
 Whence never back shall traveller return, 
 Till on the clouds of heaven the Throne appear 
 The great White Throne, with ensigns angel- borne, 
 
 Whose glowing blaze shall melt yon bright sun's 
 golden urn. 
 
90 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 The body breathless lies, yet still his face 
 Retains, though faint, that last triumphant smile, 
 When, with himself, and with his God at peace, 
 He haiFd the final end of all his toil. 
 His babes amaz'd look on, and, void of guile, 
 Weep loud, although their loss they do not know, 
 His widow'd wife above him hangs the while, 
 Pale as a marble monument of woe, 
 Nor sigh to ease her soul, nor softening tear can flow. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Till, turned her eye upon her aged friend, 
 The kind companion oft of happier hours, 
 Who on her ear, in melting accents kind, 
 The healing balm of tender pity pours. 
 Then rous'd her busy recollective powers 
 Fly back to scenes that never can return 
 Scenes, that fond Memory purples all with flowers, 
 But hides the painful thistle and the thorn, 
 And flows the flood of grief while fierce her feelings 
 burn. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 And who can blame her tears ? These eyes are dim, 
 That wont on her with extacy to beam ; 
 And cold that face, with livid aspect grim, 
 Where every kindly feeling wont to glearn. 
 And clos'd these lips for aye, whence many a stream 
 Of wisdom flow'd persuasive on her ear, 
 Powerful to sweep away the dazzling dream, 
 To heal the blight of sorrow's eye severe, 
 And sweet thelagginghoursof droopingcare to cheer. 
 
91 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 And nerveless lye these limbs the steps of toil, 
 That, vigorous, wont with pleasure to pursue ; 
 Whence, sweet, the placid look and lightsome smile, 
 The laughing hours, and winged minutes drew ; 
 Whence, kindly, Competence her genial dew, 
 Diffusive, on their heads in silence shed ; 
 And whence their little cot, companions true, 
 Content and independence still made glad, 
 While envy, hatred, pride, afar their presence fled. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 And to secure these blessings still, the dawn 
 Shall find her daily at th' accustomed toil, 
 And latest eve with her broad curtains drawn, 
 Shall leave her to consume the midnight oil. 
 And fears, and doubts, and heavy thoughts the 
 
 while, 
 
 Shall damp her day, and scare her waukrife night, 
 And sad shall be the short and fitful smile, 
 That, like the meteor's transitory flight, 
 Sheds o'er her hectic cheek a momentary light. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Long, long, alas ! her wounded heart shall grieve 
 And oft her babes shall see with secret fear, 
 As to the fields she looks at dewy eve, 
 Rush sudden o'er her cheek the silent tear. 
 And still as Spring reanimates the year, 
 She with her little flock, shall duly come, 
 On Sabbath noons, between the hours of prayer, 
 To weep anew upon his simple tomb, 
 Where green the long grass waves, and white the 
 gowans bloom. 
 
92 
 
 LXXXIL 
 
 And oft, when shut the door upon the storm, 
 And eve has clos'd the weary winter day, 
 While grows beneath each hand the stocking's form, 
 Or from their laps, the spindles twining play ; 
 His virtues she with fervour shall display, 
 His zeal for God, his Christian temper even, 
 Till, each confessing one enlivening ray, 
 Their hearts renew'd, their trespasses forgiven, 
 A family ripe, at length they all arrive in heaven. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 But chang'd, alas! for late upon the hill, &c. Stanza x. p. 69. 
 
 Speculative mechanics, and theoretical philosophers, seldom 
 take any notice of such unpleasant days in the life of the rustic. 
 In their estimate it is all mirth and melody fragrant fields, 
 humming bees, warbling birds, and purling streams, being the 
 only things they connect therewith. Hence, too often, the 
 querulous complaints of the one, and the fine spun theories of 
 the other. The truth is, such a hardship must be undergone 
 by every labourer who earns his bread without doors, once, or 
 it may be twice a-week, for at least a fourth part of the year. 
 And though it be thus frequent, it is still disagreeable, and in its 
 consequences often fatal, especially to persons of delicate con- 
 stitution. 
 
 Its skill the village, too, has tried in vain. Stanza x. p. 69. 
 
 In remote situations, such as the scene of the poem is supposed 
 to be, it is but seldom that a physician can be consulted, and 
 perhaps seldomer still that a desire to consult one is manifested, 
 few things being more terrible to the simple rustic than the 
 solemn air of the physical professor. There is never wanting, 
 however, some sagacious blacksmith, some hereditary bone- 
 setter, or experienced village matron, to prescribe nostrums 
 sufficiently numerous ; and, to the honour of humanity be it 
 spoken, there is seldom wanting some person of liberality 
 to bestow the generous cordial, which otherwise, in such situa- 
 tions, the sick behoved to be without. 
 
94 
 
 And chanticleer, unwonted, claps his wings. Stanza xvii. p. 7 1 , 
 
 The crowing of the cock at night is, among the Scottish 
 peasantry, generally reckoned ominous, either of some unex- 
 pected intelligence, or sudden disaster, to befal some of the 
 family. 
 
 And raising up its voice distinct and clear. Stanza xvii. p. 71. 
 
 The dead chack or death watch, is a small insect, famous for 
 a ticking noise resembling the beat of a watch, which the vulgar 
 have long taken for a presage of death in the family where it is 
 heard. 
 
 And there, out-stretching wide with sweepy sway. Stanza liv. p. 83. 
 
 Political economy is a science, falsely so called, in which the 
 writer of this is not ambitious to be distinguished. He is sorry, 
 however, that truth compels him to state, that where the hamlet, 
 delightfully situated, the peaceful abode of religion and virtue, 
 used to gladden his eye, and the noisy prattle of children, com- 
 paratively innocent and happy, to gratify his ear ; in more 
 places than one, he now sees nothing but the trees under which 
 the rude forefathers of the hamlet were wont to screen them- 
 selves from the mid -day sun, or the gloomy enclosure of fir, 
 over which the passing breeze whispers a dismal tale, " Resound- 
 ing long in listening Fancy's ear." 
 
 To say that this conduct displays Vandalism in taste, is cer- 
 tainly to speak of it in the gentlest manner, and it is perhaps 
 sometimes nothing more ; but we are afraid, that it flows more 
 especially, from a bad principle, and its consequences are likely 
 to be truly tragic. 
 
 The country, in many places, is already a wilderness in com- 
 parison of what it once was. The inhabitants are mostly shut 
 up in great towns, or, still worse in large manufacturing villages, 
 where their worth, both in a moral and physical point of view, 
 is greatly impaired. Grazing of cattle, and rearing of trees 
 may, for the present, be a profitable speculation ; but when the 
 grim front of battle shall lower upon our shores, or when the 
 pitiful framework of a redundant, an ignorant, and presumptive, 
 
95 
 
 and wretched manufacturing 1 population shall be shattered, by 
 some accident from without, to which it is liable every day, or 
 shall burst, by the ignition of its own inflammable materials, as 
 it some day necessarily must, into ten thousand fragments, the 
 cattle will be found but feeble defenders, and the trees, it is to 
 be feared, very inefficient counsellors. 
 
 And lo! his rod of rude oppression broke. Stanza Iv.p. 83. 
 
 I am aware that this is dangerous ground, and that from the 
 limited powers of the human mind, and the numerous and gross 
 prejudices to which, even in its most enlightened state, it is 
 necessarily subject, great caution is to be observed in speaking- 
 of the retributions of divine providence, but 1 firmly believe that 
 they are far more numerous than is commonly imagined. 
 Retribution is indeed implied in the very idea of a providence, 
 is inwoven among the natural perceptions of the understanding 1 , 
 and seems to pervade the whole current of Divine Revelation. 
 That divine precept, of doing by others as we would have others 
 to do by us, knowing that " with whatsoever measure we mete, 
 it shall be measured to us again," though, perhaps, never so 
 clearly expressed till uttered by the Redeemer of men in his 
 state of humiliation, was, as he himself asserts, nothing more 
 than " the law and the prophets." As I have done, said a wan- 
 ton and merciless tyrant, some three thousand years ago,* as I 
 have done, so God hath requited me; and the same exclamation 
 hath in every age been wrung from many a remorseful bosom, 
 where there was no earthly ear to hear, nor any earthly hand 
 to record it. It is a fearful consideration, and it ought to make 
 every heart to tremble, that a large portion of those divine odes, 
 which have been indited under the inspiration of the Spirit of 
 God, for the standing use of the church, consists either of fervent 
 implorations of these providential retributions, or of exulting- 
 triumph in the certainty of their approach. " Let the extor- 
 tioner catch all that he hath, and let the stranger spoil his 
 labour. Let there be none to extend mercy unto him ; neither 
 let there be any to favour his fatherless children, because that he 
 
 <K 
 
 * Judges chap. i. 7. 
 
96 
 
 remembered not to shew mercy, but persecuted the poor and 
 needy man, that he might even slay the broken in heart. Yet a 
 little while, and the wicked shall not be; yea,thou shalt diligently 
 consider his place, and it shall not be. I have seen the wicked in 
 great power, and spreading himself like a green bay-tree ; yet he 
 passed away, and, lo, he was not ; yea, I sought him, but he 
 could not be found." Such are the comminations which hypo- 
 critical extortioners, and, in their own little way, remorseless 
 tyrants, are accustomed to re-echo in the assemblies of the faith- 
 ful, without any particular emotion, every Sabbath day. All 
 such, however, may rest satisfied of an awful and a speedy 
 answer to their imprecations, however carelessly by them they 
 have been uttered ; for, " shall not God avenge his own Elect, 
 who cry day and night unto him, though he bear long with them ? 
 I tell you/* says he who is Truth, that he will avenge them 
 speedily."* Egypt and Edom, Nineveh and Babylon, and Tyre, 
 the once fruitful land of Palestine, with its outcast proprietors, 
 the unbelieving and vagabond Jews, and particularly that proud 
 city, arrogantly and blasphemously styled the Eternal, so long 
 the lady of kingdoms, the mother of harlots and abominations 
 of the earth, with its millions of lordly inhabitants, shrunk into 
 little more than one hundred thousand, and these consisting 
 principally of beggarly priests, insignificant pipers, harpers, 
 trumpeters, and emasculated singers, while an atmosphere of 
 death, which by invisible but rapid gradations, narrowing its 
 circle every year, girdles it round, and threatens at no distant 
 date, its total and remediless annihilation, are terrible proofs of 
 this retributive justice alluded to in the text. The tenantless 
 and roofless towers of Scotland are less conspicuous, but not less 
 remarkable proofs of the same thing, and ought to alarm our 
 profligate nobility in the most of whose skirts is to be found 
 the blood of innocents who give sad and unequivocal evid- 
 ence that they are the children of those who killed the prophets, 
 and are fast filling up the measure of their iniquity. How long 
 that measure may be in filling up none can tell, for who shall 
 presume to set bounds to the patience of him who hath declared 
 himself to be, " the Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious, 
 
 * Luke xviii, 7, 8. 
 
97 
 
 long-suffering, and abundant in goodness and truth?"* Or 
 who shall say, that he may not pour out a spirit of grace, of 
 repentance, and reformation, and so be turned from the fierce- 
 ness of his great anger ? ^ We know that, " when once the long- 
 suifering of God waited in the days of Noe while the ark was 
 preparing-," in the space of an hundred and twenty years, it 
 came to an end, and few, that is eight souls were saved. We 
 know that the cup of the Amorites, which was filling in the 
 days of Abraham, overflowed, somewhat better than four hun- 
 dred years afterward, to the total destruction of that people, in 
 the days of Joshua. We know also, that '-the iniquity of the 
 house of Eli could not be purged with sacrifice, nor offering for 
 ever .'"f We know that ancient Israel, under a moral and re- 
 ligious declension for hundreds of years, enjoyed many mani- 
 festations of divine mercy, none of the least of which was, that, 
 " the Lord God of their fathers sent to them by his messengers, 
 rising up betimes, aud sending; because he had compassion on his 
 people, and on his dwelling place ; but they mocked the mes- 
 sengers of God, and despised his words and misused his prophets, 
 until the wrath of the Lord arose against his people, till there 
 was no remedy."^ No, though he had raised them up a king, 
 of whom the Spirit of God has testified, that " Like unto him 
 was there no king before him, that turned to the Lord with all 
 his heart, and with all his soul, and with all his might, accord- 
 ing to all the law of Moses ; neither after him arose there any 
 like him. Notwithstanding," continues the inspired historian, 
 " the Lord turned not from the fierceness of his great wrath, 
 wherewith his anger was kindled against Judah, because of all 
 the provocations that Manasseh had provoked him withal."|| 
 Who does not know that between ancient Israel and our own 
 country at the present day, there is a remarkable similarity, 
 both in point of privilege, and in point of improvement, though 
 in as much as our privilege is far higher, our failure must be 
 more criminal. Who does not know that as a people, the vows 
 of God are upon us ? Who does not know that as a people, 
 we have treated these vows with wanton contumely, and that 
 the far greater part of the professedly learned and wise among 
 
 Exod. xxxiv. 6. t 1 Sam. iii. H. * 2 Chron. xxxvi. 15, 16. 
 
 II a Kings xxiii. 25, '<J6. 
 
 M 
 
98 
 
 us find no inconsiderable portion of their mental enjoyment, in 
 falsifying- the [facts and distorting the principles upon which 
 these vows are founded, while they spare not to vilify the char- 
 acters of those great and good men who were instrumental in 
 bringing happily these nations under tliem ? And who is there 
 that fearing the Lord, and loving- his country, does not tremble, 
 lest, amid all our vaunted prosperity, the word may not have 
 gone forth against us, " Hear ye indeed, but understand not ; 
 and see ye indeed, but perceive not. Make the heart of this 
 people fat, and their ears heavy, and shut their eyes ; lest they 
 see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and understand 
 with their hearts, and convert and be healed !"* Or, lest, still 
 farther advanced on the road to destruction, the Most High 
 may be saying to his faithful servants, " Pray not for this people, 
 neither lift up a cry or prayer for them : for I will not hear them 
 in the time that they cry unto me for their trouble ?"f Are there 
 not strong symptoms that he has already said unto many in- 
 dividuals, " I will make thy tongue cleave to the roof of thy 
 mouth, that thou shalt be dumb, and shalt not be to them a re- 
 prover ; for they are a rebellious house ?"$ And might he not 
 justly say, " Though Moses and Samuel stood before me, yet 
 my mind could not be toward this people : cast them out of 
 my sight, and let them go forth ?"|| 
 
 * Is. Ti. 9, 10. t Jer. xi. 14. t Ezek. Hi. 26. || Jer. xv. 1. 
 
THE PLOUGH 
 
 WRITTEN IN 1816. 
 
" The profit of the earth is for all: the Kin;,' himself is serv'd by the 
 field." 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE following poem, it is presumed, does not require 
 any particular prefatory observations. The subject is 
 simple, the illustration such as a very small acquain- 
 tance with history will render plain, and the general 
 doctrine which it is designed to inculcate, by the un- 
 happy circumstances in which our beloved country is 
 at this moment placed, confirmed beyond all possibili- 
 ty of being disputed. 
 
 The experience of the last thirty years has demon- 
 strated how easily, under a peculiar combination of 
 causes, a nation may be converted into one vast work- 
 shop, arid its busy population into bustling, and skil- 
 ful, and consequential mechanics ; but have the effects 
 been such as to warrant a wise and a benevolent mind 
 to say, that such a national state is either to be desired, 
 or commended ? Will it ever be possible, in such a 
 state, to repress that unprincipled speculation, whose 
 natural and necessary attendants, so long as success- 
 ful, are unlicensed riot and misrule, and, when un- 
 successful, unmitigated dejection, and unbridled des- 
 pair ? and does not that ferocious and ungovernable 
 spirit of insubordination, manifesting itself at onetime, 
 and in one place, and that meek and passive sigh of 
 suffering, involuntarily bursting forth at another time, 
 
102 
 
 and in another place, equally call upon every friend 
 to his species, to do what in him lies to put an end to 
 such a system for ever. 
 
 In vain shall we parade our societies, and our 
 speeches, and our subscriptions, and our plans for en- 
 lightening and ameliorating the state of man, if our 
 artisans must eat their morsel from the cold hand of 
 charity, while they are subjected to a drudgery far 
 beyond that of the deeply lamented West Indian 
 Slave, and if the lanes of our cities send forth nothing 
 but the cry of oppression, and our cottages become 
 the caves of wretchedness ? In such circumstances we 
 may continue for a time without much external ap- 
 pearance of decay. Individuals may continue to 
 amass wealth, a lordly aristocracy may extend its in- 
 fluence, and feel highly flattered by a fancied respec- 
 tability we may continue to extend our cities, to 
 crowd our lanes with paupers, and to ornament our 
 streets with public buildings, but our real glory shall 
 pass away like a vision of the night, and we shall be 
 left an astonishment to ourselves, and a scorn to all 
 nations. 
 
 At the same time, it is at least to be wished, if not 
 to be hoped, that so many warnings may not be in 
 vain, but that, profiting by circumstances, men in 
 general will return to a wiser policy, and to a system 
 more evidently founded in nature, which, though it 
 possess less of splendour, is capable of bestowing a 
 larger, and a more lasting portion of happiness. 
 
THE PLOUGH. 
 
 RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO ROBERT STRUTHERS, ESQ. 
 
 I. 
 
 Awake once more my Harp, thy artless tones, 
 Tho' round me darkens deep the gloom of care, 
 And every wind is burden'd with the moans 
 Of dying hope, or agoniz'd dispair. 
 And why? Because, dissolving into air, 
 Visions Illusive vanish from the view 
 And speculation's mountain blasted, hare, 
 Once more attests the voice of nature true, 
 No grandeur stands secure that rests not on the plough. 
 
 II. 
 
 How long shall man, by error's meteor gleam 
 Misled, the phantoms vain of joy pursue? 
 Each hour be rous'd from the deceitful dream, 
 Yet labour still th' illusion to renew? 
 To reason false, to folly only true; 
 Affliction wounds, experience warns in vain; 
 Though thousand wrecks the shattered shore bestrew, 
 The first bright sunbeam lights his hopes again, 
 And bold he trusts his all to the devouring main. 
 
104 
 
 III. 
 
 Of distant lands by commerce plung'd in woe, 
 The historic muse need not be call'd to tell 
 Our eyes have seen her dazzling splendours glow. 
 Our hearts have heaved beneath her powerful spell ! 
 And has she not, by each succeeding swell, 
 Some joy, some virtue, buried in her wave? 
 Have not her triumphs rung the funeral knell 
 Of plain Simplicity, of Temperance grave, 
 With all the Virtues prompt a sinking land to save? 
 
 IV. 
 
 And at her hourly intermitting stream, 
 Whose flickering wave eludes the thirsty lip, 
 How many, in the oft renewed dream, 
 With broken pails, hope flowing draughts to dip. 
 And now and then if chance a little sip, 
 Some one more happy than his peers obtain, 
 To urge the desperate toil anew, they strip 
 Reckless of shame, of sorrow, or of pain, 
 Scorch'd with the quenchless heat, the ruthless rage 
 for gain. 
 
 V. 
 
 Far from this maddening strife, his wretched toil 
 For ever frustrate, and for aye renew'd ! 
 This feverish joy, that hangs on fortune's smile ! 
 These hopes by fear eternally subdued 
 O bear me fancy, in thy milder mood, 
 And softly sooth me in thy woodland bower, 
 With heathflowers wild, and simple daisies strew'd 
 With fragrant birks en wreath'd and, full in flower, 
 The breathing hawthorn bath'd in evenings gentle 
 shower. 
 
105 
 
 VI. 
 
 And in thy faithful mirror ever clear, 
 There let me mark the seasons gliding by 
 The various labours of the circling year, 
 Whence kings themselves have all their rich supply. 
 And far be envy with her jaundic'd eye 
 In safron hues to shade the sylvan scene 
 Nor affectation breathe her mimic sigh 
 Nor sentimental Folly's face be seen, 
 Where free and light of heart the rustic youth convene. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Woe was the time, from Eden's blissful bowers 
 When driven with cold and hunger to contend, 
 The hapless pair told o'er the guilty hours, 
 Assur'd that here their case could never mend. 
 But God in midst of judgment stood their friend, 
 Preserving strong amidst the mental waste, 
 Whence duty with delight might sweetly blend, 
 The sympathetic principle of taste, 
 That hears with joy the Spring, with joy the win- 
 try blast. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 To Labour health, to Temperance peace of mind, 
 With their sweet handmaids blithe Content and 
 
 And Competence with Industry he join'd, 
 And high Refinement wrought with base alloy 
 And gay Vicissitude he bade employ 
 Her active powers the lonely heart to cheer ; 
 And, Care and Pain's fell purpose to destroy, 
 Gave Fortitude with giant strength to bear, 
 And Hope o'er all to spread her hues divinely fair. 
 
 N 
 
106 
 
 IX. 
 
 Hence o'er the shining share who deigns to bend, 
 And turn with hands of iron the stubborn soil, 
 With noxious thorns, and thistles to contend, 
 Though heavens of brass appear to mock his toil 
 His are the prayers, and his th' applauding smile 
 Of every age and sex the world around; 
 And free from Avarice, free from squint-eyed Guile, 
 All lowly though his humble hut be found, 
 Sweet are his frugal meals, his nightly slumbers^sound. 
 
 X. 
 
 And him the Arts, him all the Virtues hail, 
 That give to social life its balmy bloom; 
 Still vigorous, as his patient powers prevail, 
 The nobler thoughts their proper port assume. 
 And Mercy, Truth, and Justice bright relume 
 The Moral atmosphere, refined and clear; 
 And Learning's smile, and Piety's perfume, 
 Love's healing balm, and Pity's soothing tear, 
 Attendant all pursue his bright but calm career. 
 
 XL 
 
 Grim War with prancing steeds and rattling wheels, 
 May all her pomp of circumstance display ; 
 But modest toil the deadly weapon steels, 
 The peaceful Plough supports her awful sway. 
 Commerce herself, with streamers blazing gay, 
 In pearl and gold, like old barbaric kings 
 Arrayed, may boast her liberalizing ray- 
 But ask her whence this daring vigour springs ? 
 The Plough, the patient Plough alone can imp her 
 wings ! 
 
107 
 
 XII. 
 
 She is indeed the nursling of the Plough, 
 And playful once a helpless urchin smiled 
 On Zoan's fertile field, beneath the glow 
 Of genial suns, and plenty flowing wild. 
 And Labour there, by drudgery unsoiled, 
 Refreshed by Nile's invigorating wave, 
 Careless with her his easy hours beguiled, 
 And many a comfort, many a joy she gave, 
 Till, overgrown at length, she chained him for her 
 slave. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Then free to rove in verdant fields, no more 
 Cheered by the various prospects of the year, 
 His every day was spent in travail sore, 
 His Spirit crushed by toils the most severe 
 For Vanity the splendid dome to rear ! 
 For Luxury the sickly loom to ply ! 
 For Idols vile to bid the mountains wear 
 Ten thousand sculptured forms, and idly high 
 The Pyramid to raise, huge heaving to the sky ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Avails him not, o'er all the bustling land, 
 That riot rings, and florid splendours glow ! 
 They only deeper wreath his iron band ! 
 Or smile derisive on his growing woe! 
 But Vengeance, though she seems to travel slow 
 Heavy with foot of iron, once on the way 
 Unhesitating moves, nor will forego 
 One iota on her retributive day! 
 Though Wisdom wake at length, and late Repentance 
 pray! 
 
108 
 
 XV. 
 
 And all that wakes her most relentless mood, 
 The poor man's cry, the orphan's weeping moan, 
 All mournful pour'd, while, clamouring long and 
 
 loud, 
 
 With shameless front th' oppressor goads them on, 
 Have reached the ear of him that fills the throne, 
 Th' eternal throne which heaven and earth obeys ! 
 Already forth the dread decree is gone ; 
 With ruin frought the Assyrian streamer plays! 
 And rising dark, behind unnumbered banners blaze! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Pelusium falls beneath the whelming tide ; 
 Red over Tanis rolls the burning wave ; 
 Syene stoops with all her towers of pride , 
 And, silent, Memphis fills the oblivious grave ! 
 Nor populous No her hundred gates can save ; 
 Nor idols, temples, palaces and towers ! 
 The mountain pyramids alone can brave 
 The storm that from the boisterious North devours, 
 And dry the withering wind that burning Lybia 
 pours ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But not destroy'd the honours of the Plough; 
 O'er other lands her peaceful triumphs sped ; 
 And hope was felt, and joy's delightful glow, 
 And the full stores of flowing plenty spread : 
 And Uz, and Teman's cultured dales made glad. 
 Exulting smiPd beneath a glowing sky; 
 And over all the blameless patriarch shed. 
 Such was his worth, his faith, his patience high, 
 A living lustre bright, on Earth that cannot die. 
 
109 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And peaceful ploughmen once made Arnon glad, 
 And Kir look proudly o'er her corn-clad vales ; 
 Made Heshbon, joyful, lift her flowery head. 
 And Sibmah's vine perfume the summer gales. 
 But Kir hath fallen, and Arnon lonely wails! 
 Heshbon and Sibmah, each is but a name! 
 O'er Ar for aye the curse incur'd prevails, 
 Famine, and hate, reproach, contempt and shame, 
 A parching heaven of fire and winds of burning 
 flame! 
 
 XIX 
 
 Why should I speak of Canaan's promised rest, 
 Of snow-white Hermon with her vales around, 
 Of Carmel sweet in flowery verdure drest, 
 Or Sharon's vale with roses rich imbound? 
 Or Gilead, for her healing balm renowned, 
 Or Eschol, for her grapes of wondrous size, 
 Or Argob, with her threescore cities crown'd, 
 Or of that mount where, glittering to the*skies, 
 Jerusalem's sacred towers were glorious seen to rise? 
 
 XX. 
 
 There happiness, prolong'd for many an age, 
 And Glory flourished, founded on the Plough ; 
 And Mercy sooth'd the fiercer passions' rage, 
 And Truth to all held up her mirror true. 
 Aud over all Devotion's holy dew, 
 In Contemplation's placid moments shed, 
 Bestowed a grace and grandeur on the view, 
 Which Envy mean with jaundic'd vision fled, 
 And cold Corruption saw and shook with secret dread. 
 
110 
 
 XXI. 
 
 But a long length of comfortable ease 
 Relaxed the nobler virtues' vigorous tone ; 
 And each subdu'd sunk down by slow degrees, 
 Till unawares the powers of all^were gone. 
 And tawdry affectation shameless shone, 
 And Pride presumptuous ruled the evil hour, 
 And Discontent set up her hideous groan, 
 While Misery's gathering clouds began to lower, 
 And Avarice over all assumed a boundless power. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Then house was heap'd on house, and field to field, 
 By every art with care unceasing join'd ; 
 And all of strange, that different climates yield, 
 In gorgeous robes and luscious draughts combin'd. 
 And Idleness, on splendid couch reclin'd, 
 Doz'd to the lyre, or drained the genial bowl, 
 Careless, though rising awful on the wind, 
 Already with the rain of judgment foul, 
 Oppression's clamorous cry, the poor man's sorrows 
 roll! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Prophets might threaten, Avarice is deaf, 
 And to the future Pleasure still is blind ; 
 In ruder wrong alone that sought relief, 
 And peace in deeper draughts this hoped to find : 
 Till overgrown Profanity, unrein'd, 
 O'er high and low with lawless license rode ; 
 And bursting Ruin's thunderbolt behind 
 Burnt up entire their idolized abode ! 
 Which smokes, and still they flee before th' aveng- 
 ing God! 
 
Ill 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Or why my unambitious lay prolong 
 To tell of Greece, of Carthage, and of Rome ? 
 Of Greece the lively land of dance and song, 
 Of cloudless skies, and fields of brightest bloom : 
 But fallen, beneath the Tyrant's blasting doom, 
 Suns shine, winds breathe, and showers distil in 
 
 vain ! 
 
 What are the honey'd dews, the high perfume, 
 Hymettus yields, and Tempe's breathing plain, 
 
 To him, who, hopeless writhes in slavery's galling 
 chain ? 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Of Carthage, whose right hand was in the sea 
 While, bold, her left on lofty Atlas spread, 
 With generous heat, and active industry, 
 And plenty's bloom, made sunny Afric glad. 
 Upon the winds whose blazing banner dread, 
 Stream'd like a meteor big with nations' doom! 
 And once, by peerless skill and valour led, 
 With ceaseless burning, threatened to consume 
 
 The adamantine strength of all subduing Rome ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Of Rome, whose hungry eagles on the wind, 
 From clime to clime with ravening fury flew, 
 While Robbery howl'd before, and Death behind 
 O'er all the shadows of oblivion threw. 
 Yet, artful could she breathe o'er all anew, 
 Not life's full vigour, nor the flush of health, 
 But something gorgeous to the transient view 
 Of casual observation caught by stealth, 
 Disguis'd the rest of fear the tinsel glare of wealth. 
 
112 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 But all was hollow. Though the skies were bright, 
 And all life's summits shone with dazzling glow, 
 The turbid stream of Misery, on the sight 
 Still deep and dark, for ever toiPd below. 
 And half suppressed, the stifled groan of wo 
 Still rising, painful pierc'd the pensive ear : 
 And wide-extending, life-consuming, slow, 
 Inspiring coward shame and trembling fear, 
 The fires of Slavery shone for ever glimmering drear. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Why should 1 tell, how in a length of days, 
 With all her pillar'd strength, her turrets tall, 
 Push'd headlong from her broad ambitious base, 
 She fell, and Earth was shaken by her fall ? 
 Yet firm, as in a band of brass, withal 
 Immoveable, her iron roots remain'd ; 
 Though chang'd her voice, resistless still, her call 
 The willing ear of slumb'ring nations gain'd, 
 
 While Persecution, Sloth, and Lust, and Murder 
 reign 'd. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Till Learning from her drowsy trance awoke, 
 And Light resistless burst the cloister'd cell, 
 And, Heaven inspired, one mighty spirit broke, 
 With angel strength, her soul enslaving spell. 
 Nor will I stay her dark intrigues to tell, 
 Her ravings wild, her anathemas dire, 
 Which wicked men took up with frantic yell, 
 And o'er the nations, with infernal ire, 
 
 Pour'd mountain waves of blood, and scattered showers 
 of fire! 
 
113 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Nor how a Tyrant's wild and wayward mood, 
 Still unappeas'd, and shifting every hour ! 
 Despis'd, and over stubbornly withstood. 
 Set England's blushing Rose beyond her power ! 
 Which, though at times a cloud might darkling 
 
 lower, 
 
 Hath ever since been brightening in its bloom, 
 And darting deep and wide its roots of power, 
 Till continents can scantly give it room, 
 And earth's remotest isles inhale its rich perfume ! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And thou my country, Caledonia, hail ! 
 Though bleak thy hills, and boisterous be thy shore, 
 Though towering high thy Sister's fame prevail, 
 And thou 'mong nations lift'st thy voice no more ! 
 Time was, thou too could'st boast of Royal power ; 
 The Patriot prince the gifted Seer were thine, 
 Who strong, in danger's overwhelming hour, 
 Did hand to hand with dauntless ardour join, 
 Down thy wild glens to pour the light of Truth divine ! 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 And Heaven upon the high emprise did smile. 
 Thy royal splendours all have pass'd away, 
 But, in despite of either force or guile, 
 Their labours bless thee to this very day ! 
 Thy simple institutions still display 
 The bright conceptions of their mighty mind ; 
 And Labour smiles, and poverty looks gay, 
 And poor Misfortune dries her tears to find 
 Truth, Mercy, Light, and Law, and Liberty 
 combined ! o 
 
114 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 But O beware ! least any thought of pride. 
 When looking at the course which thou hast run, 
 In thy own wisdom lead thee to confide, 
 And claim the merit due as all thine own ! 
 Nor think for thee these gifts were cheaply won ! 
 No ! they were earn'd with tears, and toils, and 
 
 blood ! 
 
 Power's minions all in opposition shone, 
 And on their side, defiance breathing loud, 
 With dreadful tortures arm'd, gaunt persecution stood ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Though Murrays, Loudons, Warristons, Argyles, 
 Knoxes and Melvilles, Guthries and Cargills, 
 And Kids, and Kings, and Camerons, and 
 
 M'Kails, 
 
 And Welches, have adorned thy heath clad hills. 
 Yet thou hast had (authors of nameless ills) 
 Thy Sharps and Beatons, bloodthirsty and base ; 
 Thy Rotheses, M'Kenzies and Dalzels, 
 Foul names, accurs'd to all succeeding days ! 
 And one incarnate fiend in Graham thy page 
 
 displays ! 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 These, the vile tools of a perverted race, 
 Whom mercy could not melt, nor judgment awe ; 
 For ever straining after Rome's embrace, 
 And substituting headstrong will for Law. 
 Till Heaven at length thy deep affliction saw, 
 And from their heights the maudling miscreants 
 
 hurl'd; 
 
 Giving thee to the rule of great Nassau ! 
 Who Freedom's flag with royal hands unfurl'd 
 And, blessing thee, was made a blessing to the world. 
 
115 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 And under Brunswick's venerable line, 
 Thy blessings all have had a large increase ; 
 How bold soe'er thy foes afar combine. 
 Thy vales are still th' abodes of joy and peace. 
 Is there a heart from prayer and praise can cease, 
 That sees thy stream of tranquil pleasure flow ; 
 That sees thy bleak sterility give place 
 To all the generous labours of the Plough, 
 While hill and dale reflect Industry's cheerful glow ? 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 While yet the year, deep in her wintry trance, 
 Nor sees, nor hears, nor feels th' approaching spring, 
 While rudely still the boreal storms advance, 
 The sleet shower shaking from tempestuous wing: 
 Ere yet the lark essays to soar, or sing, 
 But, feebly cowering, seeks the sounding shore, 
 Where flowing tides from viewless caverns fling, 
 The shell- clad morsel he can quiet devour, 
 Where all wild tones are lost in ocean's wilder roar. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 And congregating still, a jarring crowd, 
 The linnets chattering shake the naked tree, 
 And the gay merle, and mellow mavis brood 
 In hedgerow sad, or round the farm -yard flee. 
 O then ! when all is sickening sad to see, 
 On feeling hearts how powerful is the charm ! 
 Borne up the vale the jolly Ploughman's glee, 
 On yonder sunny slope, sequester'd, warm, 
 As, by the red-breast cheer'd, again he breaks his 
 farm. 
 
116 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Even when the storm dark brooding on the hill, 
 With languor deep weighs down the listless day, 
 Uncheer'd, save by the bubbling of the rill, 
 That ebbing soft, keeps trickling on its way, 
 A feeling, half approaching to the gay, 
 Springs up, to see the Plough advancing strong, 
 Through the deep mist that up the valley, grey, 
 In masses deep, sails huge and slow along, 
 To hear the snorting steeds the gaudsrnan's simple 
 song. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Nor unattended even on such a day, 
 Some yet mute warbler patient plods along 
 The new made furrow, eager for his prey, 
 A few days hence to be repaid in song. 
 And foraging the broken clods among, 
 In ties of equal love perpetual bound, 
 The hooded crow, on sable pinions strong, 
 With his dull mate keeps sailing round and round, 
 While to his rusty caw the echoing rocks rebound. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 But brighter days approach the joyous sun, 
 From the gay chambers of the cloudless sky, 
 Looks out with light and life. Her mantle dun, 
 Rejoicing earth for living green lays by. 
 And sweet the early flower, of loveliest dye, 
 Blooms, odour-breathing, on the sunward slope ; 
 Soft wing'd abroad the westling breezes fly, 
 With genial dew mild Eve begins to drop, 
 And trees, and flowers, and fields put forth the buds 
 of hope. 
 
117 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Tis now that pleasure waits upon the Plough, 
 High Heaven resounds the lark's wild melody, 
 And the bland air gives out the living glow 
 Active with life and fervid energy. 
 The leaves as yet but scantly clothe the tree, 
 The fields but scantly yield the honey 'd flower, 
 But, on the clustering palms, the busy bee, 
 With eident hum employs the sunny hour, 
 To heap his hoarded bread, or swell his waxen store. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Forth, to the joyous labours of the field, 
 The household hasten at the master's call ; 
 Some bear the precious seed, some patient wield 
 The needful spade, some beat the furrow small. 
 Arid light of heart, good humour smiles on all ; 
 The soil, the season, and the labour new, 
 For very joy the children noisy brawl, 
 And still their ardour bursts afresh, to view 
 The dogs from field to field the pilfering rooks pursue. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 And soon approaching gladsome, jolly May, 
 With the full flush of buds, and leaves, and flowers, 
 And the full choir of woodland music gay, 
 From morn to even with rapture fills the hours. 
 And lovely June, with dews and genial showers, 
 Refreshed the grandeur of her gay costume, 
 Sportive, within her ivy mantl'd bowers, 
 With honey suckles bursting into bloom, 
 And clustering roses hid, breathes out her rath 
 perfume. 
 
118 
 
 XLV. 
 
 July behind, all blowz'd with native heat, 
 Half breathless paces slow th' umbrageous shade, 
 And scatters wide the cooling berry sweet, 
 Of deepest blue, or blushing purply red, 
 And in her breath matured, with heavy head, 
 Earthward, the wheat full ear'd, begins to tend, 
 While to the orchard fair, with fruitage spread, 
 A yellow tinge her touch begins to lend, 
 And bow'd by slow degrees the laden branches bend. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 August at length, in robes of purple dye, 
 Most gorgeous over moor and mountain glides, 
 And plenty flows, responsive to her sigh, 
 Wide o'er the yellow vale in wavy tides. 
 And while in clouds her portly form she hides, 
 Or rushes hollow through the forest sear, 
 With prudent care the husbandman provides, 
 To save the precious products of the year, 
 The solace of his toils, his hopes for winter drear. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 September comes, with dogs and thundering guns, 
 Re-echoing to the ardent sportsman's noise, 
 And keen through all her fervid spirit runs 
 Resuscitating Spring's delightful joys. 
 The skies are clear, and no dark thought destroys 
 Creation's joy with views of future pain ; 
 The merle once more her mellow pipe employs, 
 The lark to Heaven's gate bears her song again, 
 Arid sweet the linnet swells the reaper's joyous strain. 
 
119 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Till pale October, in her robes of brown. 
 Lifts dowie on the world her weeping- eye. 
 And Nature's voice in forest, dale, and down, 
 Sinks dull into a melancholy sigh. 
 The sobbing blast, the sear leaf rustling by, 
 The distant waterfall's portentous swell, 
 The voice that sweeps responsive o'er the sky, 
 Re-echo'd far from yonder misty fell, 
 Bid to the passing year, a long, a sad farewell. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Yet lingering still, most delicately sweet, 
 Flowers here and there put forth their pensive 
 
 bloom, 
 
 And on the bank that fronts the noonday heat, 
 Still crackles on the ear th' expanding broom. 
 And still the red-breast, with unruffl'd plume, 
 Continues wild his warblings from the tree, 
 Which cheers the simple Cottar's harvest home, 
 That knows no higher feast or revelry, 
 Save from the heart to heaven the warm thought 
 
 rushing free. 
 
 L. 
 
 Now ease and plenty smile upon the farm, 
 For all its labours for a year are done, 
 The yard is stacked full, and each from harm 
 Secur'd by coverings carefully put on. 
 And on that little spot his hands have won, 
 By skillful toil from the surrounding waste, 
 Cheer'd by a mild arid bright October sun, 
 The Cottar and his smiling inmates haste, 
 Now others' crops are sav'd, to save their own at last. 
 
120 
 
 LI. 
 
 The children, laid among a heap of sheaves, 
 
 In artless pastime sport away the hours, 
 
 Trace with delight the slowly falling leaves, 
 
 Or re-arrange the wreath of simple flowers. 
 
 Meantime the mother active plies her powers, 
 
 The husband and the father's toil to aid ; 
 
 And ere the darkening hour of gloaming lowers, 
 
 So happily their parts are mutual play'd 
 
 That safe in hutted rows the whole is fair array'd. 
 
 LIL 
 
 And drear November finds them full prepar'd, 
 For calf and cow is fodder laid in store, 
 Potato bings, and corn-stack in the yard, 
 Keep far away lean Hunger from the door. 
 Work lies around them, and the rainy hour, 
 And lengthened night, their converse gay must 
 
 charm ; 
 
 Parental cares, affection's tender power, 
 And meek Devotion's ardour, ever warm, 
 Forbid the languid powers their peaceful hearts to 
 
 harm. 
 
 LIII 
 
 Much do 1 envy thee, thou happy swain, 
 Although thy toils are constant and severe, 
 Thy gettings small, thy table very plain, 
 Thy dwelling through the winter somewhat drear. 
 Despairing wretchedness thou canst not hear; 
 Perverse stupidity thou dost not see ; 
 The infectious breath of vice thou needst not fear, 
 Surrounded thus by sweet simplicity, 
 Unscath'd thy virtues bud and bloom and ripen free. 
 
121 
 
 LIV. 
 
 The deep reverse thy heart hath never torn, 
 With strangers lonely never hast thou pin'd, 
 These very stones thy infant steps have worn, 
 Thy days behind that hill have all declin'd. 
 Splendour and wealth with mean deceit combined, 
 And flaming zeal with ruthless deeds unjust, 
 Have never rous'd thy rage against mankind ; 
 Nor hollow friendship plung'd, with deadly thrust, 
 Deep in thy aching breast the dagger of distrust. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Acquaintance thou canst claim with every tree, 
 These winds, that stream hath always sooth'd thy 
 
 ears, 
 
 A friend thou canst in every mountain see, 
 And some old thought the wildest echo bears ! 
 Grown with thy strength, and strengthening with 
 
 thy years, 
 
 Around thy heart these prepossessions twine 
 Let no low sophist, on thy casual fears 
 Strong working, cause their vigour to decline, 
 Or lead thee bold to scorn their voice and power divine, 
 
 LVL 
 
 Ah ! do not thou thy equal temper lose, 
 To see the city huckster, soft and sleek, 
 Display his portly paunch, his ruby nose, 
 It may be twice a-year, or once a-week. 
 He lives and thrives by arts would make thee sick ; 
 Has weathered storms had driven thee to despair ; 
 And tho' he bears an outward aspect meek, 
 Could'st thou behold his rotten heart laid bare, 
 Thy every nerve would shake to see what labours 
 there. p 
 
122 
 
 LVII. 
 
 In embryo there, are plots t' o'ereach his friend, 
 Schemes new and strange to grind the bleeding 
 
 poor. 
 
 With prayers and tears, the public eye to blind, 
 And charities, his credit to secure. 
 And hope aspiring glads the distant hour, 
 With gold, and lands, and houses fair to see ; 
 Tho, sometimes, conscience, by thy awful power, 
 Dispersed at once the glittering visions flee ! 
 And rises dark instead, the judge, the gallow's-tree ! 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 A few short years have patience thou may'st see 
 This green, and growing, self-sufficient one, 
 With downcast looks, and tremor-stricken knee, 
 To want abandon'd, hopeless and alone. 
 Or among menials mean, all wo begone, 
 The veriest drudge, the most compliant slave, 
 Eager for rest on earth, but, finding none, 
 Brought on his knees, at last of Heaven to crave 
 
 The poor man's last sad hope, that narrow house 
 the grave. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 For his apparent ease could'st thou forego 
 The joy and health which to thy toils are given ? 
 For all his fancied wealth th' entrancing glow 
 That rushes on thy heart at fall of even ? 
 But above all, thy intercourse with Heaven, 
 The powers transforming of the world unseen, 
 Could'st thou exchange though seventy times by 
 
 seven 
 Were stretch'd their span, for all his prospects lean ? 
 
 Thou art not sure so base, so despicably mean. 
 
123 
 
 LX. 
 
 Beware th' insidious tales of discontent, 
 Which maudlin fiction echoes to the sky, 
 Of wrested rights, of constitutions rent, 
 Exhausted art, and nature's channels dry. 
 And the wild dream of other worlds that lye, 
 For ever bright with hope's entrancing smile, 
 Beyond the vasty deep where, mantling high, 
 The cup of joy prevents the sigh of toil, 
 
 And simple truth ne'er rues the thorny snares of 
 guile. 
 
 LXI. 
 So thou may'st dream, and, dreaming, may'st 
 
 forego 
 
 All that gives balm to life's expanding bloom ; 
 But when thou wak'st, thou wak'st to deeper woe, 
 And heavier toil shall surely be thy doom ! 
 Im murd amid the overwhelming gloom 
 Of boundless woods, to heaven outstretching drear, 
 Where sobbing winds, the river's ceaseless boom, 
 Which thy lone axe but little helps to cheer, 
 
 Unbroke, for ever sooths dark Solitude's dull ear. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Or if 'tis broke, 'tis by the condor's wing, 
 Who stoops to make thy household fowls his prey, 
 Or jaguar's growl, as with unerring spring, 
 Of thy small flock the best he bears away 
 Or huge snake's hiss, as hollow rustling, grey, 
 Through the rank weeds, he bursts upon the sight, 
 And thou stand'st petrified a lump of clay 
 Or the red savage, who at dead of night 
 Strikes up the warwhoop wild, the death fire s dismal 
 light. 
 
124 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Nor is this all from stagnant waters vast, 
 And putrid marshes steaming on the day. 
 Miasma, viewless, creeps across the waste, 
 And steals resistless on thy secret way. 
 The breathing morn, no longer beaming gay, 
 With joy and health invigorates thy frame, 
 The gloom of death hangs dim on twilight grey, 
 Recedes the sun blank with the blush of shame, 
 Or, fir'd to fury, burns a life-consuming flame. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 But should the God whose presence thou hast fled, 
 Thy father's God, with love pursue thee still, 
 The balm of health around thy dwelling shed, 
 And make thee blest almost against thy will ; 
 Should he forbid the bloated snake to kill, 
 The wolf, the bear, and jaguar to devour, 
 Rein the wild winds, avert the blighting chill 
 Of the cold North, and, in the lonely hour, 
 The savage bosom melt, or blast his arm of power, 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Will joy for aye light up thy beaming eye, 
 And Gratitude thy glowing breast inspire ? 
 Will cheerless silence, or the lonely sigh, 
 Still keep awake Devotion's holy fire ? 
 The bread of life thy soul may strong desire, 
 Unfed while plenty flows on every hand ! 
 Of sympathy and faith thou may'st require 
 The soothing prayer ; but vain is the demand, 
 Nor prayer nor praise is heard, thro 1 all that gloomy 
 land. 
 
125 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 No cheerful hum of city, ether borne. 
 No village pipe is heard melodious there, 
 No silver sounding-bell, no Sabbath morn, 
 Announces sweet the coming hour of prayer. 
 No neighbours meeting kind, for church prepare, 
 With converse to beguile the tedious way ; 
 No man of God is waiting to declare 
 Heaven's peace to man the sinful child of clay 
 The rich rewards laid up for glory's coming day. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 No angel forms, descending from on high, 
 Gave there the pattern of the world to come, 
 No prophet's voice, with Heaven's dread energy, 
 Burst the thick cloud that overhangs the tomb. 
 But underneath the sinner's fearful doom, 
 From day to day, the sinking savage pin'd, 
 Still deepening round him superstition's gloom ; 
 Failing each power, each nobler sense refin'd, 
 Till huge the growing brute absorb'd th' immortal 
 mind. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 No fields of fame, no stones of triumph there, 
 Awake the flame of glory's slumb'ring fire ! 
 Quench'd in the ever deepening clouds of care, 
 Fine feelings fail, and nobler thoughts expire. 
 The hapless land Jehovah, in his ire, 
 For many an age kept secret as the grave ; 
 What light, 'tis vain for history to inquire, 
 Tradition old, or infant science gave, 
 O'er all alike hath roll'd oblivion's darkest wave. 
 
126 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 There the poor outcast, from his native land 
 By desperate fortune driven, or secret guile 
 Seduc'd, looks wistfully on every hand. 
 For images to sooth his lonely toil. 
 And tho' nor mountain swell, nor valley smile, 
 Nor river rolling like his own be found : 
 Names grateful to his ear imposed, the while, 
 On sluggish streams, and sullen flats around, 
 Reluctant lend, but lend in vain, their magic sound. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 These wretched huts, Saint Johnston he may name, 
 That ocean stream surrounding them, the Tay, 
 But all th' associations dear to Fame, 
 And to his heart, alas ! are far away. 
 On Grampian hills 'tis other winds that stray, 
 Soft whispering tho' Dunkelden's birken bowers; 
 In Gowrie's vale far other echoes play, 
 What time with dewy feet the Evening hours, 
 
 With rural pastimes gay trip o'er the breathing 
 flowers. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Let restless discontent, or lust for wealth, 
 Roam round the world on vanity's light wings, 
 Burst nature's tenderest ties, sell honour, health, 
 And heaven's bright hopes, for earth's decaying 
 
 things. 
 
 Give me the rest which meek contentment brings, 
 My warmest thoughts the world to come employ, 
 And pure outwelling from my native springs, 
 Unting'd with pride, or slavery's base alloy, 
 
 With honest labour quaff the cup of genuine joy. 
 
127 
 
 LXXIL 
 
 Say, thou, who Fortune's high career hast run, 
 To darling gold devoted from the womb, 
 Who bold hast dar'd the poles, the burning zone, 
 And 'scap'd as 'twere by miracle the tomb. 
 Can this same gold restore thy blasted bloom? 
 Can townships, honour, feeling, truth supply ? 
 Can all thy numerous slaves again relume, 
 These features wan that shrunk lack lustre eye? 
 A deep despairing groan is all thy poor reply. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Creation's boldest scenes thou mayst have trod, 
 Paraguay, and the vale of rich Peru, 
 From high Himaleh cast thine eyes abroad, 
 Where blissful Cashmere glows upon the view. 
 Thou may'st have roam'd thro' sunny Afric too, 
 Where Nature, ever vernant, keeps her reign ; 
 But stubborn, to thy wretched purpose true, 
 Except they led the way to certain gain, 
 Thy sordid soul beheld, and spurn'd them with disdain. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 The poor inhabitant thou might'st have bless'd, 
 Taught him to till the soil, to stem the wave, 
 Or open'd on his eye those regions vast, 
 That rise in light beyond the gloomy grave. 
 But thine was not the errand meek to save, 
 Thou found'st him poor, but left'st him more for- 
 lorn; 
 
 Perhaps to be for aye thy weeping slave, 
 His back with stripes, his hands with labour worn, 
 From all his soul held dear relentless he was torn. 
 
128 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Why dost thou start to hear the passing wind, 
 That lingers playful on the leafy tree ? 
 Why wake thy fears, with circumspection join'd, 
 Amid the peaceful peasant's harmless glee ? 
 Alas ! alas ! 'tis now in vain for thee, 
 That the gay dawn lifts up her joyous eyes, 
 That nature bounds to her wild melody, 
 For in thy breast matur'd guilt's offspring lies 
 His endless toils begun, the worm that never dies. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Nor long on thee shall morn reluctant smile, 
 Nor thou remain on God's fair world a blot ; 
 Tho' patience pause, the grave expands the while, 
 And kindling Tophet yawns more fiery hot. 
 One little hour, behold ! and thou art not ! 
 Thy name, thy dwelling-place hath pass'd away ! 
 And even thy very crimes, on earth forgot, 
 Have ceasM, with foul and ulcerous display, 
 To shock the feeling heart, and blur the beams of 
 day. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Hast thou, O England, nerves of tempered steel, 
 Is thy iron heart in triple brass enclos'd ? 
 Thy conscience sear'd compunction ne'er to feel, 
 For wretchedness on half the world impos'd. 
 With sounding names thy traffic may be gloss'd, 
 But ah ! thy ever-grasping hands are foul ; 
 With Vanity's vile fumes thou may'st be dos'd, 
 And fearless, tho' the Heavens vindictive scowl, 
 The gloomy wastes of earth for prey insatiate prowl. 
 
129 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Thy name is on the winds, and round the earth 
 The glory of thy arts and arras is borne, 
 And truth from thee celestial hath gone forth, 
 In all the glorious attributes of morn; 
 But sons of thine most cruelly have torn 
 The page that should transmit thy spotless fame, 
 And unappeas'd would yet defile thy horn, 
 And set thee helpless, naked, blind, and lame, 
 To heaven and earth expos'd a monument of shame. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 And blood is in thy skirts, and in thy streets 
 
 Th' appaling voice of violence and guile ; 
 
 In midst of thee each vile affection meets, 
 
 And all the wasting passions ceasless boil. 
 
 And pamper'd Idleness, and famish'd Toil, 
 
 In fronted opposition scowling sit, 
 
 And O***ts, W****rs, H***ts, and H***s, the 
 
 while, 
 Thy bleeding sores with venom'd caustic fret, 
 
 And hope, and watch, and urge, the coming deadly 
 fit 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Thy loosen'd loins, O ! gird them up with truth, 
 With tempered justice arm thy fearless hands, 
 Let ardent zeal inspire the glow of youth, 
 And mercy light thee into other lands. 
 Nor laugh to scorn what nature's voice demands, 
 Instruction, bread, protection for the poor ; 
 Relentless break th' oppressor's iron bands, 
 So stable may thy mountain stand secure, 
 
 Unshaken, unremov'd, in judgment's darkest hour. 
 
 Q 
 
130 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 And thou, O Scotia! dweller with the storm, 
 Whom God hath yet vouchsaf d peculiar grace. 
 Why gadd'st thou too abroad proud to deform 
 With all thy gairesh sister s blots thy face? 
 The phantoms of delirious joy to chase, 
 Why art thou rushing from thy pastoral hills ? 
 Why toil to reap a harvest of disgrace, 
 Or wild afar contend with cureless ills, 
 While solitary flow thy health-inspiring rills ? 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 'Mong all thy sons of daring, is there none 
 Will fearless rise the wasting plague to stay? 
 Of all that wish thee well, is there not one 
 Will labour to prolong thy evening ray? 
 But late indeed thy bonnet's proud display, 
 Thy tempered steel, thy tartans waving blue, 
 And thy bold Pibroch scatter d wild dismay, 
 O'er that red field where vengeance had her due, 
 And pride was cloth'd with shame immortal Water- 
 loo. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 But when the war-worn veteran cornes to tell, 
 His hair breadth 'scapes with all the toils he bore, 
 Alas ! how must his manly bosom swell, 
 To find his native hamlet is no more. 
 Silence is in the glen where heretofore, 
 The pipe was wont the gloaming hour to cheer, 
 Far, far away the wand'ring inmates poor, 
 Of heartless life the hopeless remnant's wear, 
 By Susquehanriah wild, or Ohio rolling drear. 
 
131 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 Wild to the wind thy glories there they sing. 
 Enhancing what again they ne'er can see, 
 And often borne on fancy's glowing wing, 
 By thy clear springs renew their youthful glee. 
 Unceasing too they toil, but unto thee 
 Nor honour, no, nor profit shall redound ; 
 Their virtues and their talents soon may be, 
 While thou sitt'st lonely humbled to the ground, 
 Rich on thy rival's brow in well-earned laurels found. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Thy barren hills, like Judah's favoured land. 
 Have largely drunk of Heaven's refreshing dew, 
 And in her paths persisting still to stand, 
 Shalt thou not drink her cup of judgment too ? 
 And deeper far. Her splendours to renew, 
 Jehovah by himself hath solemn sworn, 
 Sharon shall bud, and green upon the view, 
 No more to bear the heathen's spiteful scorn, 
 Bashan and Carmel blush beneath the beaming morn. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 But thou, tho' glorious like the Prince of Tyre, 
 In wisdom great, with perfect beauty crown'd, 
 Allowed to walk among the stones of fire, 
 And traverse blissful Eden's hallow'd ground. 
 If, as thy wealth, thy wantonness abound, 
 And rising still thy violence arid pride, 
 Upon thy head draw down the mortal wound, 
 Who then, alas ! thy failing steps shall guide, 
 For thee, nor second spring, nor summer months 
 abide. 
 
132 
 
 i 
 
 LXXXVIL 
 
 And is not God to judgment on his way ? 
 And wilt thou still the charge of guilt refuse ? 
 Hast thou still sacred held his word and day. 
 And kept inviolate thy solemn vows. 
 May He not now thy strong delusions choose. 
 And give thee up to trust upon a lie ; 
 Leave thee still more thy mercies to -abuse, 
 Till void of shame, devotion's urn run dry, 
 For God all reverence fail, and forms withjfeelings die. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 But void of heart an outcast from thy place, 
 Or an encumbrance vile though thou art found, 
 Still on its course shall flow the stream of grace, 
 Though Forth, nor hear, nor Tay return the sound. 
 Far, other lands with darkness deep imbound, 
 As yet th 5 abodes of cruelty and dread, 
 Their solitudes with desolation crown'd, 
 Shall hear the rushing waters and be glad, 
 And herbs shall budding spring and flowery verdure 
 spread. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 And strife shall cease, and poverty shall smile, 
 And industry to idleness succeed ; 
 And rest shall reap respect and joy from toil, 
 While healthful temperance deals her daily bread. 
 And charity her healing hand shall spread, 
 With liberal heart, on every form of woe ; 
 And competence, by warm devotion led, 
 Cheer'd and supported by the peaceful Plough, 
 Through every feeling heart shall pour her raptur- 
 ous glow. 
 
133 
 
 XC. 
 
 Be still my harp. The bolt of Heaven has sped, 
 And, in amazement, shakes the smitten throne, 
 The loveliest form, the tenderest heart has bled, 
 And the fair flower of England's hope is gone. 
 And with th' illustrious stranger, widow'd, lone, 
 The voice of wailing spreads from hill to hill, 
 The lengthened vales send back the deepening tone, 
 On the pain'd ear with melancholy thrill 
 Be hush'd my feeble Harp thy jarring tones be still. 
 
DYCHMONT 
 
 1836. 
 
How glory I in thee, O native land, 
 
 Well pleas'd in all thy rivers and thy hills. 
 
 Albania, a Poem. 
 
TO 
 
 THE MOST NOBLE 
 WILLIAM ALEXANDER ANTHONY ARCHIBALD, 
 
 MARQUIS OF DOUGLAS AND CLYDESDALE. 
 
 MY LORD, 
 
 Your prospective propriety in the principal, and 
 in many of the subordinate localities of the following- poem ; 
 the interest you may consequently be supposed to feel in some 
 of its delineations, with the influence you must necessarily ex- 
 ercise upon most, if not all the subjects it embraces, appear to 
 me to point you out as the only person to whom it could with 
 propriety be inscribed. 
 
 Allow me then, my Lord, most respectfully to place it under 
 the protection of your noble name ; not with the servile syco- 
 phancy of the rhyming- suppliant, who has framed his lay to 
 flatter the vanity, to foster the prejudices, it may be to eulogise 
 the follies, of his patron, but with the straight forward simplicity 
 of an honest Scotsman, who, thinking for himself, has written 
 to the dictates of his own judgment, and who, in giving to 
 superior worth and exalted rank all due honour, is at the same 
 time solicitous for the preservation of his own. 
 
 My Lord, the aspect of our times is ominous. The elements 
 of disorganization have been industriously disseminated, exten- 
 sively diffused, and are at this moment in a state of high fer- 
 mentation. To preserve for ourselves and for our posterity 
 those peculiar privileges we have attained, will require the 
 cordial co-operation of all ranks in society ; in the upper more 
 especially, great firmness of purpose, profound wisdom, exem- 
 plary prudence, and conciliating moderation. Possessing pre- 
 eminent rank, the vigour of ardent youth, with the high stimulus 
 of a line of ancestry the most chivalrous in Europe, you cannot 
 think it strange that the eyes of your country are turned full 
 upon you, as among the most favoured and the most influential 
 of her sons. That her unconquerable spirit maybe yours 
 that he who is king of nations may be to you for a spirit of 
 judgment when you sit in judgment, and for strength should 
 you be called to turn the battle to the gate ; and that you may 
 transmit, unimpaired, your name and honours to your sons, and 
 your sons to their sons to the latest posterity, is, my Lord, the 
 prayer of 
 
 Your Lordship's 
 
 Obedient Servant, 
 
 JOHN STRUTHERS. 
 
 GLASGOW, Jan. 6th, 1836. 
 
 R 
 
DYCHMONT. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 'Tis gone ! a weary length of years, 
 Perplex'd with care, bedim'd with tears, 
 Since, Dychmont, I, in nature's joy, 
 A poor, untutor'd, aimless boy, 
 With tentless step was wont to roam 
 Thy labyrinths of waving broom, 
 To pore upon thy brawling springs 
 With endless wild imaginings, 
 Or on thy hoary top to lie, 
 And see it stretch'd from sky to sky, 
 Its hills so rude, its vales so bland, 
 My dearly lov'd, my native land ! 
 
 From me I may not, must not say, 
 What these long years have borne away ; 
 What ardent toils they have made void, 
 What harvests of rich hope destroy'd ; 
 What blooms immortal they have shorn, 
 What tender ties most rudely torn, 
 Were long to tell, both sad and true, 
 Yet neither rare, alas ! nor new. 
 
 What though these years my raven hair 
 Have blanch'd ; and toil, and ceaseless care, 
 Arid sorrow's fires, consuming slow, 
 Have furrow'd deep my pallid brow ; 
 
140 
 
 Why should I droop with childish fears, 
 
 Or whine for sympathetic tears ? 
 
 'Tis but, as earth and heaven assure me, 
 
 The lot of all whoVe gone before me ; 
 
 And shall, despite of young men's laughter, 
 
 Be that of all who follow after. 
 
 Nay, even on thee, these years so stern, 
 
 Thee, Nature's everlasting bairn. 
 
 Have, in their sweep of chance and change, 
 
 Accomplished transformations strange. 
 
 Fir'd with the wealth-amassing rage, 
 Which moulds the spirit of our age, 
 And, by this spirit's impulse moving, 
 Strong in his purpose of improving, 
 Thy gay possessor, in his scheming, 
 Most fondly fell at length a dreaming, ; 
 That, were thy broomy shag but shorn, 
 Thou mightst be made to wave with corn ; 
 And for fat lambs, and calves, and beeves, 
 Yield heaps on heaps in golden sheaves. 
 Delightful thought ! at once his eye, 
 In raptur'd vision, saw them lie, 
 By skilful labour eithly won, 
 Of harvests, waving to the sun, 
 The embyro treasures sleeping cosie, 
 More rich than those that swell Potosi. 
 
 Frankly it was by all allow'd 
 Thy bield was prime, thy pasture good, 
 And weel ken'd ilka Glasgow glutton 
 That King-street couldna match thy mutton; 
 Thy weel fed stots, of stots the pride, 
 Excel'd all other stots beside ; 
 
141 
 
 And then thy lambs had lang been clarkit 
 
 As baith the best and first at market. 
 
 But what was beef, or lamb, or veal, 
 
 In thae blythe days, when gude aitmeal, 
 
 As fleets were victualed camps were form'd, 
 
 Rivers were crossed or cities storm'd, 
 
 Or snaw showers, in the end of May, 
 
 For speculation pav'd the way, 
 
 Or mad embargoes took effect, 
 
 Brought three and tenpence every peck ; 
 
 Or wheat, which was considered now 
 
 Dirt cheap at three pound ten the bow. 
 
 In such a time, with half an e'e, 
 
 The weakest couldna fail to see, 
 
 Though some might treat the thought with scorn, 
 
 Few things on earth could equal corn, 
 
 So, after many a pro and con, 
 
 'Twas finally resolv'd upon, 
 
 Thy hairy garment thou shouldst yield 
 
 Henceforth to shine a rich cornfield ; 
 
 A job, the owner didna doubt of, 
 
 Which glorious things should yet come out of. 
 
 To second these high thoughts anon, 
 Came he, fallen nature's eldest son, 
 Toil, with his mattock and his hoe, 
 And his twin-brother with his plough, 
 Improvement height, a pert grim knave, 
 A pliant, fawning, cringing slave, 
 Still ready with his service, sure 
 To bless the rich, but to the poor, 
 A vile taskmaster, cruel, stern, 
 Awing them with a rod of iron. 
 
142 
 
 Now up thy wild glens, ether borne, 
 No more was heard the echoing horn, 
 Nor, long resounding, shook thy sod, 
 As on the mighty hunters rode ; 
 Nor baed in bass the yearning dam, 
 To the sharp treple of her lamb ; 
 Nor bellow'd short, thiek, deep, and full, 
 For very wantonness the bull, 
 Tearing with burning hoof the soil, 
 And butting at the wind the while. 
 
 Crooning his tuneless, endless stave, 
 Halfwit, half mad, half fool, half knave, 
 Thin heather Tarn no more was seen 
 Bundling his broom sae lang and green ; 
 Nor toorn Jock Sparrow with his odd jinks, 
 And curious trantlums snaring gowdspinks; 
 Nor Ruglen rake-hells, wi' their bonnets, 
 Beating the whins in search of linnets : 
 Thou wast not now a place for play, 
 'Twas toil, toil, toiling every day. 
 
 Here, with his what-you-will, Sir, smile, 
 Fresh from the lordship of Argyle, 
 M'Dougal with his freckled feres, 
 A band of breekless mountaineers, 
 Uptore thy broom o'er height and howe, 
 Nor left one single standing kowe ; 
 There, from the bogs of Connaught wild, 
 With thin whey beard, O'Connors child, 
 Against thy whins, with bill and brand 
 Well armed, led on a lusty band 
 All redolent, the darling dawties, 
 Of butter milk and mealy praties, 
 
143 
 
 And rolicking as lith as leeches, 
 In stockings brown and leather breeches. 
 Against the grey stones, peering out 
 Like warts upon thy snubby snout, 
 Rob Riddell and black Jock Arniel 
 Brought up their aims weel laid wi' steel, 
 With powder, and as mony pinches 
 As might hae torn thee a' to inches. 
 
 What eager now, what fond forecasting, 
 What cutting, grubbing^ boring, blasting ! 
 Blast following blast came thundering anon, 
 Like Carron Ironworks proving cannon, 
 While every blast sent up on high 
 Of stones some cartloads through the sky. 
 Thy broom, asjs already sung, 
 E'en kowe by kowe was all up wrung; 
 Thy furze field, that a thousand years 
 Had bloom'd in gold, the hoe up tears, 
 And of its dark recesses, where 
 The hill-fox safely made his lair, 
 Left not a remnant floating free, 
 So much as shade a humble bee. 
 
 Of all thy glories thus despoiPd, 
 Fern, furze, and broom high o'er thee pil'd, 
 To be, the first dry wind that came, 
 Given up to the devouring flame, 
 Thou shouldst, if feeling be in hills, 
 Have learn'd to feel for human ills. 
 
 Oft had of old thy beacon dread 
 Th' alarm of fire and murder spread, 
 But never did it stream so bright, 
 As on that breezy, bleak March night, 
 
144 
 
 When thy fair locks thus rent and riven, 
 Burning into the midst of heaven, 
 Ilium in'd far, from side to side, 
 From end to end, the trough of Clyde, 
 Red tinging all th' old turrets hoary, 
 Those remnants of baronial glory, 
 Startling the grey owls in the eaves, 
 Beneath the ivy's glossy leaves, 
 Where hoarse they hooted for the moon, 
 From lone Carnwath to bleak Dunoon. 
 Leapt to the light ten thousand rills, 
 And bounded all the little hills ; 
 The Lennox Fells, the Ochils green, 
 Astounded, scarce believ'd their een ; 
 That giant brotherhood, the Bens, 
 Cowered low behind their lakes and fens. 
 Till, from their mist-wreaths peeping forth, 
 They saw the wind was from the north ; 
 Scar'd, Balageich threw back his head, 
 And in his fear had surely fled, 
 But that he thought, in time discreet, 
 The Brother Loch lay at his feet ; 
 The Kype and Elrig swat together, 
 Each trembling for his coat of heather; 
 The Pentlands shook through all their bounds, 
 As if they felt their unclosed wounds, 
 Or heard again his frantic swell, 
 That murderous miscreant, old Dalzel ; 
 And Tinto, in thy red beam glaring, 
 Benum'd with fear, stood breathless staring, 
 Until he saw, with glimmering dazzle, 
 Thee sinking white one mighty aisle. 
 
145 
 
 And now the arduous task was done, 
 The field was fought, the prize was won ; 
 Through fickle April gleam'd the plough, 
 Each morning from thy lofty brow ; 
 And May beheld thee as her queen, 
 With bonnie braird sae fresh and green, 
 Without or fern, or broom, or whin, 
 As smooth as Chapel Jeanie's chin. 
 
 But nature will be nature still, 
 Arid thou, though shorn, wast yet a hill, 
 Commercing freely with the skies, 
 Unheard, unseen by mortal eyes. 
 Still round thy hoary eastern peak 
 The grey dawn flung his earliest streak, 
 And, lingering there, the dewy even 
 Show'd all the varying dyes of heaven ; 
 There too, with earth-appalling frown, 
 The thunder in his cloud came down ; 
 And there the spirit of the storm 
 Shrouded in mist his demon form, 
 Whilst shrieks prelusive, wild, arid wide, 
 Roird down the Calder and the Clyde. 
 
 And sometimes of an afternoon, 
 November there would meet with June : 
 Or, what he relish'd better fully, 
 Her blyth successor, buxom July, 
 With whom disporting through the night, 
 She found when dawn'd the morning light, 
 The dry old dog, in his embraces, 
 Had sear'd with frost her glowing tresses, 
 And over thee her gay green bed, 
 A cranreuch covering hoary spread. 
 
146 
 
 Yea, heavier still, there old December 
 
 Sometimes encroaching on September, 
 
 Sans ceremony, came to throw 
 
 Across thee cold his cloak of snow, 
 
 Which, though it hurt not cattle rearing, 
 
 Did not so well agree with shearing ; 
 
 Nor did it prove a happy mean, 
 
 Of mending crops when thin and green. 
 
 Twas but, of course, a little while, 
 
 When thy improver found his toil, 
 
 So scientific, well-a-day! 
 
 And great expenses thrown away, 
 
 Which made him ban thy paltry sheaves, 
 
 And wish them back thy broom and beeves. 
 
 But credit once begun to crack 
 Is seldom cur'd, nor come they back, 
 Howe'er their absence may be mourn 'd, 
 Neglected means, occasions scorn'd; 
 To these th' irrevocable sentence 
 Attached, is sure, oft vain repentance ; 
 A fact confirm'd beyond denial, 
 Who doubts it let him make the trial. 
 
 Beeves still were to be bought, 'tis true, 
 And thick thy fair locks budding new, 
 To flow with more than pristine prime, 
 Only required a little time; 
 But with th' incumbent time was gone, 
 He must depart, his lease was run, 
 And all wherein he had been wise, 
 His varied plans of high emprise, 
 He leaves them to a stranger's rule, 
 Whether a wise man or a fool : 
 
147 
 
 And, verifying sacred lore, 
 
 Must of his place be known no more. 
 
 Yet shall these rude and rough hewn rhymes, 
 If spared by moths, to aftertimes, 
 When, Dychmont, men shall wondering view 
 The traces of the painful plough, 
 Still running with continuous sweep 
 Adown thy sides so rough and steep, 
 Midst mill and smiddy groups, proclaim 
 To eager ears his honest fame, 
 By distance hallow'd, and by time 
 Encrusted with the true sublime. 
 
 END OF CANTO I. 
 
DYCHMONT. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 Ah ! where, ye unrelenting years. 
 Where is M'Dougall with his feres ? 
 Where is O'Connor's whey-faced child, 
 With all his sour milk darlings wild ? 
 Rob Riddell, where's the senseless hash ? 
 Where's Jock Arniel's lang witty pash ? 
 Thin heather Tarn, what now engages ? 
 Where's Sparrow with his curious cages ? 
 And grinning arch, with teeth so white, 
 So lith of lirnb, of heart so light, 
 Where are the imps of coal and coom, 
 Dychmont, that tempested thy broom, 
 Dash'd through thy whins pursuing linties, 
 Or hew'd thy alders down for shinties ? 
 
 Bow'd down with age, with cares, and fears, 
 Frail tenants in this vale of tears, 
 Outbrave they still in mortal strife, 
 The ever deepening storm of life? 
 Or, claiming kindred with the worm, 
 The battle ended, hush'd the storm, 
 Where lie th' oppressors with th' opprest, 
 Forgot, in darkness do they rest, 
 Having no part in aught that's done, 
 Or said, or seen, beneath the sun ? 
 
149 
 
 Ah ! thus, on Time's fast flowing tide, 
 Proud men, with all their labours glide, 
 Borne by relentless destiny 
 Into Oblivion's waveless sea, 
 Where sleep they till that hour of dread, 
 When Death himself shall yield his dead. 
 But fresh, as from her vigorous birth, 
 Nature her plastic power puts forth, 
 Ceaseless, by shade, by sun and shower, 
 In rock, in stream, in tree, and flower, 
 With unseen hand, repairing wide 
 Th' effects of folly, time and pride 
 Who, dress'd in self complacent looks 
 Reflection's voice, but rarely brooks 
 And while these years, so ruthless, have 
 Heap'd with their dead the silent grave 
 Dychmont ! she has, in sober truth, 
 Most splendidly reriew'd thy youth, 
 And given to wave, thy haifets hoary, 
 With more than even pristine glory. 
 
 Often, afar, has my young eye 
 Traced thy huge shadow on the sky, 
 While my sick heart, unused to roam, 
 Yearn'd for the cot I call'd my home, 
 Whence pleas'd, my little feres at play 
 Could sport upon thee every day ; 
 That cot I call my home no more, 
 My feres have sought another shore, 
 Or pass'd that melancholy bourn. 
 Whence traveller finds no return ; 
 Yet, in that recollected light, 
 I hail thee with intense delight, 
 
150 
 
 And scenes so rich, so passing fair, 
 I cannot hope to meet elsewhere. 
 
 In thy deep rifts, how soft it rings, 
 The tinkle of thy dribbling springs, 
 Whence flow, in mazy windings sweet, 
 These silver rills that lave thy feet, 
 O'er which the weeping birch-trees bend, 
 And alders their broad arms extend, 
 While, rising from its mossy pillow, 
 Embower'd beneath the silvery willow, 
 Where winds the bee its little horn, 
 The primrose greets the rising morn. 
 O'er thy broad sides, the waving broom 
 Floats yellow, one wide sea of bloom ; 
 And bristling strong, with healthful glow, 
 A field of furze enwreaths thy brow, 
 Which, turn'd upon the dark north-west, 
 Bids bold defiance to the blast. 
 
 As up thy shelving side I bound, 
 The landscape wide expanding round, 
 Hallow'd to me, in all directions, 
 By strangely mingled recollections, 
 They rise once more, the misty years, 
 With all their cares and all their fears, 
 And, wild, the pulse it throbs again 
 Of young delight in every vein. 
 
 Enraptur'd, once again, I view, 
 Far in the depths of either blue, 
 Their hoar heads burrowing in the skies, 
 Like distant isles yon huge hills rise, 
 From Mahrahanish, sounding far, 
 By the lone wilds of bleak Braemar ; 
 
151 
 
 All o'er yon sea-indented coast. 
 Till in the haze of distance lost. 
 Broad lakes I see them shimmering, play 
 Like fire fields in the glare of day, 
 While living streams, from dell to dell 
 Awaken far th' entrancing swell, 
 Wild as the notes of angel choir, 
 Breathing deep on Nature's viewless lyre. 
 
 But feeble is descriptive art, 
 The flood of joy pour'd on the heart, 
 The fancy overpowering spell 
 Of such a varied scene to tell. 
 What shall be first, or what be last, 
 Where all is splendid, all is vast ? 
 
 Here stands out bold each native feature, 
 Of rough, untutor'd, simple Nature ; 
 Spreckled with flocks, heaths spreading wide, 
 Woods waving dark in stately pride, 
 Bleak wilds with fertile spots enwoven, 
 Hills by the force of torrents cloven, 
 Dwellings with poverty imprest, 
 Orchards unpruned, gardens undrest, 
 Fields overgrown with thistles, some 
 With riches, dockens, furze, and broom, 
 Some by unskilful labour spoiPd, 
 And some from sheer neglect run wild ; 
 Yet, agriculture's heaven-taught art 
 Performs nowhere a nobler part, 
 And Clyde's rich vale, her toils rewarding, 
 Seems on the whole but one vast garden, 
 Adorn'd by art,|by nature blest, . 
 Laid out with skill and trimly drest. 
 
152 
 
 But who the landscape wide may reach 
 And, bold, the mighty outline sketch ? 
 Far west by Cowal's rugged dells. 
 And round by Campsie's lovely fells, 
 By the bleak Shotts, and dimly seen, 
 With Tin to' s towering height between, 
 The weary Pentlands, sad to see 
 Still weeping wounded liberty, 
 With shield cut through and banner torn, 
 Left on them in her blood to mourn, 
 While her best friends on scaffolds bled, 
 Or in dark dungeons pined and died 
 By hoary Douglas' pastoral hills, 
 And Lesmahagow's weeping rills 
 In fancy's ear, that murmur still 
 The wrongs of Cameron and Cargill, 
 And Bruce, and Shields, and Renwick, good, 
 For Scotland's faith who shed his blood ; 
 And by yon dark arid narrow stripe, 
 The rugged ridge of barren Kype, 
 To lofty Loudon o'er his bog, 
 Still smiling proudly on Drumclog, 
 Where Clavers, in his mad career 
 Of lawless murder, learnt to fear 
 A bold, though simple, peasantry, 
 Who stood for God and liberty ; 
 By bare DrumdufF and Hairshaw wide, 
 And Elrig brown in bent array'd ; 
 By watery wilds, extending far, 
 From Balageich round green Dunwar, 
 Where haunted Croilburn's head-streams twine, 
 Through the bleak fields of lone Lochgoin, 
 
153 
 
 To where the sea-born breezes roam, 
 O'er Largs far-famed, and Kilmalcolm, 
 How lonely, rnidst the bent, are seen, 
 Far up the hills, in living green, 
 Rich fields of oats, outspreading wide, 
 The Scotsman's hope, old Scotia's pride, 
 Whence, honoured far, the name she takes, 
 All lands above, THE LAND OF CAKES. 
 
 There, less remote, the bean-fields lie, 
 With fragrance filling the wide sky, 
 While side by side, the wheat is seen, 
 Blushing afar a deep dark green, 
 And straths of ryegrass on the e'e, 
 Heave like the undulating sea. 
 Already, ting'd with autumn's glow, 
 The plots of early barley show, 
 And vocal with the buoyant glee 
 Of health, and mirth, and industry, 
 Beneath the careful hand and hoe, 
 Potato fields are all a-glow, 
 To be, with th' aid of fostering showers, 
 Some few days hence one blush of flowers, 
 And a few more, if time hold good, 
 Teeming with sweet nutritious food. 
 
 Flowery and soft, these crops betwixt 
 Rich pasture fields are intermixt, 
 With kirie full-udder'd spotted over, 
 Up to their knees in fine white clover, 
 Or oxen huge that, battening, lie 
 In ruminating luxury. 
 
 Vast, too, on every hand they rise 
 Th' effects of wealth and high emprise; 
 
 T 
 
154 
 
 There, pyramidal piled, they shine, 
 
 The products of the dark deep mine, 
 
 Rich iron and steel rough in the ore 
 
 And coal, in which there sleeps the power * 
 
 Which all the useful arts require 
 
 The power, the sovereign power of fire. 
 
 Here, amidst smoke and ceaseless clamour, 
 
 Roars the red forge, rings the sledge hammer, 
 
 Beneath whose well-directed blows, 
 
 The red son of the furnace grows 
 
 Into his destined shape, a bar, 
 
 To serve all arts of peace or war 
 
 On yonder broad lawn's smooth expanse, 
 The palace of the merchant prince, 
 The boast of modern architecture, 
 A simple but a splendid structure, 
 By peaceful arts of saving won, 
 Its bold Greek front lifts to the sun; 
 And here, like veteran from the wars, 
 Imbrowri'd by toil and seam'd with scars, 
 Green-ivy-bound amidst his woods, 
 A Goth, th' old baron's castle nods. 
 There, with its rising clump for bield, 
 Its broad, run-rig, potato field, 
 Its narrow gardens flushed with roses, 
 Where many a rich bee-hive reposes ; 
 Its barn-like church, with mimic tower, 
 Whence a new clock proclaims the hour; 
 Its school-house, rather past its prime, 
 But newly wash'd with Irish lime ; 
 Its well-thatched inn, where shines in full 
 Two keys across, or large black bull, 
 
155 
 
 With th' owner's name, and eke, of course, 
 
 Refreshments or for man or horse, 
 
 Its braw shot window, where to th' e'e 
 
 Shines SNUFF, TOBACCO, and BOHEA ; 
 
 Its smithy, famed for nightly news ; 
 
 Its wright's yard, cram'd with logs and ploughs ; 
 
 Its dwellings neat, with, use and wont, 
 
 Jawhole and dunghill full in front, 
 
 With knocking and with lazy stanes, 
 
 Rests, canny rests, for wives and weans ; 
 
 With ducks, and hens, and pigs o'errun, 
 
 And lank curs sleeping in the sun, 
 
 Who, could they hear the muse her tread, 
 
 Would bite, or rather bark, her dead 
 
 Laughs lovingly alongst the road, 
 
 The ancient Clachan spreading broad : 
 
 While round and round, on every side, 
 
 Prim hamlets rising far and wide, 
 
 In modish economic style, 
 
 Glitter in slate, in tar, or tile. 
 
 Closed in with stacks and one old ash, 
 
 Farm steads across their fields look gash, 
 
 And the lone cottage, sweet to see, 
 
 Smiles underneath its hawthorn tree. 
 
 Collecting yonder all his floods, 
 Clyde thunders through the Corehouse woods, 
 Takes Dundaffwith a placid leap, 
 And, rounding with voluptuous sweep 
 Old Lanark's towers, delighted plays, 
 Kirkfield, beneath thy verdant braes, 
 And with stern majesty inspires 
 The rugged caverns of Stonebyres; 
 
156 
 
 Thence, sooth'd with the bloom -breathing gale, 
 
 He slow meandering cleaves the vale, 
 
 Now turning here, now there again, 
 
 As loath to leave the lovely scene. 
 
 Such lovely scenes who would not tarry on, 
 
 As Milton or the knols of Garion, 
 
 Towering Dalserf, or Mauldsly's bowers, 
 
 Or Cambusnethan's Gothic towers? 
 
 Is there on earth aught can excel 
 
 The bosky dingles of Dalzel, 
 
 Or that rich vale, expanding wide. 
 
 Where Evan meets thee, father Clyde? 
 
 My Lord of Hamilton, your grace's 
 Lines have been cast in pleasant places; 
 Well may you say, " On Nature's page 
 I have a goodly heritage;" 
 But, in these itchy days of change 
 Amid so many movements strange, 
 Undoubtedly, some questions higher 
 Much it imports you to inquire ; 
 Such as. Have I the special grace 
 Belongs to my exalted place ? 
 That place, is it usurp' d, unjust, 
 Or given of God, and held in trust, 
 As part and parcel of his plan 
 For rightly ruling social man ? 
 Do I upon the world below, 
 Of course, shake tempests from my brow ? 
 Am I a mount, seen far and wide, 
 Dark smoking with the fire of pride, 
 And, through self-will with power combined, 
 Red ashes showering on the wind, 
 
157 
 
 Thus showing fair, to all men's sight, 
 A mark for wrath's red bolt to smite. 
 
 Or do I, soft, a shadow throw 
 Protective o'er the world below ? 
 The scatter'd gifts of providence, 
 Do I collect and rich dispense, 
 In gentle fructifying rains, 
 Afar upon life's arid plains ? 
 And limpid streams do I send forth, 
 Of charity arid moral worth, 
 The woes, the wants, of all redressing, 
 Blessed myself by all men blessing : 
 Thus lending firm, though folly prate, 
 Both strength and beauty to the state ? 
 Thee, Bothwell, can I pass, nor yield 
 A tear to thy ill-fated field, 
 Where valour came, but wisdom not, 
 And common prudence was forgot ; 
 Where fell the banner of the just, 
 And truth was trampled in the dust, 
 Freedom o'erwhelm'd in wild disorder, 
 And victory lost in downright murder ? 
 Yet healing time has every trace 
 Erased of all this foul disgrace, 
 And, Bothwell, o'er the peaceful river, 
 Thy bank it blooms as green as ever. 
 Sickly and sad, the breeze-note falls 
 Around the Priory's old walls, 
 And mournful is its weary plaint 
 Through these long aisles unroof d and rent, 
 Where, in his pride, once Randolph stood, 
 And many a Douglas stout and good. 
 
158 
 
 Yet, Blantyre, if the truth we tell, 
 Thy well-conducted works excel, 
 An hundred boasted priories, 
 With all their dozing sanctities ; 
 And he of mild pacific sway. 
 The noble Douglas of the day, 
 Although no crouching slaves adore him, 
 Is worth the best whoVe gone before him. 
 
 Now through his far-famed fields of coal, 
 By furnace-blazing Boggleshole, 
 By old Dalmarnock's haughs so wide, 
 And Ruglen's royal burgh decay'd, 
 With dye vats chock'd, with engines deav'd, 
 And countless nuisances mischieved, 
 In clouds of smoke his blushes hiding, 
 The Clyde, is seen, all silent, gliding, 
 Till, in the classic Kelvin's wave 
 And Cart, his azure locks he lave ; 
 Thence, by the Dryfe and silver Leven, 
 Enlarged, he lifts his face to heaven, 
 And, sweltering in his waves of pride, 
 Bounds into ocean's foamy tide. 
 Lone as I muse, I hear it come 
 Up the green glen, the distant hum 
 Of yonder city's eager crowd, 
 Conceal'd beneath that murky cloud, 
 Through which shoot up rich domes and spires, 
 Afar that glow like meteor fires. 
 
 Are these the sounds of triumph ? No ! 
 Of grinding toil or hopeless woe ? 
 Of buoyant hope or trembling fear ? 
 Of ardour or of blank despair ? 
 
159 
 
 Or, are they bursts, amid the press, 
 Of pure, unmeaning nothingness ? 
 No ! they are neither one nor t' other, 
 But all pour'd jarring out together. 
 
 What zeal, what self-corn rnand is there ! 
 What energy and what despair ! 
 What toils, with desperate aim renew'd ! 
 What harassing solicitude ! 
 What eagerness in every face ! 
 What hurrying on from place to place, 
 As if on every step the dye 
 Were casting for eternity ! 
 And all for what ? A little dust, 
 Hard to be gain'd, and easy lost, 
 And, by the longest lived of men, 
 Enjoy'd scarce three-score years and ten. 
 
 Fair city, thou that sitt'st confest 
 By all, the lady of the west, 
 Much would I grieve, should verse of mine 
 E'er scathe one blooming wreath of thine ; 
 Well do I know, beneath that cloud 
 Breathe forms as fair and hearts as good, 
 Benevolent, and warm, and true, 
 As ever drank life's balmy dew. 
 
 Happy, and let him have his rneed 
 Of fair respect, is he, indeed, 
 Upon whose birth is given to shine 
 The light of an illustrious line 
 Of ancestry, skilled in debate, 
 Or strong the battle to the gate, 
 What time the rage of foes did burn, 
 With Valour's fiery hands to turn ; 
 
160 
 
 But let him also have his share. 
 Whose vigorous -mind and frugal care, 
 Triumphing o'er a lowly birth, 
 Among the great ones of the earth, 
 With honour, hath enrolled his name, 
 Pre-eminent in wealth and fame. 
 And where's the city found, pray where, 
 For such that may with thee compare ? 
 
 But then thou hast, 'tis said, a few, 
 It may, or it may not be true, 
 Who rank themselves as great and good, 
 Altho' they live and thrive on blood, 
 Which, all remorseless, they devour, 
 The hearts blood of the labouring poor, 
 Whom they oppress, from day to day, 
 With extra work and scanty pay. 
 Alas ! for him, or her, who moans, 
 O'er the hard task with acljing bones, 
 And, spite of toiling, meek, desert, 
 Sits hunger-bitten at the heart. 
 Say are ye men, who drive a trade 
 That cannot yield the workman bread ? 
 Are ye not rather demons fell, 
 On this fair earth enacting hell ? 
 Pillowd on wealth, and swoln with pride, 
 Humanity ye may deride ; 
 But let this truth alarm your fears, 
 When poor men cry, Jehovah hears, 
 And, by himself, hath solemn sworn, 
 The scorn ers to repay with scorn. 
 
 Thou hast, in vanity exceeding, 
 Some, too, whose zeal has quench'd their breeding ; 
 
161 
 
 And some as saints, demanding place, 
 By no means overrun with grace. 
 Nor with what might be whiles in season- 
 Its, falsely thought, opponent, reason. 
 Thy darkened purlieus, too, infold 
 The dupes of sin grown poor and old, 
 To whom there is no longer given. 
 Nor joy in earth, nor hope in heaven. 
 
 Now, had I but the gust of gab, 
 Erewhile thy gift, most Reverend Crabbe, 
 And my bauch muse, could I but time her, 
 Like him, the meek-mouth'd Corn Law Rhymer, 
 A feast is here spread out before me. 
 And wreaths, unfading wreaths, of glory. 
 
 The street, the narrow dirty street, 
 Low squalid drabs with naked feet ; 
 In sunny nooks, on soot bags dozing, 
 Sweeps, scamps, and thieves, supine reposing : 
 Yon bloated wretch of changeful hue, 
 Not black, but red, not red, but blue, 
 With three crack'd jars, in damp dark cellar, 
 Who dubs himself a spirit dealer ; 
 That thin and red-eyed fiery- vixen, 
 That big swollen frow of look perplexing 
 And brats in rags, inch thick with snotter, 
 And heads, ah me ! a perfect hotter, 
 I here might paint, not quite seraphic, 
 Yet in a style should pass for graphic, 
 Then, with a patriot's generous practice, 
 Damn governments, and towns, and taxes. 
 
 But this, though an approved style, 
 A prudent mode of spurting bile, 
 
 u 
 
162 
 
 Besides to other themes I haste. 
 
 Suits not with my untutor'd taste, 
 
 Nor, with plain facts, bold standing out, 
 
 In sight of all, defying doubt. 
 
 Like men who make them, towns have blots, 
 
 But the great sun himself hath spots. 
 
 Ask ye where science brightest shines, 
 Where elegance with art combines, 
 Where learning deepest strikes her roots, 
 Where knowldge shakes her fairest fruits, 
 Where love her loftiest labour plies, 
 Where charity's efficience lies, 
 Where merit sometimes meets her meed, 
 And genius finds a crust of bread ? 
 Where, but beneath the murky sky 
 Of towns, which canting bards decry. 
 
 Affected gravity may mock 
 At crowded alleys dark with smoke, 
 And, canting, cry that all within 
 Is poverty, and filth, and sin, 
 Objects of reprobacy dire, 
 Already ripe for penal fire : 
 And truly here are manners rough, 
 And shame, and poverty enough ; 
 But Truth must also tell that there 
 Are faith, and penitence, and prayer, 
 And vigorous minds, though lowly born, 
 Superior to the base world's scorn, 
 Who live and love, beneath the smile 
 Of meek content, though endless toil, 
 The fountain whence their means must flow, 
 Be all they hope for here below. 
 
163 
 
 Far, far from all their souls held dear, 
 The mountain blue, the streamlet clear, 
 How many gentle spirits there, 
 All but the victims of despair ! 
 Nor youth, nor health, nor credit left, 
 Of fortune and of friends bereft, 
 Yet earning, in their humble way, 
 An honest penny day by day, 
 Conversing with themselves and God, 
 Find here a pleasing solitude, 
 Whence their orisons to the skies, 
 At morn and evening duly rise, 
 And, heard by Him on mercy's throne, 
 Return, in showers of blessing, down 
 On these dark lanes which know them not, 
 That land by which they are forgot. 
 
 Fair city of the wise and free, 
 Rich mart of honest Jndustry, 
 May heaven still keep thee in its care, 
 Is mine and every poor man's prayer. 
 Wide spreading, may thy Tree be seen 
 For ever clothed in vernal green ; 
 Thy sprightly Bird and sounding Bell, 
 Truth's sacred triumphs ever tell ; 
 Thy Fish, in undecaying prime, 
 Glide silvery down the stream of time, 
 While He, throughout all worlds ador'd, 
 The First, the Last, th' Eternal Word, 
 Preach'd freely unto all and some, 
 With this give thee the world to come. 
 
 And may, beneath thy fostering care, 
 Thy many daughters rising fair, 
 
164 
 
 Around thee far for many a mile, 
 
 Still work and thrive, and thrive and toil, 
 
 While joy their every valley fills. 
 
 And culture creeps o'er all their hills. 
 
 And every day, with more effect, 
 Thy energies may heaven direct, 
 In spreading, with renew'd increase, 
 Taste, order, industry, and peace. 
 Already has thy cheering smile 
 Diffused itself o'er half the isle, 
 And, flowing, like thine own fair river, 
 Thy wealth, its channels deepening ever, 
 Shed competence, and worth, and ease, 
 O'er all the stormy Hebrides ; 
 Thence, far th' Atlantic wafted o'er, 
 Give it to bless lone Labrador ; 
 To sweep the dense Canadian woods, 
 Where lonely by her ocean floods, 
 Beneath the sultry summer's glow, 
 Or midst her boundless wastes of snow, 
 Where winter spreads her stern empire, 
 Out-breathing frosts, that scorch like fire, 
 Old Scotia's son, a poor exile, 
 Works hard, and sings, and weeps the while, 
 His fond imagination dwells 
 Upon her heath- empurpled fells, 
 Her blaeberry banks, her gowany braes, 
 Her dingles white with budding slaes, 
 Her mountains green with hairbells blooming, 
 And purple thyme the air perfuming, 
 And more than all, his darling theme, 
 The little limpid mountain stream, 
 
165 
 
 That sparkled down the broom -clad dell. 
 Where rose the church with tree and bell. 
 Whose silver tones ilk sabbath day 
 CalFd all his fellow hinds to pray 
 Careless with whom he oft hath gone, 
 Which melts him now to think upon. 
 Let thy munificence plant there 
 The man of God, the house of prayer, 
 Whence supplications meet may rise, 
 And praise a grateful sacrifice, 
 To Him who sheds a cheering grace 
 Upon the solitary place, 
 And streaks with lines of loveliness 
 The vast arid savage wilderness ; 
 Whence the rude red man yet may prove 
 Th' extent of the Great Spirit's love, 
 And, wash'd and pardoned through the Son, 
 Worship in faith the Great Three One 
 Whence truth and freedom, hand in hand, 
 May make their own that wide spread land, 
 And grateful thanks, by millions given, 
 Rising on thy behalf to heaven, 
 Long ages hence be found to lie 
 Thy rich reversion in the sky. 
 
 END OF CANTO II. 
 
DYCHMONT. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 HAPPY the man, who, to his lot. 
 Whatever it be, his mind hath brought, 
 And, whether great or small his measure 
 Of joy, is pleas'd with God's good pleasure. 
 Small and despis'd may be the part 
 Assigned him ; but, with upright heart, 
 Where duty leads, prepared to go 
 Or with ten talents, or with two ; 
 Or with loud plaudits onward borne, 
 Or vilified and laugh'd to scorn 
 Not hope alone of future bliss, 
 But a pure, perfect peace is his ; 
 A peace nor tongue nor pen can tell 
 The peace of God unspeakable ! 
 
 By such an one, plain, honest toil 
 Is welcomed with a cheerful smile, 
 And felt a gift of God's own giving, 
 A special mean of happy living. 
 Sour discontent may round him growl, 
 And sneering pride contemptuous scowl ; 
 Sloth may hang down her nerveless hands, 
 And folly point to distant lands, 
 Where, without human care or toil, 
 Trees rain down bread, rocks pour forth oil, 
 
167 
 
 And streams with milk and honey swell, 
 As rumour's hundred tongues can tell ; 
 He, knowing that this world at best, 
 Was never meant man's place of rest, 
 Is satisfied with native ills, 
 To grapple on his native hills, 
 Where every stream, and rock, and tree, 
 Has its wild lay of liberty 
 Inlaid in law, whose sacred charters, 
 Embalmed are with the blood of martyrs ; 
 The savour of whose gracious names 
 The ardour of his zeal inflames, 
 Like them, supremely to regard 
 " The recompence of the reward, 7 ' 
 The grace that in the promise lies, 
 To be reveal'd when sun, and skies, 
 And earth, and sea, one destin'd day, 
 Like morning clouds have pass'd away, 
 
 Such were the characters sublime, 
 Thy teachers in the olden time, 
 Scotia, who led thee out and in, 
 Nor fear'd nor hated aught but sin 
 Who freed thy once dark valleys from 
 The wolves, iron-tooth'd, of mystic Rome 
 And for the Lord, who did deliver, 
 Engaged thee and thy sons for ever. 
 
 And when, to please a worthless thing, 
 As ever folly titled king, 
 A venal, turncoat, drunken crew, 
 With treason charg'd their own free vow; 
 Such were the hinds thy hills who trode, 
 Strong in the love and fear of God, 
 
168 
 
 Defying, through a long dark hour, 
 Alike the craft and rage of power, 
 Till by their bright example charm'd, 
 Even passive cowardice was warm'd, 
 And dodgeing, downright selfishness, 
 Assum'd the patriot's stern address, 
 By which, inspired with awful dread, 
 The pries trid, poltroon, tyrant fled, 
 Leaving his friends to gaze upon 
 A court dissolv'd, a vacant throne. 
 
 And though, alas ! that breathing space, 
 That moment of peculiar grace, 
 By vile, time-serving, cunning crost, 
 For its best ends was greatly lost ; 
 Though thy proud beggar-barons sold 
 Thy swocn-to rights for paltry gold; 
 Though all thy would-be men of mind, 
 Poets, philosophers, combined, 
 With sneaking hangers-on at court, 
 Of thy best feelings to make sport, 
 Yet lov'd and cherish'd all the while, 
 Among thy hardy sons of toil, 
 In every vale, on every hill, 
 Unquench'd these feelings linger still, 
 And shall, we fervent hope and pray, 
 Yet save thee on a future day. 
 
 Hail ! heaven's best gift to mankind lent- 
 Hail ! holy spirit of content 
 Thou, thou alone, the seraph smile 
 Canst kindle on the brow of toil, 
 And truest honours heap upon 
 The humblest station fairly won. 
 
169 
 
 The richest relish thou canst deal 
 Out with the stinted homely meal. 
 And sweetness, beauty, grandeur, grace, 
 Give even to dreary loneliness. 
 
 How wide thy energies sublime 
 Should spread in such a favour'd clime, 
 Where liberty stoops down to cheer 
 Alike the peasant and the peer ; 
 Where science gladdens great and small, 
 And industry gives bread to all. 
 Ah ! lovely land of streams and rills, 
 Of spreading vales, and woods, and hills, 
 Of smiling plenty, and of peace, 
 Of equal laws, and gospel grace I 
 Could aught my heart from thee dissever ? 
 Oh no, I here could gaze for ever ! 
 
 Green, glowing to the sun-bright sky, 
 Spread out, how rich the Ochils lie, 
 Reflecting back, as from a glass, 
 Each filmy speck on day's fair face ; 
 So soft their shades, their lines so clear, 
 The lambkin's bleat I seem to hear ; 
 And far within each deep ravine, 
 The tinkling streamlet's voice divine. 
 
 From beetling cliffs high thron'd in woods, 
 O'er Devon links here Alva nods ; 
 And Tillicoul try's favoured one, 
 W*****w, there basks him in the sun. 
 Fast by the streamlet pure, out-welling 
 From the dark dell, I mark his dwelling, 
 B******g, far-fam'd, the learned seer, 
 Of large discourse, of judgment clear, 
 
 w 
 
170 
 
 Of well- try 'd worth, and genius free. 
 
 And of unrivall'd industry ; 
 
 Nor distant his, the wizard wild, 
 
 Sweet Fancy's own inspired child, 
 
 Who erst sang, blythe, of the bauld bangster, 
 
 Who won her matchless Mag of Anster. 
 
 And, with his dog, his staff, and plaid, 
 On that tall cliff I see him laid, 
 Glow'ring right down on Dollar college, 
 That splendid reservoir of knowledge, 
 The shepherd, with some shame, perchance, 
 Musing on his own ignorance 
 Or, maybe, strong in native gumption, 
 He smiles upon the vain presumption 
 Of empty heads, for brains who seek, 
 By wasting time murgullying Greek ; 
 Which done, they shake their jobbernowls. 
 And claim th' immediate care of souls, 
 A charge they'll promise fair to keep, 
 Who ne'er could learn to smear a sheep. 
 
 Perhaps, a more delightful theme 
 Laps him in an Elysian dream ; 
 With the dear May he's laid his love on, 
 A bonnie flower by winding Devon, 
 Become his own, no longer coy, 
 He sums the long, long years of joy, 
 In ranked raw that rise before him, 
 Nor fears, nor woes, nor wants, to shore him. 
 
 Ah ! why should old Experience, rude, 
 His rugged presence here intrude, 
 And in the rays of doubt, perplexing, 
 Show this dear May a drab or vixen ; 
 
171 
 
 Conjure them up, disease and death, 
 Or frosty years, with shrivelling breath ; 
 Fill deep the vales, or feed the knowes 
 With snaw-smoord hogs, or rotten ewes. 
 The darling May may be as good 
 As e'er was bone, and flesh, and blood ; 
 Life may be long, and health assuage 
 The fears, the weaknesses of age ; 
 Rosy and rich may roll the years, 
 Fleeces unbroken cross the shears ; 
 And numberless the snow-white lambs 
 Leap yearly round their bleating dams; 
 Yet, prove they shall, alas! that sigh, 
 Vexation all and vanity. 
 
 Perhaps in wondering Fancy's thrill, 
 He hears it clack the Devil's Mill, 
 Of the Rumbling Bridge, the brawling din, 
 Or thundering loud the Caldron Lin ; 
 Or Harvieston he cons with care, 
 For her the blooming bud frae Ayr; 
 Or Castle Campbell's mouldering pile, 
 Wakes his regrets for good Argyle. 
 
 Lone Castle Campbell, once the pride 
 And glory of the Ochils wide, 
 Who can behold thy fortune's close, 
 Nor execrate the mad Montrose ! 
 Yet, Castle Campbell, how sublime 
 Thy fire-scath'd ruins frown on time, 
 All hoary, while the burn of Care 
 Thy wrongs till doomVday shall declare. 
 
 Montrose, although a pedant's pen 
 Engross'd thy name with generous men ; 
 
172 
 
 And Genius, with a perverse care y 
 
 Has toiPd t' adorn and fix it there ; 
 
 Facts, stubborn facts, with all the good, 
 
 Have mark'd thee out a savage rude, 
 
 Servile, and selfish all the while, 
 
 Rav'nous for power, for blood, and spoil. 
 
 And, verily, thou hadst thy hour 
 
 Of spoil, and blood, and lawless power ; 
 
 As Tippermuir did well display, 
 
 And Inverlochy's fatal day ; 
 
 Alford, Auldearn, and Moniaburgh, 
 
 Where no sword said it was enough ; 
 
 Nor pitying sigh, nor hankering swither, 
 
 Where thousands fell, said, u Ah ! my brother. 3 
 
 But retribution quickly came, 
 To Leslie's star succumb'd thy fame ; 
 And to a still inferior sword, 
 Thou quail'dst upon the hill of Ord, 
 Where Strauchan, with a paltry levy, 
 Show'd what should have been done at Fyvie. 
 
 Perhaps in fervent patriot mood, 
 While hot it boils his rising blood, 
 On old Clackmannan's hoary towers, 
 He gazing fond, recalls the hours 
 So bright, that gleam in ancient story, 
 With streaks of Royal Scotland's glory ; 
 Ere the base Baliol sat him down 
 Upon her foul, dishonoured throne ; 
 Or he, the doom'd, in fate's dark path, 
 Th' anointed heir of quenchless wrath, 
 The Stewart, in an evil hour, 
 Assum'd that thorny seat of power. 
 
173 
 
 Wild, wimpling round his green-sward knowes, 
 He marks how soft the Carron rows, 
 As if the heart's-blood of the brave, 
 Had never stain'd his limpid wave. 
 But once in terror's deadly throes, 
 Carron, appal'd by shouting foes, 
 Sought, on yon mountain's cavern'd side, 
 Among his brawling springs to hide ; 
 For, Carron saw the Stuart vain, 
 Treat peerless Wallace with disdain ; 
 Whence his pure wave with patriot blood, 
 Roll'd to the sea, a crimson flood, 
 And, glorying in his lawless might, 
 Proud Edward triumph'd over right, 
 While drooping Scotia sunk forlorn, 
 Her bright lamp quench'd, her lion torn. 
 Yet shall that lion, rudely torn, 
 Once more arouse the breezy morn ; 
 That dying lamp, relumed anew, 
 A pillar* d flame afar shall shew ; 
 And glory, victory, shall return, 
 On the red field of Banriockburn. 
 
 Bannock, to free men ever dear, 
 Was thy cold current chill'd with fear ? 
 Or, rushing swift, in Ocean's tide. 
 Sough t'st thou thy huge dismay to hide, 
 As on thy banks in dread array, 
 The strength of mighty England lay, 
 Exulting in her prospects clear, 
 And flush'd in Victory's proud career ? 
 Or melting, mournful, didst thou weave, 
 On that still summer sabbath eve, 
 
174 
 
 Big notes of deep funereal gloom, 
 Prophetic of the mighty doom, 
 That ere another eventide. 
 Awaited all that pomp and pride. 
 Weep, England weep, through all thy rills, 
 Let wailing sweep o'er all thy hills ; 
 Let Severn tell the silver Trent, 
 Her yardlong shafts are vainly spent ; 
 Let Humber tell the silver Thame, 
 Her loftiest, mightiest men of name, 
 Mix'd with the meanest, drench'd in gore, 
 Lie heaps on heaps by Bannock's shore. 
 
 Yet, quail not England ! soon the Bruce 
 Is gather 'd to his narrow house ; 
 The good Sir James afar in Spain, 
 On foolish pilgrimage is slain ; 
 Randolph and Murray follow fast, 
 And David David reigns at last ; 
 Durham begins th' atonement meet, 
 Which fatal Flodden sees complete. 
 
 'Twere long, in Stirling's royal bowers, 
 To note the soft voluptuous hours, 
 That light of foot have tript along, 
 With jest, and dance, and jovial song : 
 My hamely muse would ergh to tarry 
 On beauty's pink, the peerless Mary, 
 For whom yet critic loons are sweating, 
 And Reverend grey-beards bleert wi' greeting; 
 And to portray 'twere far owre driegh, 
 The wild Gudeman of Balingiech. 
 
 With equal brevity I pass 
 Thy royal ruin's hoary mass, 
 
175 
 
 Linlithgow, for mad doings crown'd, 
 And drunken royalty renown'd. 
 O'er thee the curse, a darkening cloud. 
 Impends, the curse of guiltless blood, 
 Shed in malicious wantonness 
 The blood of war pour'd out in peace, 
 With perjuries most heaven-defying, 
 Aloud for vengeance, hourly crying. 
 
 Alas ! that maddening mirth of thine, 
 Thy fountains flowing o'er with wine; 
 Thy scoffing prints, thy bonfires blazing, 
 Thy rabble rout in wonder gazing; 
 With idiot shouts that, swelling high, 
 Tore the wide concave of the sky; 
 What served they all, but to proclaim 
 Thee lost to truth, and dead to shame; 
 And wait they not in dread array, 
 To crown the coming judgment day, 
 A day which may repentance, sent 
 Through heaven's infinite grace, prevent. 
 
 I pass Falkirk, thy fatal valley, 
 T'avoid the ghost of hangman Halley, 
 Nor stay I o'er the good who sleep 
 In thy dull bogs, Kilsyth, to weep 
 For as I scan the landscape wide, 
 Mine eye hath caught the fair Langside; 
 A rushing sound is in my ears, 
 I see the seried ranks of spears, 
 For law and liberty uprearing 
 I mark Kirkaldy's noble bearing; 
 I see the Regent, great and good, 
 Burst on the hill a thunder cloud, 
 
176 
 
 While to the crash the rocks reply. 
 With echoing shouts of victory. 
 
 Ah! Mary, what was then thy look, 
 What fears thy daring bosom shook, 
 When instant down to earth were borne 
 Thy new furl'd banners, soii'd and torn ? 
 Now in this hour of desperate need, 
 Thy broken lines will no one head? 
 For thy bright crown, thy love, thy life, 
 Will not one troop renew the strife, 
 And stem the rout a moment's space, 
 Till thou hast found a resting place? 
 Not one, alas ! the die is cast, 
 The fatal die, thy hour is past. 
 
 Ah ! why wilt thou, in wild disorder, 
 Thus rush across that treacherous border ! 
 Think on the homely apothegm, 
 " 111 bairns are aye best heard at hame. 5 ' 
 Think what may be the fell contrival 
 Of her, thy haughty, jealous rival. 
 When thou hast made her power complete, 
 And liest, a suitor at her feet. 
 Why thus avert thy weeping eyes ? 
 Behold, how slow, how sad they rise, 
 Thy future years, array 'd in gloom, 
 Clos'd with the block, the traitor's doom. 
 Peace to thy shade the tragic close 
 Of thy poor life, thy many woes, 
 Forbid thy faults that we should rail on, 
 Thou lovely fair, but deadly frail one, 
 
 And ye who in th' adventurous strife, 
 Embark'd pour all, and periFd life, 
 
177 
 
 Your pious hands preserved the root, 
 Whence we have ate our pleasant fruit ; 
 And still your record is on high, 
 And your reward above the sky. 
 The knave in grain, the drivelling fool, 
 Papist, and Infidel may scowl, 
 And o'er your fame-recording page, 
 Gnash their foul teeth in jealous rage ; 
 What recks it ? the decisive day, 
 Burning with wrath, is on its way, 
 When wicked men of every name 
 Shall be for fuel to the flame, 
 And cast out, by contemptuous feet 
 Trodden like ashes in the street. 
 
 Are there, who, with the love of youth. 
 Have yet a word, a tear for truth- 
 Mourners in Zion ! as for you, 
 Ye prayerful, ye afflicted few, 
 With ignorant contempt oppressed, 
 The Spirit saith, " In patience rest, 
 The souls of your dear brethren slain 
 Beneath the altar, see, remain ; 
 And ye may join their prayer strong, 
 And ardent cry, O Lord ! how long, 
 Holy and wise, and just and true, 
 Dost thou withhold the vengeance due ?" 
 But patience. With reproach ye're fill'd. 
 And what if ye too must be knTd ? 
 Are ye prepared to prove it good, 
 Your testimony with your blood ? 
 If so, 'tis well. In evil hour 
 Has she not gained the seat of power ? 
 
178 
 
 She, for adulteries, murders, famed, 
 
 And for her witchcraft * Mystery' named 
 
 6 Mother of Harlots, Fornications,' 
 
 With earth's most vile abominations 
 
 All soft and smoothly beaten up 
 
 In one delusive devilish cup, 
 
 From which, in her embraces sunk, 
 
 She makes the madden'd nations drunk : 
 
 She, in Britannia's evil hour, 
 
 Hath gain'd it all but sovereign power 
 
 And can she fail again to sate 
 
 With blood her ravenous appetite ? 
 
 Remounted on her monstrous beast, 
 New names on all its heads impressed 
 She comes in meretricious dress, 
 Full prank'd from the dark wilderness, 
 Where she hath slept it off, the load 
 Of whoredom, sloth, and fat, and blood, 
 For ages drained from earth's four quarters, 
 The spoils of kings, of saints, and martyrs ; 
 And sober, self-possess'd, and bold, 
 She sings as in the days of old. 
 
 What though her double doings rude 
 Are every where deep writ in blood, 
 And the foul stream of her misdeeds 
 In depth and breadth all throught exceeds, 
 While paralyzed, so many lands 
 Yet rue the grasp of her iron hands 
 She, all assured, defies disgrace, 
 With matchless impudence of face 
 Scouting each fact with this reply, 
 " What's history but one mighty lie/' 
 
179 
 
 Lost in astonishment, the wise. 
 Distrusting both their ears and eyes, 
 Are for the moment stricken dumb, 
 While quiet the rabble-rout succumb ; 
 And pietests, a page who claim 
 Upon the book of vulgar fame. 
 Rush boldly, with unblushing faces, 
 Headlong into her foul embraces. 
 To her all liberals bend the knee, 
 Whatever their name or their degree ; 
 Philosophers and bards adore her, 
 
 And B ms and M nes dance before her ; 
 
 While, under various state pretences, 
 Soft lords destroy those legal fences 
 Which wisdom, by experience guided, 
 For our best blessings had provided. 
 
 Hold, hold your sacrilegious hands, 
 Ye recreants ! ours are God's own lands, 
 And by your wise forefathers given, 
 Their bonds have all been seal'd in heaven, 
 And he who holds them sees it thence, 
 With scorn your wrathful impotence. 
 For shame ! look on that crimson flood 
 What says it ? your own father's blood ! 
 Of Smithfield see the reeking ashes, 
 And spare these martyrs, spare their blushes ; 
 Your folly see what follows after, 
 Nor move even hell itself to laughter. 
 
 A vaunt ! ye visions of despair, 
 My aching sight, my feelings spare 
 The consummation now I see, 
 It surely must not, cannot be ; 
 
180 
 
 Thou canst not, Scotland ! surely no, 
 
 The hope of heaven on earth forego ; 
 
 Thou canst not, in thy full-blown bloom, 
 
 Bow thy stiff neck again to Rome ; 
 
 Her shameless spewings lick them up, 
 
 And, reckless, quaff her poison cup, 
 
 In brooding darkness meekly sit, 
 
 The darkness of th' infernal pit, 
 
 By trembling superstition sour'd, 
 
 And, by her locust swarms devour'd ; 
 
 From gospel faith and practice pass 
 
 To the foul mummery of the mass ; 
 
 Abjure thy creed, and learn to patter 
 
 Of shrines, saints, beads, and holy water; 
 
 No ! heavenly truth, for all thy ills, 
 
 Shall sound along thy echoing hills, 
 
 And praise, a grateful sacrifice, 
 
 From all thy vales, through grace, shall rise, 
 
 Till day sink on his broken urn, 
 
 And every star has ceased to burn. 
 
 END OF CANTO HI* 
 
DYCHMONT. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 DYCHMONT! forgive th' excursive muse. 
 
 Nor with my reader clinch thy brows, 
 
 My liberal reader, wha riae langer, 
 
 Can carry on for downright anger ; 
 
 For Liberalism is, waes me ! 
 
 But a new name for Bigotry ; 
 
 Wha, trim in philosophic dress, 
 
 Wi' skinkling patches co'er'd his face, 
 
 Thus cunningly spurts out his venom, 
 
 And, crawing crouse, thinks nane can ken him, 
 
 But, watch ye'll see his cranks and quips, 
 
 Ere lang, exchanged for chains and whips; 
 
 And when, through time, his whip-hand tires, 
 
 He'll blaw ye up braw rousing fires. 
 
 The grim auld rascal how I grue ! 
 
 But, Dychmont ! to our theme anew. 
 
 Hadst thou a tongue, as well as een, 
 To tell what thou hast heard and seen, 
 The gist of a* thy deep digressions 
 Would be to never trust professions, 
 Especially when nor form nor feature 
 They recognise of corrupt nature, 
 But jump, in fanciful projection, 
 At once from folly to perfection. 
 
182 
 
 Such is the strangely twisted line, 
 The thread of providence divine, 
 That oft, amid the ceaseless strife, 
 The dark turmoil of mortal life, 
 Even to superior worth and skill 
 No choice remains but choice of ill; 
 And truth compels us oft, of course, 
 To say 'tis well that is not worse. 
 
 Forgetting this important fact, 
 How childishly do wise men act, 
 When, for some feckless circumstance, 
 They swell, with all their influence, 
 The tide, in visionary days, 
 Which shakes, even to their very base, 
 Or given of God, or framed by man, 
 The pillars of the social plan. 
 
 Millenial dreamers, scorning facts, 
 Twalpenny sages, movement quacks, 
 Who see a saint in every slave, 
 A patriot stern in every knave 
 Whose fingers, or whose tongue can reach, 
 To pen a lie, or spit a speech, 
 Who Rome or Turkey never read on, 
 But strait they dream of Armageddon, 
 Though heaven's best gift they thus abuse, 
 May each, perhaps, plead some excuse, 
 Pure hunger some, in sober sadness, 
 Some native spleen, some downright madness 
 But he, who, with the least pretence, 
 To sanity and sober sense, 
 By an inconstant, clamouring rabble, 
 Expects to carry up his Babel 
 
183 
 
 Secure, into the highest heaven, 
 
 May not, nay, must not be forgiven. 
 
 Arrested, as he lifts his hand, 
 
 In his own brass, there, let him stand, 
 
 To men to ages yet unborn, 
 
 A monument of endless scorn. 
 
 Ye proud contemners of degrees, 
 Revilers rude of dignities ! 
 Ye pulling, sentimental dreamers ! 
 Ye ever-restless reckless schemers ! 
 Know these crude fancies ye confide in, 
 These novelties ye place your pride in, 
 These certain balms for every woe, 
 Were old five thousand years ago. 
 
 Formed t'improve upon the past, 
 And the dark future to forecast, 
 Instead of soberly reflecting, 
 Why are men always found projecting, 
 And why should each succeeding age 
 Display the same delirious rage, 
 Dear-bought experience to put down 
 All wisdom scorning but its own ? 
 Why, but through prejudice and pride, 
 With self-love for its doting guide, 
 Shown up in whose distorting mirror, 
 The past seems one vast mass of error, 
 The present, as it comes in view, 
 Blushing immaculate and true. 
 Tis never once indeed denied 
 That, hitherto, all men have sigh'd 
 For somewhat that is still unfound 
 In human travail's ample round, 
 
184 
 
 But has it not been clearly shown 
 The fault remains with man alone. 
 Who, though he eager urge the chase, 
 Errs, or in mode, in time or place ; 
 Hence, have his mightiest leaps been vain, 
 And all his labours clos'd with pain. 
 But now, the bush beat fairly round, 
 The coy thing has at last been found ; 
 In that dark dingle search has set her, 
 And next fall moon we shall be at her. 
 So say projector's sanguine, sage, 
 Full of the spirit of the age, 
 And, in their own opinion, strong 
 To rectify all moral wrong, 
 Nor physical shall long resist them, 
 Would all men kindly but assist them. 
 
 'Tis true, for this regeneration, 
 Or, if you will, this new creation, 
 Few have at any time agreed 
 On the best method to proceed, 
 Though no one entertains a doubt 
 But he himself has found it out. 
 
 'Twere endless to recount the schemes, 
 The vast variety of dreams, 
 Which even wise men gravely tell, 
 As for this end infallible : 
 More endless still to scan their rules, 
 From Infant up to Normal schools. 
 
 Some, though they deal in wonderous fancies, 
 And work them up in strange romances, 
 Yet frame to found them on the Bible, 
 Which frankly we allow is able, 
 
185 
 
 God blessing it, in every nation, 
 
 To make men wise unto salvation. 
 
 But ere it prove this general good, 
 
 It must be read and understood. 
 
 Endow'd with wisdom from above, 
 
 The living messenger of love 
 
 Must open up, explain, apply 
 
 Its truths authoritatively, 
 
 Else it will be in every land 
 
 Like rain-drops quench'd in burning sand. 
 
 Arid even where honestly received, 
 And all its leading truths believed, 
 Even there the Bible's only given 
 As a preparative for heaven 
 Whither the Christian, rising up 
 On wings of faith, and love, and hope, 
 Holding with God communion sweet, 
 Treads the base world beneath his feet : 
 Yet from its ills, in many a shape, 
 He knows he never can escape, 
 Till, through his failing house of clay, 
 Upon him rise eternal day. 
 
 More daring some, this blessed Bible 
 Regarding as a lying libel, 
 Of purpose framed, in every feature, 
 To vilify our godlike nature, 
 Arid lay it prostrate in the dust, 
 Beneath the tyrant's raging lust, 
 Would, as the fruitful source of evil, 
 Dismiss it with its own dark devil. 
 Talk of restraining bonds ! For shame ! 
 To thinking man of law ! for them 
 
186 
 
 Reason, pure reason, nothing else 
 They are a law unto themselves 
 Through which they fond anticipate 
 A fast approaching perfect state, 
 Which neither law nor rule shall own, 
 And property shall be unknown. 
 A state how glorious ! how divine ! 
 Where none can say of aught, " 'tis mine !" 
 But all on earth, ev r en lovely woman, 
 Possess'd shall be by man in common ; 
 Who thus sublimed, shall forthwith wage 
 Successful war with hoary age, 
 And, acting with true energy, 
 Shall death himself at length defy.* 
 
 Thus, human weal the high pretence, 
 They belch out shame and ignorance 
 Their own vain fancies blind believing, 
 Fondly deceived and deceiving 
 Till, toppling on their crags of hope, 
 Death smites, and darkness shrouds them up ; 
 Their dreams they leave, most melancholy ! 
 T' augment the standing stock of folly. 
 
 And such is th' unnatural flow, 
 The vanity of all below, 
 The fact we must admit, alas ! 
 Too often thus even good men pass ; 
 Subjected to the common lot, 
 Alive traduced, when dead forgot. 
 
 Yet, let no truthful heart despair, 
 Nor parnper'd folly cease to fear 
 
 * Vide Gadwin's Political Justice, &c. 
 
187 
 
 It comes, th' appointed judgment-day 
 The Judge himself is on the way ! 
 A few sands more and then commences, 
 Eternity, thy recompences. 
 
 Dychmont ! since time began, thy sod 
 How many a gallant foot hath trod ? 
 How many a glowing heart and tongue 
 Here, where I sit, hath sat and sung ? 
 Yet that inconstant, faithless Fame, 
 Hath saved, alas ! nor song nor name. 
 
 Here, Gilbertfield ! was subject meet 
 For thy bright genius, soft and sweet, 
 Which might have rivalled, through thy skill, 
 Grongar, or even Cooper's Hill. 
 Peace to thy spirit ! On rny ear 
 Even the light summer-breeze sounds drear 
 Around thy ruin'd castle-walls, 
 And through thy lone, deserted halls, 
 Where Cheerfulness should laughing stray, 
 The Muses and the Graces play. 
 
 Might I, in winsome Willie's name, 
 Unblam'd request thee, honest Graham, 
 That his auld house, sae lang neglect it, 
 Now its thine ain, thou wouldst protect it, 
 Attend a wee to the auld wa's, 
 Sair sought by winds and winter snaws, 
 Fling twa three slates upo' the roof, 
 And make the doors and winnocks proof 
 To wind arid rain, and sheep, and nowt, 
 That wont to bleat, and vilely rowt, 
 On the same hearth, where laid alang 
 Willie made mony a bonnie sang, 
 
188 
 
 So may for aye thy honour'd name, 
 Be wreath'd with Hamilton's fair fame, 
 And still thy sons, while bright they shine, 
 A happy, and an endless line, 
 In virtue as in wealth excelling, 
 Keep Gilbertfield, with Craigengillan. 
 
 Days, months, and years, how quick ye fly! 
 An age, how soon it passes by ! 
 But yesterday to me it seems, 
 When, on these hills, by these clear streams^ 
 And in these cheerful dwelling-places, 
 I found them all familiar faces 
 Now all are gone, some here, some there, 
 Many, man cannot tell me where. 
 
 There smile they cheerful, side by side, 
 Rich Aikenhead and fair Woodside; 
 But where's the great man of his day, 
 That princely merchant, Houston Rae ? 
 Where is he, Scott, the saint-abhorr'd one? 
 Where the polite and friendly Gordon? 
 Where's he, sae fierce and fu' o' fire, 
 Woodside's gudeman, bauld Boon-the-myre? 
 And rules he still amang the foals, 
 Tarn Pirrit wi' the great braid soles? 
 Wakes he, or is he slumbering yet, 
 Lang dreaming Dykes o' the Craft-fit? 
 Is Meg still yelping in the breeks, 
 And clanking wi' the spoons his cheeks ? 
 Deals she her morsels still by halves, 
 Hungering the herds, starving the calves? 
 Ah, no! her memory's clean red rotten, 
 And a' her schemes o' thrift forgotten. 
 
189 
 
 Lovely it rises, Castlemilk, 
 But where's the Stuart of that ilk. 
 The worthy Captain Stirling where? 
 A man these times but ill could spare. 
 Cathkin smiles sweet through rising trees, 
 So do the East and West Greenlees; 
 But Curnings, Thomsons, Peacocks gay, 
 And Hamiltons, are all away. 
 
 The Turnley has, sagacious, cool, 
 One worthy of the olden school, 
 In honest R t D k remaining; 
 But where is he, so entertaining, 
 D h k styled, that stirring one, 
 So fu' o' frolic, fire, and fun, 
 The foremost in all mad paradings, 
 At roups, at raffles, fairs, and weddings ; 
 Right deft at runkling lasses' gowns, 
 And a run diel for cracking crowns ? 
 
 There, finely hedged around, deep green, 
 Nerston's expanding fields are seen ; 
 But where's the fathers of the village, 
 The founders of her now rich tillage ? 
 The elder A rs cautious, 
 The gash M 4 M h, of speech veracious, 
 And, helping Leezie's household matters on, 
 Where is he, sploring Geordie Paterson ? 
 Where in their wealth, the Cooks, confiding? 
 The Youngs their wit and farthings hiding ? 
 Gude auld John Anderson sae simple ? 
 And, in his means and patience ample, 
 Soft, slipping as if catching hens, 
 Douse Robin Hamilton, his rnens, 
 
190 
 
 For obvious wrong- or what he wish'd 
 
 At any time, who rarely miss'd ? 
 
 And where is she, the sage M'Clucky, 
 
 Who thought great men their plans mistook aye, 
 
 And fought 'gainst heaven at fearfu' odds, 
 
 Especially wi' new brigs and roads, 
 
 Which she maintained wi' a' their arts, 
 
 Wad end yet in a rack o' f ts. 
 
 There hunkers by the highway side 
 The Neuk ; but where's that pink of pride, 
 That ace of hearts, had men been cards, 
 The big-boned chieftain of the Bairds ? 
 And where is he, of inky scaurs, 
 The wizard who could tell the stars, 
 And clear them up, without a doubt on, 
 The errors and escapes of Newton ? 
 Or B e, he of mind capacious, 
 Intuitively sage sagacious, 
 Inform'd with wisdom and with wit, 
 For any place or calling fit : 
 Ah ! why did frailties veil his glory, 
 The good, though rough-spun, honest tory ? 
 
 There, by the willow-clothed burnside, 
 Sleeps in the sun my own Kilbride, 
 With clock in steeple neatly mounted, 
 Houses white-wash'd, signs newly painted, 
 And other symptoms of a movement 
 Towards, as all may see, improvement. 
 But where's the rustics, reckless, bold, 
 Who held her ear, her tongue of old, 
 Such as the witty Jock Greenhill, 
 Milhouse, Mounthooly, Will-o' th' Mill? 
 
191 
 
 On whom, at hame, her safety rested ; 
 
 In whom, abroad, her fame was vested; 
 
 Who, in a cauld fair battle's heat, 
 
 Would single each hae clear'd her street, 
 
 Or, when on Wensdays 'twas their fate, 
 
 If merry stable meals fell late, 
 
 Through canker* d or through careless kimmers, 
 
 To get embroil'd wi' Glasgow limmers, 
 
 As oft wi' secret pride's been hark it, 
 
 Would clear'd baith Briggate and Sautmarket. 
 
 And where is he, whose meekness won all 
 Hearts, the venerated Conn el ; 
 Whose life was ardent spent, to wean 
 Thee from these follies wild and vain ; 
 Who urged, and led, thy feet to trace 
 The paths of purity and peace, 
 Where truth is day by day supplying 
 Content in life, and hope in dying? 
 
 Where's he, the honest, simple creature, 
 That laughing lump of pure good nature, 
 Will Symours ? who, at kirns, house-heatings, 
 In fares, and a' sic merry meetings, 
 Drew out the linked sounds sae sweet, 
 To fit our many-twinkling feet: 
 And where's thy bodies, doilt and crazy, 
 Some. of them lame, some only lazy, 
 That weekly used to daunder forth, 
 Creating pity whiles, whiles mirth, 
 Whiles sour suspicion and mistrust, 
 Whiles irrepressible disgust ? 
 
 Where's he, borne down with many fears, 
 Poor greeting Sandy, Win' wi' tears ? 
 
192 
 
 Who aince, in his ain quarters warm, 
 
 Could boast a snug weel-plenish'd farm ? 
 
 But sorrow carne ; ae wat hairst-day, 
 
 The burn bore half his crop away ; 
 
 The following winter's blashy thows, 
 
 Kill'd wi' the rot one half his ewes ; 
 
 And spring, the spring brought, too, a sore ill, 
 
 Sax head o' nowt kill'd wi' the muir-ill; 
 
 Yet this, and mair, he could hae borne, 
 
 But for a fause May's saucy scorn 
 
 Who, since his byre and bucht grew thin, 
 
 To break her troth thought it nae sin, 
 
 And void of shame, her youthhied war'd 
 
 Upon Lairfad's auld, blind, lame laird. 
 
 Poor Sandy saw and seern'd resigned, 
 But secret sorrow undermined, 
 Aided by love's undying flame, 
 His mental and corporeal frame ; 
 His comforts vanish 'd one by one, 
 Till all he held on earth was gone, 
 And, wandering forth, his cureless grief, 
 Excepti n tears, found no relief. 
 Abash'd, and timid in his look, 
 What pittance pity gave he took ; 
 Hearty in thanks, in clamouring faint, 
 A hopeless beggar, but a saint. 
 
 Tann'd as by an Egyptian sun, 
 Sour-mouth 'd, down-looking, dowre and dun, 
 Where's Trottysho, who lang did pethir, 
 For bread and cheese, to his auld mither, 
 Whom he reported near and far, 
 As every day aye waur and waur ? 
 
193 
 
 With crummock arm'd and girt with bags, 
 Where's the sly stager Girzy Rags ? 
 And, reading cards, and cups, and faces, 
 Arid moles, according to their places, 
 Stray hearts detecting and stray mutches, 
 And dealing charms for love and witches : 
 Where's she, once mistress of all douhts, 
 That foul, fat, lurdane, Lizzock Clouts? 
 
 Where's Maggy wi' her yill-cup slogan, 
 Shouting sae clocksey, u Johnny Logan?" 
 Wliere's knacky Nan and stiltfoot Kate, 
 A nd brown Meg Lamont, nae way blate ? 
 Poor Nannock Sharp, wi' braid barr'd coat, 
 And her wee Jamock too's forgot. 
 
 Where are the men, whose ready orders 
 Sent justice streaming round her borders ? 
 Where, for the time omiting others, 
 Thy well-wig'd ruler Baillie S rs ? 
 And where his acting corps in full, 
 Wee Charlock and the kowy 
 At whose fell names, sae lang were wont, 
 Poor debtor body's hearts to dunt. 
 
 But in these days of waning crime, 
 This happy, all-reforming time, 
 W T hen, as each bawbee author tells, 
 Man, wife, and wean, can rule themsels, 
 Great civic powers but little needed, 
 May pass and repass all unheeded. 
 Thou hast not now a flirty Nan, 
 Killing, piece-meal, her gude gudeman ; 
 Nor Kirty Sleeks, with leer insidious, 
 Insnaring, wives, bewildering widows ; 
 
194 
 
 Nor brewer Hugh, with flattery's poison, 
 
 Deluding lasses by the dozen ; 
 
 Nor clumpy, highland, grevvsome gauger, 
 
 Nor desperate resurrection cadger, 
 
 Through whose fell deeds thou couldst not have 
 
 Rest nor without nor in the grave ; 
 
 And, fervent, while we joy to see 
 
 Thee from such wicked wamflers free, 
 
 We hope thou hast a large increase 
 
 Of such as love the truth and peace, 
 
 I loved thee once. With all thy ill 
 I loved thee, and I love thee still, 
 I love thee for the happy hours 
 I spent within thy friendly bowers. 
 I love thee for the lovely one 
 Thou gav'st to bless my morn and noon 
 Of weary life. I love thee for 
 The friends whom I can meet no more ; 
 I love thee, for thou hast in trust, 
 Of not a few, the precious dust, 
 Who, though but poor in this world's eyes, 
 Have pass'd to glory through the skies 
 With whom I trust I shall be soon 
 At rest, though their unworthy son. 
 
 What hours of meditative roaming, 
 Entranced, how many a glorious gloaming, 
 Around thee have I wanderM wide, 
 Enjoying modest nature's pride ! 
 The pensive tinkling of the rill, 
 The lambkins bleating on the hill, 
 The whisper'd breathing of the breeze, 
 Limekilns among thy lofty trees, 
 
195 
 
 Or the green willows rath that bloom 
 Round thee, deserted Kirkton Holm ! 
 
 Or up, if fancy chanced to lead. 
 The burn, beyond the Roadinghead, 
 The bleaching kriowe, the cot and yard, 
 Erewhile that own'd the barefoot laird ; 
 And cross the common, parch'd and brown, 
 With stunted furze-plats half burnt down, 
 To where, Blacklaw ! thy dark firs wave 
 O'er Jenny Cameron's lowly grave ; 
 Where first I met, of fervid mind, 
 Russell, in thee a precious friend, 
 Whose generous converse fired my youth 
 With nature's love, and nature's truth ; 
 Whose early death yet fills my years 
 With sadness, oft my eyes with tears. 
 
 Or, turning east th' old Beggar Raw, 
 By Maxwelton and Cantislaw, 
 And fair Forefaulds, at once I stood 
 On thy green fields, Long-Calderwood, 
 Where first the daisy's scarlet dye, 
 And yellow king-cup, caught mine eye ; 
 Where first the spring, without alloy, 
 Awoke my bounding heart to joy ; 
 And autumn, but or cares or fears, 
 Drew from my eyes delicious tears. 
 
 O life, how sweet thy dawning morn, 
 The heart's warm channels all unworn, 
 All objects fresh, all nature new, 
 And all the world imagin'd true;- 
 Why is it man and woman's fate, 
 To find it out this monstrous cheat, 
 
196 
 
 And yet the thought to grasp it fast, 
 A fond illusion to the last ? 
 
 Across these fields one single glance. 
 Wakes in my withered heart at once, 
 As with the spark's electric flow, 
 Of bounding youth the genial glow ; 
 A second checks the feeling vain, 
 A third congeals it into pain : 
 These are the fields, the trees, 'tis true, 
 The dwellings these all else is new ; 
 And of the dwellings more than one, 
 The dearest to my heart, are gone. 
 
 No longer there are smiling seen, ' 
 The globe crown'd gate, the smooth- shaven green, 
 The gravell'd walk ! the garden sweet, 
 Embower'd for meditation meet ; 
 With her, so sylph-like gliding by, 
 Th' embodied muse of tragedy. 
 Good Mrs. Baillie, there no more 
 Blessing, is blest by all the poor. 
 Provoking laughter even to tears, 
 Jokes there no longer William Speirs ; 
 That pauky, mirth provoking loon, 
 Waes me, his very house is down ; 
 And from the cot, so dearly lov'd, 
 My father's once, the roof's removed. 
 Nettles have overspread that hearth, 
 The scene of all my childhood's mirth ; 
 That hearth so cheerful once and ample, 
 Ennobled by a rare example 
 Of meek contented industry, 
 Of faith, arid hope, and charity ; 
 
197 
 
 That hearth, round which for thirty years. 
 Rose, even and morn, our fervent prayers, 
 Prayers of faith, we trust, above 
 Now changed for spousal songs of love. 
 
 'Tis weak, and I will not repine 
 But if a wish were really mine, 
 Dychmont, " to soothe my weary age," 
 On thee I'd choose a hermitage ; 
 Where I, at morn, the purpling east 
 Might mark, at even, the glowing west ; 
 And, in his wrath, see Winter far 
 Round the rough Grampians drive his car ; 
 While summer, spring, and autumn's pride, 
 Swell'd all the year the vale of Clyde. 
 
 But, farewell now, another time 
 Must eke it out, this broken rhyme, 
 For, closing in day's weary toils, 
 Prone, far among yon lonely isles, 
 The sun, decending, streaks with fire 
 Morven's grey peaks and far Cantyre ; 
 Upheaving huge his giant mould, 
 En wreath 'd in many a misty fold, 
 Overshadowing half the western sky, 
 The Cobbler dims the twilight's eye ; 
 While breath 'd from out surrounding fens, 
 Clouds have enshrouded all the Bens, 
 And lost amid the deepening shades, 
 One broad black mass the landscape fades. 
 
 END OF DYCHMONT. 
 
LAURA. 
 
 So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that are done under 
 the sun : and behold the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no 
 comforter; and on the side of their oppressors there was power, but they 
 had no comforter. Holy Scriptures. 
 
 THE lovely Laura, once, gay Fortune's child, 
 A blooming flower in grandeur's garden smil'd ! 
 And thence, by fell misfortune harshly torn, 
 The sport of Envy, and of Pride the scorn, 
 To solitude in humbler shades she fled, 
 And earn'd by honest toil her daily bread. 
 
 'Twas there that Damon view'd her blushing youth, 
 And lov'd her with inviolable truth. 
 No wealth was his, with supercilious pride, 
 From Reason's path to turn his steps aside ;' 
 In humble life he play'd a humble part, 
 And Nature pour'd her feelings on his heart. 
 Oft would he mark, with what superior grace, 
 And noble mien, she filPd her humble place; 
 Oft was he near, with an approving smile, 
 To soothe her cares and mitigate her toil ; 
 And when dark scenes would in her bosom glide, 
 To cheer her downcast look was all his pride. 
 
199 
 
 Sincerely, thus his generous love was shown. 
 Nor she disdain'd an equal flame to own ; 
 Their friends consenting, circumstances kind, 
 In wedlock's holy band their hands were join'd. 
 
 Art here might toil in vain to paint their bliss, 
 But what it was, the feeling heart will guess : 
 Joy wing'd their days, love gave the lightsome smile, 
 And cheerful, sooth 'd the sultry hours of toil ; 
 Two lovely boys through time, enrich'd their lot, 
 And calm contentment bless'd their lowly cot. 
 
 Such was their state when terrible from far, 
 Ambition breath'd the burning blast of War; 
 Then fled sweet Peace, her gay green olive dies, 
 And stretch'd in Ruin's grasp fair commerce lies; 
 Rough agriculture, crowned with wreathing weeds, 
 Far to the wild the hoary hermit leads ; 
 While famine fell, with wan dejected mien, 
 Grins Death's dark smile upon the unculturd green. 
 No more is heard the sound of simple toil, 
 No freaks of mirth make drooping care to smile, 
 Love laughs no more, lorn labour to relieve, 
 Nor village gambol cheers the fall of eve. 
 No more, wild floating on the breezy gale, 
 The shepherd's voice dies faint along the vale, 
 As to his dog he calls, or, wandering wide, 
 His scattered flock, upon the mountain side, 
 Where lingering yet the beams of setting day, 
 In rays of gold, and streamy purple play 
 Now weeping woe in every cot appears, 
 In every vale the glittering gleam of spears 
 The trumpet's brazen voice, the din of arms, 
 Prevailing, shake the world with dread alarms. 
 
200 
 
 On Damon now approached the trying hour. 
 For, though industrious, still he was but poor; 
 His weekly wants his weekly gains supply d, 
 And more than his wise providence deny'd. 
 But now, when scarce employment could be had, 
 And that, too, in its kind, supremely bad, 
 'Twas all in vain, that unabating toil 
 Consumed the morning sun, the midnight oil, 
 That frugal thrift procur'd the homeliest fare, 
 And dealt it out with parsimonious care. 
 Still rising louder, nature's clamorous call 
 To satisfy their pittance was too small, 
 
 Love beams not now with pleasures ever new, 
 But pallid grief breathes black her blighting dew; 
 Her tender heart throbs with a thousand fears, 
 And oft his cheeks are wet with sullen tears. 
 What shall he do? Each effort is in vain, 
 And every day he feels more pungent pain. 
 Still sinking sad, he sees his spouse forlorn, 
 Striving to bear, what is not to be borne 
 Still hears his children's plaint, when sad, to bed 
 They're fasting sent, to-morrow promis'd bread ; 
 To-morrow comes, but sorrowful the same, 
 It sheds no sunny gleam of joy on them; 
 Still, still with pain devis'd, anew the tale 
 Of flattery must atone the slender meal. 
 
 At length to madness stung, in deep despair, 
 He plunges in the turbid tide of war, 
 Hopeful to find, amidst enraged foes, 
 Death's friendly aid to finish all his woes. 
 
201 
 
 Poor Laura thus is left to weep alone 
 Nor aught appears to soothe her painful moan ; 
 No star to break the blackness of her night, 
 No far faint gleam, presaging future light, 
 But wheresoe'r she turns her longing eyes, 
 There deeper darkness lowers, there thicker storms arise. 
 The trifling sum, the price of Damon's blood, 
 As sure she deem'd it, in a little food, 
 Brought to her babes, for some short space content, 
 Remorseful used, but oh ! too soon 'twas spent ; 
 Then what remained, but either, as before, 
 To starve in debt, or beg from door to door. 
 Ill could she bear the beggar's wandering life, 
 And who so kind as trust a widow'd wife ? 
 In times like these, beneath whose iron sway, 
 The best nerv'd arm could feebly work its way. 
 
 The winds bleak, blowing from the frosty north, 
 December drear, in darkness issuing forth, 
 Beheld her wanting credit, clothes, and bread, 
 Upon the bed of anguish poorly laid ; 
 Her third child born like some fair lingering flower 
 Far o'er the wild, that blooms in evil hour; 
 The wintry clouds creep chill along the waste, 
 And all around is desolation vast 
 Up to the sickly sun, the scowling skies, 
 It faintly points, and, feebly drooping, dies. 
 So smiFd the babe beneath the frown of woe ; 
 But heaven, in love, recall 'd the other two. 
 What articles she had, were, one by one, 
 Disposed of now, till all would sell was gone, 
 And, the completion of her case distress'd, 
 A cruel creditor took off the rest ! 
 
 A2 
 
202 
 
 To Damon turn we then, transported far 
 Amidst the fiery fields of raging war ; 
 Not now as erst, when by the green wood side, 
 Come forth to meditate at even tide, 
 Or wandering up the mist encircled hill, 
 Enraptur'd, listening to the gurgling rill, 
 Or blackbird, pouring from the bending spray, 
 By love inspired, his strong melifluous lay 
 But terrible, upon the ensanguined plain, 
 'Mong streams of blood and mountains of the slain 
 Yet there unscath'd the dazzling files among, 
 He moves beneath Divine protection strong, 
 And generous friends, and fortune flowing kind, 
 He meets, where Death alone he wish'd to find ; 
 Till, all at once, emerging from the shade, 
 Bright honour's bays, play leafy round his head. 
 
 Still, in his soul he loath'd the barbarous game, 
 Nor wish'd the whistling of a splendid name ; 
 He lov'd in quiet the peaceful vale to roam, 
 Encircled with the dear delights of home ; 
 He lov'd to mark the swelling buds of spring, 
 Or summer o'er the scene her splendours fling ; 
 He lov'd to hear upon th' autumnal morn, 
 The piping winds among the ripening corn ; 
 He lov'd, when winter rose with ruder breath, 
 To see the storm drive dark across the heath, 
 Or, rapt amidst the elemental roar, 
 To ruminate along the wave-worn shore. 
 And now, when fortune to his wishes yields, 
 He hastes afar, from carnage reeking fields, 
 In meek retirement's lowly vale, to find 
 And comfort her, he, woful, left behind. 
 
203 
 
 'Twas eve, the mountain tops with golden gleams, 
 Were glittering to the sun's departing beams, 
 O'er deepening vales the shades began to close, 
 And from the lake the mist thick wreathing rose; 
 The balmy west winds, in the breathing grove, 
 So soft expir'd, the leaves scarce seemed to move, 
 Nor sounds were heard, except the trickling dew, 
 Or where the drowsy droning beetle flew, 
 Or when the mountain echo, deep and full, 
 Roll'd back the wanton bellowing of the bull : 
 When weary Damon from the green hill side, 
 With joy again his straw-roof'd cot descried : 
 Its outside window-shutter painted white, 
 The same as ever meets afar the sight ; 
 And the two oaks still round its gavel end, 
 Set side by side, their sheltering arms extend. 
 
 But whose kind arm, the shivering inmates poor, 
 The while hath shelter'd from the bitter shower ? 
 Whose soothing voice, solicitous to bless, 
 Hath mingled with the rough winds of distress ? 
 He asks his heart that throbs with secret fear, 
 And in his eye remorseful shoots the tear. 
 Onward he hastes but hears a mournful moan, 
 And, u Damon !" calls a voice with feeble tone, 
 " Damon !" more strong, rejoins the voice again, 
 " O where is Damon, that should soothe my pain ?" 
 Alarm'd he heard, though, full of wild despair, 
 The voice seem'd all familiar to his ear. 
 
 But who can tell his horrible surprise, 
 When on the mourner poor he cast his eyes ! 
 
204 
 
 Laura ! alas ! his lovely Laura laid 
 In death's last pangs beneath the thorn tree shade ; 
 Her clothing rags with anguish dim her face, 
 That wont to beam with every winning grace ; 
 Her babe, by hunger's forceful cravings prest, 
 Lay idly grasping at her empty breast ; 
 Dread shiverings cold, and colder o'er her rose, 
 And Death his work was hastsing to a close. 
 Frantic beside her on the dew he falls 
 u Laura ! arise and live, thy Damon calls : 
 Henceforth my care shall ward off thy distress, 
 Shall wipe thy tears, and all thy wrongs redress." 
 His well known voice thrills thro' her fainting frame, 
 And for a moment stays life's fading flame ; 
 Upon him slow she lifts her languid eyes, 
 And aims to speak but rushing grief denies, 
 Convulsive sobbings rend her beating breast, 
 And thus she speaks in broken words at last. 
 
 " Damon, how sad thy long-desir'd return 
 But cease, O cease ! for hapless me to mourn ; 
 My years of grief are o'er, I see the shore 
 Where war shall waste, and want shall howl no more ; 
 The boys are gone, they live in purer air, 
 But still thy infant daughter claims thy care, 
 O shield her from the blast her tender form 
 Hath suffer'd much in misery's wasting storm ; 
 Pale want, or cruel insult long hath been, 
 Our fireside guest, or partner on the green, 
 And two days since we lost our little all, 
 By legal plunderers driven from house and hall. 
 Thus far I wander'd, here I hide my head 
 For without money who would give me bread ? 
 
205 
 
 Nor yet could bread, nor friends, nor human art, 
 E'er cure this broken, doubly broken heart." 
 She added not for on her faltering tongue, 
 Half-form'd the words at once suspended hung ; 
 Her eyes on trembling Damon fearful roll, 
 And in 'a groan escaped her weary soul. 
 
 Her babe soon follow'd in one grave they lie ; 
 And Damon, though he lives, lives but to sigh. 
 Even life he hates, society he shuns, 
 But, where the brook beneath yon copse-wood runs, 
 There you may see him sit a summer day, 
 Lamenting her, untimely ta'en away ; 
 Or, in the shelter of yon echoing cave, 
 What time the winds of winter rudely rave, 
 Or by the margin of the yelling flood, 
 With maniac step he roams in mournful mood : 
 And oft, by wild imagination led, 
 Among the tombs he makes his clay cold bed, 
 Where, wakeful, on the midnight wind he flings 
 The saddest notes that sleep on Fancy's strings ; 
 And though no method guide his wandering song, 
 Yet still it speaks of violence and wrong 
 Of tyranny triumphant virtue laid 
 To weep in secret, far from human aid ; 
 And often, anxious, puts the qnestion When 
 Will God arise to judge the world-destroying men ? 
 
JAMIE Gill AY. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHO, yonder, heaves the painful sigh 
 Beneath the taper's waning glare, 
 
 Whose faded cheek and haggar'd eye, 
 Betray the workings of despair? 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet, still the baneful draught he quaffs, 
 And labours for a jest the while 
 
 Around each base associate laughs, 
 Derisive of his fruitless toil. 
 
 III. 
 'Tis he, alas ! 'tis Jamie Gray, 
 
 Who late was found the joy and pride 
 Of all the swains, disporting gay, 
 
 Adown the lovely vale of Clyde. 
 
 IV, 
 
 With vigour burn'd his manly height, 
 His cheek with merit's modest glow, 
 
 And fire with feeling us'd to light, 
 His clear blue eye, his brow of snow. 
 
207 
 
 V. 
 
 Long years in college halls to pore, 
 
 Where thought is taught, and learn'd by rule, 
 Were never his his simple lore 
 
 Was all acquir'd in village school. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But nature, bountiful, had given 
 The germ of sense and fancy gay, 
 
 Which, water'd by the dews of heaven, 
 Had richly bless'd life's opening day. 
 
 VII. 
 
 His early youth, ingenuous, warm, 
 Shun'd observation's piercing eye ; 
 
 But nature, still, his heart could charm, 
 By some unseen mysterious tie. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Far from the busy haunts of men, 
 
 His dear delight was to explore 
 The torrent toiling down the glen, 
 
 To list the yawning cavern's roar. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Afar the kindling hues of morn 
 The soaring lark on dewy wing 
 
 The grey clouds round the mountain borne 
 The flowers that usher'd in the spring 
 
 X. 
 
 Familiar all but ever new 
 
 The rapt'rous feeling they inspire; 
 
 And, yet, his heart to nature true, 
 Felt, strong, devotion's kindling fire. 
 
208 
 
 XL 
 
 Nor flam'd his bosom's generous heat, 
 
 Alone to joy's extatic glow ; 
 His melting heart would often beat 
 
 In unison with deepest woe. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Across the dun discolour'd woods, 
 His eager eye would, tearful, sweep; 
 
 His ear the far-resounding floods, 
 Would hear with melancholy deep. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Arid oft the peaceful evening sky, 
 Stretch'd out immense, ethereal blue, 
 
 With stars, unnumber'd, beaming high, 
 His sighs his tears in secret drew. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 With soul thus feelingly alive 
 To all that glads or sickens life, 
 
 The day draws on the hours arrive, 
 He must engage in fortune's strife. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And surely hope did sweetly smile! 
 
 And love did wave his purple wings : 
 And easy confidence, the while, 
 
 Was charm 'd by flattery's dulcet strings. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 For vulgar fame her sounding shell, 
 Among the wond'ring rustics blew ; 
 
 And winter nights were short to tell, 
 
 What strange things Jamie Gray could do. 
 
209 
 
 XVII. 
 
 His song was soft, his manner sweet, 
 
 And soon, on village holy-day, 
 The social ring was incomplete, 
 
 That did not circle Jamie Gray. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But novelty's bewildering glare, 
 Tho' blazing bright, is quickly o'er, 
 
 And gaping wonder's idiot stare, 
 Can scarce outlive the passing hour. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Jamie was wise but even he, 
 
 So lofty to the distant ken, 
 Familiar grown was found to be 
 
 Just fallible like other men. 
 
 XX. 
 
 His open bosom's generous flame, 
 
 Each shifting shade of thought reveal'd, 
 
 Hatred or love, t'was all the same, 
 Once felt, it could not be concealed. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And sacred, ne'er to be betray'd, 
 He cherish'd with romantic heat, 
 
 Attachments, wheresoever made 
 However rash or indiscreet. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Hence selfish dullness oft could bend 
 
 His purpose in the festive hour; 
 And crawling cunning gain'd its end, 
 
 Even while he, vaunting, scorn'd its power. 
 
 B2 
 
210 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Hence hackney'd vice could safe commit 
 
 His riots with a saintly face. 
 And leave with Jamie's song and wit, 
 
 The merit all- the whole disgrace. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Whilst he, deceit nor found nor fear'd, 
 But each companion took for true, 
 
 And the applause he nightly heard, 
 As genuine all and all his due. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Yet, cool reflection rising slow, 
 
 Would wake, at times, his virtuous ire, 
 And the dark gulf that yawn'd below, 
 
 Illumine, dread, with blaze of fire, 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Terror would, shivering, o'er him creep, 
 While truth portrayd, in colours strong, 
 
 The vile deceits, o'er danger's steep, 
 That bore him, heedless, thus along, 
 
 XXVII 
 And, soft, would glide before his eye, 
 
 In Vision sweet, his early days, 
 When all without gave rapture high, 
 
 And all within was peace and praise. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 But vanity, the treachor vile, 
 
 Still quench'd the half-reviving fire ; 
 
 And under flattery's deadly smile, 
 Resolves did day by day expire. 
 
211 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 For still, his intellectual beam 
 
 Unquench'd, tho' dim'd its heavenly light, 
 Would burst, with instantaneous gleam, 
 
 Through gathering clouds intensely bright, 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The lofty thought the purpose high-^ 
 With dazzling splendour would return 
 
 And, catching spirit from his eye, 
 The social circle fierce would burn. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Then who had hardihood to blame ? 
 
 'Twas Reason's feast the flow of soul 
 The flash of pure ethereal flame, 
 
 Aspiring to its proper goal. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Knaves may employ rules dull and dry, 
 
 The vulgar multitude to awe, 
 Mere blocks of earth, who own no tie 
 
 Feel no restraints but those of law. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 But spirits of superior mould, 
 O'er all the empire vast of Mind, 
 
 By plodding Dullness uncontroul'd, 
 May wanton as the viewless wind. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 With idle rant, thus base deceit, 
 
 Still sooth'd his easy, shifting, mood, 
 
 Till, all unconscious of the cheat, 
 Each better purpose sunk subdu ; d. 
 
212 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 And silent, as the cloud expires. 
 
 When scattered by the morning sun f 
 
 So, under dissipation's fires, 
 His virtues withered one by one. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Blindfolded, Knowledge sunk amain, 
 
 And pious feeling ceas'd to burn, 
 And Hope, with Fancy in her train, 
 
 Flew off No never to return. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 And o'er the intellectual scene, 
 
 Where Love with Pleasure deign'd to dwell, 
 Conscience, arous'd, with fiend-like mien, 
 
 Scatters the blazing brands of hell. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 And Rancour's dark consuming fires, 
 
 Burn, fast, his failing spirits up, 
 While far from God, he, dread, aspires 
 
 To quaff the Atheist's opiate cup. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Not all the kindling hues of morn 
 Nor rich the modest glow of even 
 
 Nor summer fragrance zephyr-borne 
 
 Earth's breath embalm'd with sweets of heav'n- 
 
 XL. 
 
 Nor love's soft call nor friendship's voice 
 
 Nor pity's tear, distilling pure 
 Nor present, nor departing joys, 
 
 His moral apathy can cure. 
 
213 
 
 XLI. 
 
 The grief of one the scorn of all 
 Even of the vilest of the vile 
 
 He, heartless, hears the morning's call, 
 And, hopeless, meets the evening's smile, 
 
 XLII. 
 
 And, but that still, tho' sunk in woe, 
 To raise the joyless laugh he strains, 
 
 Of what he was, and once could show, 
 Not even a single trace remains. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Sweet fancy's child, be warn'd beware 
 Of dazzling pleasure's downward way, 
 
 There ruin yawns and misery there 
 Behold, remember Jarnie Gray. 
 
 TO 
 
 THE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 DECEMBER. 1799. 
 
 I. 
 
 What heart, poor bird, wadna be wae, 
 Thus lorn to see thee wand'ring gae, 
 Whare ilka thing's thy mortal fae 
 
 E'en heaven's vicegerent, 
 Unfeeling man, he waits to slay 
 
 Thee like a tyrant. 
 
214 
 
 II. 
 
 But late, what time the rosie dawn 
 Besprent wi' blobs o' dew the lawn, 
 Or eve, her curtains meek had drawn, 
 
 O' sober grey, 
 Wild echoes rang on ilka han* 
 
 To thy blythe lay. 
 
 III. 
 
 But ah ! the subject sad o care, 
 Thou lifts thy melting voice nae mair 
 An* a' thy simmer haunts sae fair 
 
 In flowery deeding, 
 By gurly Boreas stripped bare, 
 
 Are no worth heeding. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now in thy lone, deserted bower, 
 Sits silence, pensive and demure, 
 Nor 's e'er disturb'd but by the roar, 
 
 O' winds and waters, 
 Or when the rattling hailstone shower 
 
 In fury blatters. 
 
 V. 
 
 Cauld winter wi' his scowdering eye 
 Frore burning o'er the blue blue sky, 
 An' round an' round thee heapit high, 
 
 The sna* wreath's heaving, 
 Has left thee, nor o' wat nor dry, 
 
 Ae pile o' living. 
 
2] 5 
 
 VI. 
 
 An' there before the cottage door, 
 Owrie an' dull, a suppliant poor. 
 For antrin crumbs thou's fain to cowr 
 
 Mid a' mishaps 
 Slie badrons watching to devour 
 
 Guns, girns, an' traps. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Beware in that caff heap to piddle. 
 An 1 shun, O shun that shoggly riddle ! 
 See, see yon gude-for-naething striddle 
 
 To pu' the pin, 
 Already thinking to the middle 
 
 Thou's fairly in. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 No yet thou's free ! and wert thou wyse 
 The woods would instant be thy choice ; 
 Thae bourocks fill't wi' eistacks nice, 
 
 Are sweet to rifle, 
 Yet liberty's an awsome price, 
 
 For sic a trifle. 
 
 IX. 
 
 How wae 'twad be to see thee hing, 
 Far, far frae a' the sweets o' spring, 
 The captive o' some dudron dring, 
 
 Dull, fat an' frowsy; 
 Thy gowden neb, thy glossy wing, 
 
 A' soilt and brosey. 
 
216 
 
 X. 
 
 Flee, flee, thou'rt blest ! thou disna ken 
 What men can do to brither men ! 
 Spring soon shall breath adown the glen, 
 
 The live green glowin', 
 An' thy blythe-heart shall buoyant sten 
 
 Wi' warm love lowin/ 
 
 XL 
 
 But, ah ! for him wha's warsilt sair, 
 An' lang wi heart corrodin' care, 
 Till feeble age dow do nae raair, 
 
 Alas, alas ! 
 There's nought remains but deep despair 
 
 An' laneliness. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Wha, set in fortune's gowden show'r, 
 Can rant in pleasure's sunny bower, 
 Finds een, hearts, hands, a' to their power, 
 
 His whimsey's staunchin' ; 
 But charity's drap dramock sour, 
 
 Aye's gien wi' glunchin.' 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Her bairns hae nae blythe days to come, 
 Nae joyous hours in vernal bloom ; 
 Ilk day rows o'er wi' heavier gloom, 
 
 An' darker dread, 
 Till they can mak' the cauld, cauld tomb 
 
 Their peacefu' bed. 
 
STANZAS 
 ON THE APPROACH OF WINTER 
 
 I. 
 
 The lark no longer wakes the merry morn, 
 Nor merle melodious, pipes adown the glade, 
 No balmy dew drops, twinkling, gem the thorn, 
 Nor flowerets spring with bosom sunward spread 
 Yet still 'tis sweet, afar, the wilds to tread, 
 Tho' fled their bloom, their breathing fragrance 
 
 gone; 
 
 Tis solemn to behold, in russet clad, 
 The weary fields to list the mountain's moan, 
 While sobbing, to the blast, the leafless forests groan. 
 
 II. 
 
 Now in the sound of art's fantastic joys, 
 How many hearts rebound with wanton glee : 
 But fashion's glare, and riot's rueful noise, 
 Have never any soothing charm for me. 
 Sweet nature's face ! sweet nature's minstrelsy 
 My raptured soul for ever must admire 
 What are the tones of mimic melody, 
 Tho' Catalan! aid the warbling wire 
 Yea though a Handel sweep the strings with hand of 
 fire? 
 
 c2 
 
218 
 
 III. 
 
 What to the dirge for the departing year, 
 Pour'd in faint warblings from the lonely dell. 
 Where underneath the last leaf lingering sear, 
 Their mournful plaints, the wren and redbreast tell ? 
 What to the torrent rushing from the fell, 
 With wilder tones than fancy yet could feign ? 
 What to the voice of ocean's stormy swell, 
 When roll'd on hills of fire his vast domain, 
 Resounding high to heaven, from heaven to earth 
 again ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 And what, the splendours of the midnight ball, 
 The clamorous rout, the maudlin masquerade, 
 The feast serv'd up by lordly seneschal, 
 Where the vast wealth of kingdoms is display'd ? 
 What to the night in starry pomp array'd, 
 When the wide welkin burns one streamy blaze ; 
 Or, kerchief d in a fleecy cloud her head, 
 The full-orb'd moon, upon the enthusiast's gaze, 
 Through depths of ether blue, a lonely wanderer 
 strays ? 
 
 V. 
 
 O ! had my quiet home been given to smile, 
 With heath around, dark, waving on the eye ; 
 Where still the mountain stream was seen to toil 
 Still heard the playful breeze, the plover's cry 
 And, still, the cliff seem towering to the sky 
 Where, oft the shapeless storm delights to brood. 
 And on the breezy wind, light, passing by, 
 Wave the deep foldings of his misty shroud, 
 While yet the heavens around, shine clear without a 
 cloud. 
 
219 
 
 VI. 
 
 Where, nature, sweet, on every rising morn, 
 With beamy smile had cheer'd my lone employ ; 
 Had balm'd my aching heart with anguish torn, 
 And heav'd my breast with the full tide of joy. 
 Devotion pure, with less of earth's alloy, 
 Her incense-cloud had duly given to rise, 
 And with a vigour care could ne'er destroy 
 With plumes unruffl'd, and with ardent eyes 
 Had contemplation swept afar th 5 expansive skies. 
 
 VII. 
 
 By tufted hillock, from the blasting north 
 Screened, in the windings of the lonely vale, 
 Glad had I mark'd, all lowly, glinting forth, 
 The yellow crocus, and the primrose pale 
 Ere yet the stream had ceas'd its wintry wail, 
 And round the mountain's pallid brow were seen 
 The snowy remnants Ere the wrestling gale, 
 With genial showers, and sunny blinks between, 
 Had given the blythsome spring her robes of living 
 green. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Till, by degrees, the white emblossom'd sloe, 
 The daffodil beneath the budding thorn, 
 The fragrance-breathing lily's modest glow, 
 Amidst the pearly drops of blushing morn, 
 Gave spring in all her splendours to adorn, 
 And cheer the prospects of the opening year 
 While love's soft note, far swelling, ether-borne, 
 With glowing pathos, falls distinct and clear, 
 What time the silent eve with dewy feet draws near. 
 
220 
 
 IX. 
 
 Pleasure's light form even toil should have assumed, 
 And laughing joy had wing'd the sultry hours. 
 When fervid summer, breathing sweets, perfunvd 
 The wide spread vale, and far the woodland bowers. 
 And richly rude a wilderness of flowers, 
 On every hand had caught th' admiring eye, 
 Which from her lap, exhaustless, nature pours 
 O'er valley low, or mountain swelling high, 
 Of every varying form, and every varying dye. 
 
 X. 
 
 What joy to hear the healthful western breeze, 
 The breath of heaven, on pure autumnal morn, 
 Sigh, mournful, o'er the faintly fading trees, 
 Or, wavy, rippling thro' the ripening corn. 
 Though bending o'er the SICKLE, labour worn, 
 My spirit, rising, still to nature true, 
 By temperance pure, and meek contentment borne, 
 Had, peaceful, drunk amid th' expanding view, 
 From nature's flowing fount, delights for ever new. 
 
 XI 
 
 And thou, O ! winter, dark, with cloudy brow, 
 Altho' of half thy shivering horrors shorn, 
 Formless and vast, the tempest streaming through, 
 Hadst, there, a far sublimer aspect worn 
 Dejection, had not always dim'd thy morn, 
 And lengthen'd, long, thy haridbreath of a day ; 
 But vigour strong, of toil and temperance born, 
 For ever active, and for ever gay, 
 To pleasures secret springs, had found a ready way. 
 
221 
 
 XII. 
 
 frar other here, beneath thy frigid frown, 
 Rises, more loud than even thy blustering gale, 
 Of sickness, age, with poverty bow'd down, 
 Or sad mischance, the wild, the ceaseless wail. 
 Yet, winter ! once again I bid thee, hail ! 
 Although no rural dwelling place be mine, 
 Even here I feel thy secret power prevail ; 
 Tho' faint the marks, and dimly seen the line, 
 mark its heavenly swell, and own the hand Divine. 
 
 TO 
 APRIL, 1808. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHY, April, thus clouded in woe com'st thou forth, 
 
 With aspect so wintry and drear; 
 While, roaring around thee, the winds of the north 
 
 Fill our hearts with amazement and fear ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Thy cheek once so rosy, in soft dimples drest, 
 
 As sickly December is pale ; 
 The cold zone of January binds up thy breast, 
 
 And thy locks rattle stiff to the gale. 
 
 III. 
 
 The cowslip, accustom'd to grace thy green steps, 
 Shrinks back from thy cold icy tread ; 
 
 And clamour discordant the lone forest keeps, 
 For the loves from thy presence have fled. 
 
222 
 
 IV. 
 
 Even the lark, lofty soaring, in extacy high, 
 
 Accustom'd thy welcome to sing, 
 Desponding and feeble drops down from the sky, 
 
 While the cranreuch hangs hoar on his wing. 
 
 V. 
 
 By thy hoarse voice arous'd, all the months of the year 
 
 Thy progress with terror attend ; 
 And the meek eye of autumn is dim with a tear, 
 
 Lest famine be hers in the end. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Ah ! where are thy west winds, thy soft sunny showers, 
 Which erst we have felt and have seen ; 
 
 Thy balm-breathing buds, and thy gay spreading 
 
 flowers, 
 That were wont to enamel the green ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 O April, relent! o'er the glebe and the grove 
 
 Thy life-cheering lustre display, 
 And glad in full chorus let rapture and love 
 
 Enliven the clear sunny day. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 So labour, unceasing, his path shall pursue, 
 
 While ardour illumines his eye ; 
 And hope's sunny visions expanding in view, 
 
 Awakes him to extacy high. 
 
 IX. 
 
 So, richly embroider'd, her robe of green leaves 
 
 Shall summer as usual display, 
 And, laden with fruit, yellow autumn her sheaves 
 
 Shall build up in goodly array. 
 
223 
 
 X. 
 
 So, hirpling and hoary, to shut up the year, 
 
 When winter shall, lowririg attend, 
 His grim face the poor man shall mark without fear, 
 
 Seeing plenty stands by as his friend. 
 
 XL 
 
 O'er his humble-roof d home while the rude winds are 
 roaring, 
 
 And labour the season denies. 
 The fields of content with devotion exploring, 
 
 His converse shall be with the skies ; 
 
 XII. 
 Till balmy the west winds, the brown spotting thows 
 
 O'er the stern bands of winter prevail, 
 And lead him again with the gay whistling ploughs, 
 
 Thy coming, sweet April, to hail. 
 
ON 
 
 VISITING SOME SCENES OF MY YOUTH 
 
 L 
 
 SCENES of love and peaceful joy. 
 Where a simple shepherd boy. 
 Free from pining Care's alloy, 
 Light my days were wont to flee ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Far although my steps have been 
 In pursuit of pleasure keen. 
 Skies so clear, and fields so green, 
 Never yet have bless'd my e'e. 
 
 III. 
 
 Round whene'er I turn my eyes, 
 Link'd by strange mysterious ties, 
 Scenes of youthful transport rise, 
 Fair in sweet simplicity. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Wimpling down the green sward hill. 
 Overhung with wild flowers still, 
 From its fount the crystal rill 
 Murmurs sweetest melodv. 
 
225 
 
 V. 
 
 Blooms the bank with gowans gay, 
 Edg'd with scroggy willows grey, 
 Where my flock at falling day 
 Used to pasture pleasantly. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Rises still the rough grey stone, 
 Where I mark'd the evening sun, 
 Splendours burning round his throne, 
 Set inglorious majesty. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Still the willow-shaded stream, 
 Dim, emits a smoky gleam, 
 Where full oft the pageant dream 
 Steep'd my soul in extacy. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Warm'd, I mark the bleak Brownhill 
 Where autumnal breezes chill, 
 In rny breast the melting thrill 
 Waked so soft, so pensively. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Where, at easy leisure laid, 
 In the thrash-bush sighing shade, 
 Rapt, in HENRY'S lays, I read 
 WALLACE' peerless chivalry ; 
 
 X. 
 
 Till, unfelt my station poor, 
 Hid my "destiny obscure," 
 Fancy burn'd for manhood's hour, 
 Great like him renown'd to be. 
 
 D2 
 
IT. 7 :-? 226 
 
 XL 
 
 For my lot in desert plac'd, 
 Running all my days to waste. 
 Yet no gloomy thought had trac'd 
 In the hues of misery. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Light, I hail'd the joyous team, 
 Light, beneath October's beam, 
 Mark'd the sickle's dewy gleam, 
 Cheer 'd with jest and jollity. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Finding then, nor fearing guile, 
 Soothing soft my little toil, 
 Every face, with friendly smile, 
 Beam'd in kind complacency. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Silly childhood's pleasing dream ! 
 Permanent, ah ! could I deem 
 Bubbles on life's flowing stream, 
 Dancing downward merrily! 
 
 XV. 
 
 Time ! relentless, and severe ! 
 Driving still with harsh career, 
 Proofs most strong are written here 
 Of thy mutability. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Center 'd on that spot did lie 
 All I lov'd beneath the sky! 
 There I thought to live and die 
 With unchanging constancy. 
 
227 
 
 XVII. 
 
 All unknowing arid unknown. 
 Now I find to mark me none, 
 Save where jealousy looks on, 
 Dreading secret villany. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Blue the smoke as heretofore, 
 Wreathing, curls the green trees o'er 
 But the hospitable door 
 Opens not to welcome me. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Never more shall meet me there, 
 She, who to a master's air, 
 Watchful, join'd a mother's care 
 Still so soft, so tenderly. 
 
 XX. 
 
 No, in solemn silence laid, 
 Low she rests among the dead, 
 From the storms for ever hid, 
 Dark, that dim mortality. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And upon the very spot, 
 Where was cast her active lot, 
 Pass'd her deeds her worth forgot, 
 Perish'd even her memory. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Spirit pure ! in bliss divine ! 
 Vain the attempt for verse of mine, 
 Here thy virtues to inshrine, 
 Child of meek humility ! 
 
228 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Yet, to fame if worth impart 
 Title true, thy feeling heart r 
 Manners pure, devoid of art^ 
 Justly claim celebrity. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Ne'er can I forget the hours,, 
 Clos'd upon the storm the doors, 
 When unlock'd, thy mental stores 
 Stream'd with sage garrulity ;, 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Teaching many an ancient say, 
 Useful for life's troublous day r 
 Many a precious roundelay 
 Many a tale of piety ; 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Then, engaged, my thoughtless youth 
 Caught spontaneous from thy mouth, 
 Warm the rapturous strains of truth, 
 Rich, that glad eternity. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Scenes belov'd ! a last adieu ! 
 Oft shall fancy turn to you, 
 Marking morn her silver dew 
 Shower in mild serenity ; 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 And in pure autumnal sky, 
 Warm, the great sun blazing high. 
 While the red moor's purple dye 
 Streams around most gorgeously. 
 
229 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Till, sublim'd, my spirit rise 
 Far above these shifting skies. 
 Where created beauty dies, 
 Lost in vast infinity. 
 
 THE 
 
 SICK CHILD 
 
 I PASS'D the cot but yesterday, 
 'Twas neat and clean, its inmates gay, 
 All pleas'd, and pleasing, void of guile, 
 Pursuing sport or healthful toil. 
 
 To-day the skies are far more bright, 
 The woods pour forth more wild delight, 
 The air seems all one living hum, 
 And every leaflet breathes perfume. 
 
 Then why is silence in the cot, 
 Its wonted industry forgot, 
 The fire untrim'd, the floor unred, 
 The chairs with clothes and dishes spread, 
 While, all in woeful dishabille, 
 Across the floor the children steal ? 
 Alas ! these smother'd groans ! these sighs ! 
 Sick, sick the little darling lies ; 
 The mother, while its moan ascends, 
 Pale, o'er the craddle, weeping, bends, 
 
230 
 
 And, all absorbed in speechless woe. 
 The father round it paces slow. 
 Behind them close, with clasped hands, 
 The kindly village matron stands, 
 Bethinking what she shall direct. 
 For all night long, without effect, 
 Her patient care has been apply'd, 
 And all her various simples try'd, 
 And glad were she could that be found 
 Would bring the baby safely round. 
 
 Meanwhile, the little innocent, 
 To deeper moans gives ampler vent, 
 Lifts up its meek but burden'd eye, 
 As if to say, " let me but die, 
 u For me, your cares, your toils give o'er, 
 " To die in peace, I ask no more." 
 
 But who is there with aspect kind, 
 Where faith, and hope, and love are join'd, 
 And pity sweet ? The man of God, 
 Who soothes, exhorts, in mildest mood, 
 And to the pressure of the case, 
 Applies the promises of grace 
 Then lifts his pleading voice and eye, 
 To Him enthroned above the sky, 
 Who, compass'd, once, with pains and fears, 
 Utter'd strong cries, wept bitter tears, 
 Whence, still the sympathetic glow, 
 He feels for all his people's woe 
 For health restor'd, and length of days, 
 To the sweet Babe he humbly prays, 
 But 'specially that he may prove, 
 An heir, of faith, a child of love, 
 
231 
 
 That, when withdrawn from mortal eyes, 
 May bloom immortal in the skies 
 And for the downcast parent pair, 
 Beneath this load of grief and care 
 That grace divine may bear them up, 
 And sanctify this bitter cup 
 He pauses Now the struggle's done 
 His span is clos'd his race is run, 
 No yet he quivers Ah ! that thrill ! 
 That wistful look Ah ! now how still. 
 
 But yesterday the cot was gay, 
 With smiling virtue's seraph train ! 
 There sorrow dwells with death to-day, 
 When shall the cot be gay again ? 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 1819. 
 
 I. 
 
 Babes of my love, ah ! whether are ye fled ! 
 Imparadis'd beyond these glowing skies, 
 By life's green tree, and glory's stream made glad, 
 Is sorrow hid for ever from your eyes ? 
 Or do ye sometimes mark a parent's sighs, 
 And secret tears that unavailing flow ? 
 And still within the bond of earthly ties, 
 Feel ye the pangs of sympathetic woe ! 
 No, hope with seraph smile, sweet hope, she answers, 
 
232 
 
 II. 
 
 No ; ye have reach'd those fields of dewy light. 
 Where sin hath near effused its mortal stain, 
 Where joy on every face sits, beaming bright, 
 Unknown to care, beyond the reach of pain. 
 For you my groans, my tears are all in vain ! 
 Ye hear, nor see them, and ye must not feel ! 
 Or if ye did, sure sorrow's drizzling rain, 
 All unawares, from your bright eyes would steal ! 
 And even your glowing cup, the frost of woe congeal. 
 
 III. 
 
 And thou, sweet spirit, who for twenty years, 
 Hadst all thy hopes, thy joys cornmix'd with mine, 
 Couldst thou behold my woes, my painful fears, 
 And sympathy's sweet exercise decline ? 
 It cannot be ; perfection all divine 
 Invests thee now angelical even here 
 Thy virtues with seraphic splendour shine 
 Supremely bright, in glory's brightest sphere, 
 Where ceaseless joy divides and rules the eternal year. 
 
 VI. 
 
 O could I but this mortal life lay down, 
 This living death ! this load of sense and sin ! 
 With you that I might share th' immortal crown ! 
 And the bright palm of endless glory win ! 
 Glad would I rest death's peaceful haven within, 
 Beyond the tempest's reach, th' appalling roar 
 Of breakers wild, where the turmoil, the din 
 That ceaseless sweeps along that wreck strewn shore, 
 The shouts of hope and fear, might never reach me 
 more ! 
 
233 
 
 V. 
 
 Ah hope, why didst thou my young steps beguile, 
 And round me with thy blossoms strew the ground ? 
 And love, why didst thou too deceitful smile, 
 Nor shew the cypress wreath thy brows that bound ? 
 And why, amidst this solitude profound, 
 Reckless, and restless, memory wilt thou raise, 
 To fret afresh grief's never closing wound. 
 In all the hues that native truth displays, 
 By thy resistless power, these lost, ah ! lost, lost days. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet stay a moment, blissful vision stay ! 
 These lovely looks how sweet, how void of guile ! 
 Will ye again resume your noisy play, 
 While I for you pursue the paths of toil ? 
 Ah ! no ! even as I gaze, entranced the while, 
 Shoots o'er your angel forms the swift decay, 
 Fades in your lustrous eyes the living smile, 
 The roses on your red lips melt away, 
 And there again ye lie, cold, cold and breathless clay. 
 
 TO 
 
 CALDER WATER.* 
 
 Calder ! upon thy blooming braes, 
 Sweet they were spent my infant days ; 
 And on thy bank, first caught my view, 
 The blushing daisie bath'd in dew. 
 
 * Calder has not hitherto had the honour of being- noticed either 
 
 E2 
 
234 
 
 Oft have I mark'd, with wintry rains, 
 Thee swoln across th' adjoining plains, 
 And blest myself, with secret pride, 
 The world had no such flood beside. 
 Our childish views but seldom last ! 
 That dream with other dreams hath past, 
 Yet, Calder, still thou art to me, 
 The loveliest stream that seeks the sea. 
 
 What though upon thy shallow shore 
 Commerce never ply'd an oar ? 
 
 by the poet or the tourist, though it is a very fine stream, and in 
 several respects more worthy the pen of either, than some others 
 that have been highly celebrated, ]ts sources are the many 
 streams that wander down the high lands of Kilbride, known by 
 the name of the Eldrig hills, joined by others from the muirs of 
 Glassford ; and it forms the boundary between these parishes, for 
 some miles after it has attained the size of a mountain burn. 
 Here, however, it is comparatively uninteresting, gliding, for the 
 most part, among bog meadows, and here and there bordered 
 with grey or moss willows. After passing the Flat, it is precipi- 
 tated over the Creutherland lin into a'deep ravine, and for several 
 miles displays a character of the most romantic grandeur, its 
 banks being high and precipitous, clothed with tall trees, with 
 here and there naked peaks, overhanging the roaring stream, 
 and the narrow pathway. This is what is called Torrance Glen, 
 where, for the convenience of contemplating the scenery, foot 
 paths were constructed, and bridges at convenient distances thrown 
 over the stream, by the late captain Stuart. John Smith Yst. 
 Esq., of Crutherland has also constructed foot-paths, some miles 
 in length and a carrage way along the banks of the Calder and 
 the Rotten-burn, the many windings of which open upon scenes 
 of great beauty, and often of romantic grandeur. 
 
 Calder after leaving Torrence Glen, for a considerable length 
 is only a rapid stream, bordered by very steep, and very barren 
 fields, on both sides. Approaching Calderwood, the seat of Sir 
 William Maxwell, its banks again become precipitous, and 
 clothed with fine wood. Here it has some beautiful falls, one of 
 them nearly in view of Calderwood house, which is most roman- 
 tically situated on the very brink of the stream, sheltered to the 
 west under the cliff of a vast rock, so that it is not seen from that 
 side, till you are within a few yards of it. After passing Calder- 
 wood, the stream is chiefly remarkable for passing close under 
 
235 
 
 What though no mystery shroud thy source ? 
 Nor rolls, afar, thy unknown course, 
 Through woody wilds and deserts, spread 
 Out boundless, lifeless, dry and dread, 
 Where gloomy Desolation hoar, 
 Had drunk for aye thy sullen roar 
 I would riot change thee all the while, 
 Not for the world-enriching Nile ! 
 
 The traveller may exulting tell 
 Of far Missouri's mighty swell 
 Of dread Niagara thundering high, 
 An Ocean pour'd from upper sky 
 Of Niger watering unknown lands, 
 And drunk at last by burning sands 
 Of Ganges, India's hallow'd stream, 
 That sin can wash, as Hindoos dream 
 And, by the proud Iberian won, 
 Of the rich empire of the Sun, 
 Their limbs whose gentle children lave, 
 In Orellana's mighty wave, 
 
 rocks of immense height, rising 1 perpendicularly and displaying 
 strata of coal, freestone, and ironstone, the last of which are 
 wrought by the Clyde Iron Company. With this singular char- 
 acter it winds through the braes of Basket, overhung with moun- 
 tain ashes, sloe-thorns, and hazels, till it at length encircles 
 Crossbasket, the delightful residence of Alexander Downie Esq., 
 with a mixture of the wildest and most beautiful grandeur. From 
 this scene of enchantment, it seems literally to leap away as eager 
 to reach Millheugh, the residence of the late highly respected 
 professor Millar, where for the first time, it appears to obtain, 
 so to speak, elbow room, and has formed a few acres of fine 
 alluvial soil, in the midst of which the house of Millheugh is 
 delightfully situated, being sheltered by fine woods or beautifully 
 sloping banks on all sides. From this it pursues its way, often, 
 as about the Prial Bridge, through scenes of great magnificence, 
 till it falls into the Clyde, at Blantyre Farm, a little below Both- 
 well Castle. 
 
236 
 
 That, rushing from the Andes steep. 
 Rounds half the globe with sea like sweep 
 But could its braes with thine compare. 
 So simply sweet, so chastely fair ! 
 Forests may there, expand sublime, 
 Coeval with the birth of time, 
 Whose sons gigantic, towering high, 
 Wave their wide arms o'er half the sky, 
 While every glen and opening glade, 
 Is all with verdure rank overspread 
 Yea, from her overflowing store, 
 Tho' Nature, prodigal, may pour 
 The healing herb the wild flower bold, 
 That purple glows, or flames in gold 
 Avails it aught, in every brake, 
 While welters, huge, the deadly snake ? 
 Or rushes, from the tangled wild, 
 The Jaguar fierce, Destruction's child ? 
 Or murderous man, more savage still. 
 That lurks in every cave to kill ? 
 
 But thy sweet glades still open fair, 
 Fit haunts for love retreats from care. 
 Beneath thy deepest, darkest shade, 
 The child may wander undismayed 
 Or, mid the breathing broom may lye, 
 And see the Hare skip, playful by 
 Or, list, while on the ear falls sweet, 
 The frisking lambkin's gentle bleat. 
 
 How blest ! when day's glad toils are o r er, 
 To muse along thy shelvy shore, 
 W r hat time the mavis strains his throat, 
 Or blackbird swells his mellow note, 
 
237 
 
 Where early violet blooms unseen, 
 
 Beneath the breathing eglantine. 
 
 And in its sweetness simply great, 
 
 Like virtue plac'd in low estate. 
 
 The primrose drinks the rath May dew, 
 
 A down the vale of fair Millheugh, 
 
 Where learning, liberty and rest, 
 
 The age of patriot Millar blest, 
 
 And where, enjoying, free from care, 
 
 The rich man's love, the poor man's prayer, 
 
 In his fair daughters all may see, 
 
 What female goodness ought to be 
 
 Or where, as if by fairy hands 
 
 Set down, Crossbasket lovely stands, 
 
 While fragrant, June prolific showers 
 
 Around her wilderness of flowers, 
 
 And every rock, and every tree, 
 
 Is one wild hum of melody. 
 
 Or, near my earliest, dearest home, 
 
 Where still the loveliest wild flowers bloom, 
 
 And still the softest dews are shed, 
 
 And still the liveliest green is spread, 
 
 To mark of honour'd worth the state, 
 
 The noble Maxwell's princely seat, 
 
 The glens, and groves of Calderwood, 
 
 While cuckoos cry, and cushets crood. 
 
 And when the burning July beam 
 Has almost drunk thy tinkling stream, 
 How grateful to the wanderer then, 
 Tor ranee, the depth of thy dark glen, 
 Where, from the heather-crested rocks, 
 Spread far and wide the knarled oaks, 
 
238 
 
 Beneath whose shade the howlets grey. 
 Safe from the sun, at noontide play. 
 How rich, at eve or dawning morn, 
 Thy birks hreathe o'er the Rotten-burn, 
 Where, through his rifted bed, he creeps 
 Into thy wave, or rather seeps 
 In silent shame, till autumn showers, 
 Or winter storms, enlarge his powers 
 When with a voice that mates thine own 
 Red, roaring, rapid, he .comes down. 
 
 When snell the brisk October breeze, 
 Begins to shake the fading trees, 
 Oft let me roam the Eldrig hills, 
 Among thy tributary rills, 
 W T here the wild grouse and partrick brood, 
 Crop, undisturbed, the heather bud, 
 Until the night winds piping, sing 
 Among the bent and waving ling, 
 And heather-bleats afar in air, 
 Assure me of a morning fair. 
 
 There sometimes, too, I fond would stray, 
 When dark November dims the day, 
 To mark the misty billows tost, 
 Or, deep, beneath the fixing frost, 
 Seal'd every streamlet, dumb, forlorn, 
 Cold gleaming on the rising morn. 
 
 But chief when Winter bares the plains, 
 Let me attend thy cheery swains, 
 When at some rocking met, they tell 
 Of fairy light, or goblin fell, 
 That wont to trip, at midnight hour, 
 Thy broom y braes in days of yore, 
 
239 
 
 Till, fired the warm imagination, 
 Each trembles at his own relation, 
 And, laughing to conceal his fright, 
 Draws near and nearer to the light. 
 
 May ne'er the trumpet's burning breath, 
 The black unhallow'd deeds of death, 
 Sweet stream ! with terror shake thy shore, 
 Nor stain thy tide with crimson gore ; 
 But Peace, with laurels ever green, 
 And gentle Love, of laughing mien, 
 And Modesty, in blushing youth, 
 And Competence, and fearless Truth, 
 Still linger, pleas'd upon thy plains, 
 To bless thy simple shepherd swains. 
 
 And after all my wanderings past, 
 May I, within thy vale at last, 
 Retired, some lowly dwelling find, 
 Where, to the will of Heaven resigned, 
 Afar from Fortune's foolish strife, 
 And all the noisy scenes of life, 
 Prepar'd, at length, my willing ear 
 Death's summons unappall'd may hear, 
 In hope, that when my clay is laid 
 Among the long forgotten dead, 
 My happy soul may wing its way, 
 Where life's pure fountains bubbling play. 
 
TIME. 
 
 I. 
 
 Time is short Child of sorrow, 
 
 Dry thy streaming eyes. 
 Live to-day, the fear'd to morrow 
 
 Never may arise. 
 Fails the voice of weeping, 
 
 Ceases mirth's uproar, 
 Fails the earth worm treasure heaping, 
 
 Fails his glittering store. 
 
 II. 
 
 Time recedes Terror blanched, 
 
 Earth an outcast flies ; 
 Suns and stars are, darkling, wrenched 
 
 From the fading skies. 
 Kindreds all are mourning ; 
 
 Opening heaven reveals 
 Jesus, thunders, awful, burning 
 
 Underneath his wheels. 
 
 III. 
 
 Time is gone Fix'd for ever, 
 
 All men's fate remains, 
 Hell is sealed and sin shall never 
 
 Burst its dark domains, 
 Crown'd with bliss unfading, 
 
 High the ransom'd sing, 
 Under life's green tree fair spreading, 
 
 Drinking life's clear spring. 
 
EPISTLE T O . 
 
 MY gude auld friend, with heartfelt pleasure 
 
 I learn from yours, that easy leisure 
 
 And health continue to assuage 
 
 The ills that lie in wait for age ; 
 
 And that, at times, delighted still 
 
 Ye watch the shadows on the hill, 
 
 And, length-long laid, by the clear stream 
 
 Dream it again young life's young dream. 
 
 I too, thank heaven, am hale and fere, 
 Though warsling through my sixtieth year, 
 And, quiet altho' I keep it, often 
 With cares and fears right sair for-foughten, 
 Can yet upon an orra time 
 For namely thoughts find namely rhyme, 
 Cleed them in smiles, the far fled years, 
 Or steep them o'er again in tears. 
 
 But, wow man, things are chang'd sin' we 
 Met neighbour herds on yon Bare lea, 
 Where on the deep-sunk grey march stanes 
 We careless us'd to lean our banes 
 For hale forenoons, with deep intent 
 O'er Barbour's Bruce, in auld black print, 
 Or minstrel Henry's Wallace poring, ^ 
 All Scotsmen and their deeds adoring, > 
 The very Southron's name abhorring. J 
 Or, as the day began to turn 
 The twal-hour hill, the brawling burn 
 
 F2 
 
242 
 
 We ploutered aft, slid eels to snare. 
 To guddle trout or, worthless ware. 
 Fair evening o'er us shook her fair locks, 
 Clean wearied out wi snegging beardocks, 
 How sweet they bloom 'd yon flowery braes ; 
 How fleet they flew these pastoral days ! 
 Nae lying then lang nights to weep, 
 Nae burning gliffs of feverish sleep ; 
 We knew not then what 'twas to rnoan 
 O'er others' follies, nor our own. 
 
 'Tis far, howe'er, from my intent, 
 To bore you with a weak complaint ; 
 Not the most distant fears have I, 
 Of nature's channels running dry; 
 The pathless sea has fish galore, 
 As good as ere were brought ashore. 
 And who can tell what mother earth 
 In other ages shall bring forth ; 
 In our own day, by all confess'd, 
 Her powers have been fourfold increas'd, 
 Affording proof that as you treat them 
 Th' increase shall rise ad inftnitum. 
 
 Down with them, down, these heartless dreamers, 
 These muddy, Economic schemers, 
 Who, in their raphsodies unholy, 
 Infinite wisdom charge with folly, 
 Because, in fair creation's plan, 
 Woman was formed a part of man, 
 And he and she so link'd together, 
 That each is poor without the other. 
 The grumphing gomerils ! let them quaff, 
 And munch by turns their whey and draff, 
 
243 
 
 But let it never bless their sty, 
 The soft light of a woman's eye. 
 
 Woman, thy hallow'd name inspires 
 Heaven breathing thoughts, with soft desires, 
 Form'd every stage of life to please 
 Childhood is sooth'd upon thy knees ; 
 Thy love it moulds our fiery youth, 
 Manhood reposes on thy truth, 
 And thy softhand, thy soothing smiles, 
 Old age of half its woe beguiles : 
 O t ! who could bear this weary life, 
 , Its growing cares, its endless strife, 
 Its wants below, its fears above, 
 But for the balm of woman's love. 
 
 Tis granted, even woman's smile 
 Precludes nor care, nor pain nor toil, 
 Nay, has it not, with you and me, 
 Given point, at times, to all the three? 
 
 Ah, who in such a world as this, 
 A darling helpmate can possess, 
 With lovely babes, nor sometimes fear, 
 Yea sometimes feel them, ills severe. 
 But shall we scorn all cheering spring, 
 Because, at times, her balmy wing, 
 That ought with living green to glow, 
 Is crisp with frost, or white with snow. 
 Because the scorching summer heat, 
 Or grizzl'd autumn, breathing sleet, 
 Renders sometimes the ploughman's pain, 
 And skill, and foresight, void and vain; 
 
244 
 
 All further toil shall he eschew. 
 Fling by his spade, and burn his plough. 
 Such a resolve were sure a bad one. 
 And worthy only of a madman. 
 And is the man not madder far. 
 With his own heart who goes to war, 
 And surly, savage, and profane, 
 That he may live exempt from pain, 
 Attempts, audacious, to destroy 
 In his own breast the germs of joy. 
 
 For me, against plain reason rising, 
 Who will may strut philosophizing, 
 And, in his frenzied furor, royster 
 Because he was not made an oyster. 
 I, satisfied with nature's plan, 
 Bless God for having made me man ; 
 And gratefully would recognize 
 Those sacred heart-enwoven ties 
 Of wife, and sister, father, mother, 
 Which bind man, each to man a brother. 
 
 The calls of social nature waving, 
 And all absorbed in schemes of saving, 
 Who will, may, for his own dear self, 
 Prepare his pudding, hoard his pelf, 
 A poor, unhappy, helpless one, 
 His meagre meal pick all alone, 
 And, trembling at the bugbear wife, 
 Forgo the noblest ends of life 
 Yea, though without the starveling's pain, 
 His sordid aims he may attain, 
 A torpid life of listless leisure, 
 With a full cup of glutton pleasure, 
 
245 
 
 From which, luxurious, he may swill. 
 Mid hoarded heaps like Dychmont hill, 
 Nature outraged, but nothing chang'd, 
 Shall yet most amply be reveng'd. 
 
 Secure, life's busy scenes among*, 
 By prudence led, he moves along, 
 Nor will, whatever the pretence is, 
 Add to his every day expenses : 
 But that arch lurdane, dame temptation, 
 Meets every taste, and every station, 
 Nay, strange, at times, like Paddy's praties, 
 Her witching cup she deals it gratis ; 
 And he who spares but for the AE THING, 
 Will surely taste when't 's gien for naething. 
 Sometimes, alas ! a smirking lass, 
 What shall we say, all flesh is grass, 
 Sometimes, the deadliest plague in life, 
 A neighbour's free and easy wife, 
 Awakes the slumbering" fire within, 
 And leads him on to mortal sin 
 Whence in old age, though blest with none 
 He willingly would call his own, 
 His cheerless fireside is frequented, 
 And even his every bypath haunted, 
 By all expecting bastard varlets, 
 Intriguing thieves, and batter'd harlots, 
 Neglected among whom he dies, 
 Without a friend to close his eyes. 
 Even thus it is, O God, for thou 
 In all thy ways art just and true, 
 And all transgressors, thou hast will'd 
 With their own ways they shall be filTd. 
 
246 
 
 Happy the man who, free from pride, 
 Takes God and nature for his guide, 
 Content to be, with true decorum, 
 What his good sires have heen before him. 
 He, nor beholds with envious eyes 
 His neighbour's means to wealth arise, 
 Nor will he, though his own decrease, 
 By sour repining make them less. 
 
 Fools in their search for present bliss 
 May talk of this, and this, and this, 
 Of which could they become possessed 
 Then how content ! and O, how bless'd ! 
 Delusion ! mere delusion thin, 
 A sope to soothe the wolf within, 
 Which, to be sure, he gobbles o'er, 
 And then barks louder than before. 
 Happy ! who can be happy in 
 A world that smells throughout of sin ; 
 And in an age when all is sold, 
 An age, whose god of gods is gold ! 
 Dreams though we dream, and fictions weave, 
 Our bless is all comparative. 
 There surely flows, in less or more. 
 Some dirty dub at every door ; 
 And house or homstead there is none 
 Without some ugly skeleton, 
 That day by day with secret smart 
 Of every inmate wrings the heart. 
 Still there is bliss, a portion fair, 
 Though incomplete, which all may share, 
 Whatever their grade except they stand, 
 Shut up by God's immediate hand. 
 
247 
 
 Healthful in body, sound in mind. 
 In love embracing all mankind. 
 Why should the humblest child of toil 
 Refuse to wear contentment's smile, 
 And, for that low in life his place is, 
 Condemn himself to make wry faces. 
 
 Alas ! thou poor desponding one, 
 It pains my heart to hear thy moan, 
 To see thee, on these places high, 
 Still gloating with thy yellow eye, 
 As if the joy that centres there 
 Entailed on thee this mean despair 
 In vain thou grop'st thus blindly round, 
 External aid cannot be found ; 
 Quaff'd it must be life's trouble cup, 
 As surely as the sparks fly up ; 
 Thy case, though all men should attend it, 
 Not all men's strength combin'd can mend it. 
 I tell thee truly do not frown 
 As if, forsooth, thou stood'st alone. 
 Think coolly Look at nature's plan, 
 Thine is the common lot of man, 
 Which common sense would say should please thee, 
 And common grace will render easy. 
 
 But now, to quit these rhymes so teasing, 
 Here let me drop this moralizing 
 An envious temper ne'er was thine, 
 Nor shall it e'er, I trust, be mine. 
 1 know no greater earthly blessing 
 Than to see worth and wealth encreasing, 
 And, though at times folly grows great, 
 While worth is seen in low estate, 
 
248 
 
 This only shows, than earthly dower. 
 Heaven has some better thing in store, 
 For such as in the end shall prove 
 The objects of its grace and love. 
 
 And, notwithstanding all th* alloy, 
 How rich the flood of genuine joy, 
 Pour'd out for all ! how deep, how wide! 
 Nor can even selfishness make void 
 The glorious grant, nor much impair it, 
 To such as have the soul to share it. 
 
 A proud possessor, here and there, 
 May fence his fields with special care. 
 Block up his stiles, and fill his slaps 
 With spring guns, crow toes, and man traps 
 But can he stay the passing breeze 
 That borrows fragrance from his trees, 
 Blessing, with others far and wide. 
 The beggar by the highway side. 
 What pleasure the rich landscape yields, 
 The glow of trimly cultur'd fields, 
 The lawns, where snow-white flocks recline, 
 The vallies, fill'd with lowing kine, 
 Each passer by enjoys the while 
 Without the owner's pains or toil. 
 
 And then, there are the woods and rills, 
 The smiling of the distant hills, 
 The glories of the morn and even, 
 The balm of earth, the breath of heaven, 
 Recurring daily, ever new, 
 Free to the many as the few, 
 Demanding ceaseless praise. Adieu. 
 
A DAY-DREAM. 
 
 Toil, plodding Toil, and haggard Care, 
 Companions meet, masters severe, 
 Hear your poor weary worn-out-slave, 
 A moment's pause most meekly crave ; 
 Not that he rashly may invoke 
 Superior powers to break your yoke; 
 Or, still more weak and idly vain, 
 Pettish, and peevish, to complain 
 Of a whole world, which God made good, 
 He knows how long before the flood, 
 And which, but for tlv ill-working liver, 
 In some things is as good as ever ; 
 Nor even of its more doubtful parts 
 Unthinking heads, unfeeling hearts ; 
 Nor yet of friends to death gone down, 
 Or, heavier still, estrang'd and flown : 
 The first he hopes are hous'd in heaven, 
 The last he prays may be forgiven. 
 
 The envious sneer, th' insidious lie 
 By malice framed, he passes by ; 
 Nor will he dart one angry glance 
 On poor misjudging Ignorance; 
 Time, time at length will tell her tale, 
 And truth should in the end prevail; 
 At least so the wise world opines, 
 And so say all our sound divines ; 
 Though true it is, and all things show it, 
 Even time takes no great pains to know it. 
 
 G2 
 
250 
 
 But this, too lumpish far for verse, 
 He leaves to the philosophers. 
 And all who with a meek regard 
 Look up to Time for due reward. 
 Beyond her sweep his prospects rise, 
 And hoping nought beneath the skies, 
 Save day by day more serious losses, 
 Decaying strength, and heavier crosses 
 He strives no more, with efforts vain, 
 To burst the adamantine chain, 
 Which, a poor serf on earth's poor soil, 
 Binds him to care, and pain, and toil ; 
 But patient waiting for the tornb 
 Submits him calmly to his doom. 
 
 Still the poor slave may dream he's free 
 The captive of sweet liberty, 
 And he, the wretch condemn'd to pine 
 In dungeon's gloom, or deep the mine 
 To delve for Mammon's dirty ore, 
 Chain'd to the rock, or marble floor, 
 May yet in vision raptur'd rise 
 To the lark's watch-tower in the skies, 
 And, heedless of his fate forlorn, 
 Play with the pearly drops of morn ; 
 Or, on the eagle's sun-ward way, 
 Bathe him in the full flood of day. 
 Yea, even with pain and sickness worn, 
 With pining anguish inly torn, 
 The spirit strong will spread her wings, 
 And far at health's ambrosial springs, 
 Drink deep, a wild delirious waught 
 A soothing though deceptive draught. 
 The throbbing head, the burning breast, 
 By fever's fiery hands compress'd, 
 
251 
 
 May for a fancied moment find 
 
 Balmy and soft the breezy wind ; 
 
 May at the gurgling fountain lave. 
 
 And buoyant mount the ocean wave : 
 
 And may not he, the hapless heir 
 
 Of toil, and penury, and care, 
 
 In the young dream dream'd o'er again, 
 
 A moment lose the sense of pain ? 
 
 May not the streamlet purling clear, 
 
 Make sweetest music in his ear ? 
 
 May not wild woods to west winds wave ; 
 
 Rough shores the sounding surges lave ; 
 
 And the rude mountain, towering high, 
 
 Fling his broad shadow o'er the sky ; 
 
 Though to th' external eye and ear, 
 
 Nor streams, seas, hills, nor woods are near ? 
 
 Would Fancy but on airy wing, 
 From her fair haunts lead forth the Spring, 
 While pipe the winds, with flowery feet 
 To thread with Time a measure meet : 
 How eithly can her laughing eye 
 Bid cares, and fears, and sorrows fly ! 
 How featly she can deck the knowes, 
 Round whilk the infant Calder rows, 
 With countless scores of snowy lambs. 
 Light leaping round their bleating dams ! 
 With what wild splendours she can fill 
 The haunted glen of Nerston Mill ! 
 Where first the primrose opes her e'e ; 
 Where first the palm in vites the bee ; 
 How light, how bright, the glow she throws 
 Around Doghillock, white with sloes ; 
 And pours out strong the rath perfume, 
 O'er sunny Basket cloth'd with broom ! 
 
252 
 
 How gayly rich the mantle wide. 
 She drops across thee, sweet Burnside ; 
 And round Crossbasket's ancient towers, 
 Flings all her sweets and all her flowers ! 
 Lov'd Letterick, on thy sunny braes, 
 How glow the lengthening April days ; 
 And fair Greenha', and meek Millhew, 
 How rich ye drink the soft May dew ; 
 How gorgeous her retir'd abode, 
 In the deep dells of Calderwood ; 
 Or, sunward spread, plain nature's pride, 
 The birkclad dingles of Woodside ; 
 Or the green glens so quiet and still, 
 Or Mauchline-hole or Newhouse Mill ; 
 Of 'neath the cliffs, abrupt and torn, 
 Of howl et haunted Rotten burn ; 
 Despair might even be sooth'd the while. 
 Would he but catch her witching smile 
 Beneath the groves of Brankumha', 
 Or thy broad limes, old Cantislaw ; 
 Or Laurieston, forgot and gone, 
 Fair Nethermains, and Cadger-Loan, 
 Whose site the passing stranger sees 
 Still rnark'd out by the broad ash trees, 
 Or leafy elms outspreading wide, 
 In sad, but still in stately pride. 
 How fraught with life the gentle purl is 
 Of her sweet breath around the Whirlies ; 
 Or the green ivy- mantled walls, 
 Of thee, my natal cot, Forefauls ; 
 Or o'er the crofts, her early pride, 
 Of Buchandyke, and Tannochside, 
 
 But chief my infant mind respired, 
 And still my aching heart is fir'd, 
 
253 
 
 To see her swell the early bud 
 
 In thy long lane, Long-Calderwood 
 
 Long-Calderwood, endeared to fame, 
 
 By Hunter's and by Baillie's name 
 
 In healing science one sublime. 
 
 And one in song subduing time 
 
 To me by every tender tye 
 
 The charities of life supply 
 
 By all the moods and fancies wild 
 
 That sooth'd the sickly wayward child ; 
 
 By all the tenderness and truth 
 
 Of simple unsuspecting youth ; 
 
 With all that riper years engage 
 
 To sweeten life and comfort age ; 
 
 By recollections full of gladness ; 
 
 Or, holier still, enshrined in sadness ; 
 
 Whose worth th' experieric'd heart may guess, 
 
 But written words can ne'er express ! 
 
 Long-Calderwood, shall e'er I see 
 The spot on earth to rival thee ? 
 Thy flowers that bless'd my infant eyes, 
 Their like to me shall never rise ! 
 Thy mornings of intense delight, 
 Where shall the sun shine out so bright ? 
 From thy sweet garden's shady bowers, 
 Oft have I watch'd the midnight hours, 
 In silent grandeur, leading forth 
 Grey twilight round the far howe north, 
 Till up the rising orient borne, 
 She caught the blushes of the morn, 
 And lighted on the Lomond's gay, 
 The kindling blaze of glowing day. 
 
 There, first upon my infant eye, 
 It burst the glittering butterfly 
 
254 
 
 There first 1 heard the busy bees 
 At work upon thy broad plane-trees, 
 There watch'd the swallows twittering gay 
 As by degrees their house of clay. 
 Careful with talons, breast, and bill, 
 They fix'd beneath the window sill, 
 While chirrup'd o'er them from the eaves, 
 The sparrows and beneath the leaves 
 Of the smooth beech hid from the sun, 
 Entranced, a rich, a happy one, 
 I saw the mirly mavis rest 
 Within her snug and cozie nest. 
 
 There first, I mark'd the evening hours, 
 Close, dim, on Bothwell's mouldering towers, 
 That through the fading purple beam, 
 Effus'd a melancholy gleam ; 
 While Torrance linn, resounding wide, 
 Joined the wild echoes of the Clyde ; 
 And rooks, home bound, a flightering cloud, 
 The coming storm proclaimed aloud. 
 
 O may she still, the lovely Spring, 
 Her glowing splendours o'er thee fling ; 
 Summer expand thy fragrant poses ; 
 Thy July-flowers, thy broad white roses ; 
 Autumn, upon thee from her horn, 
 Pour out potatoes, here, and corn ; 
 And surly Winter, cutting keen, 
 Lie light upon thy kailyards green ; 
 But Care, he calls I come anon. 
 Reader, farewell my dream is gone ! 
 
255 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 JOHN POLLOCK'S mortal part reposes here, 
 Pause passenger and let thy sigh ascend. 
 
 His was the glowing heart, the judgment clear. 
 With all that could endear the bosom friend. 
 
 And hope expanded fair his opening bloom, 
 And fame shed on his steps her dawning light, 
 
 But soon his morn was overcast with gloom, 
 And here all prematurely clos'd in rlight. 
 
 So in the boreal rigours of the morn, 
 
 From the scath'd tree Spring's fairy promise drops, 
 
 Relentless thus are mortal honours torn, 
 
 And, day by day, cut off all earthborn hopes, 
 Alarm'd, arous'd, on faith's strong pinions rise, 
 
 Be all thy hopes in heaven, thy treasure in the skies. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 JOHN ROBERTSON'S remains in sweet repose, 
 Beneath the Saviour's all benignant eye, 
 Here wait this bustling world's eventful close, 
 Arid time's last groan that calls them to the sky. 
 Here breathe, O saint ! the sympathetic sigh, 
 And friendship shed thy spirit soothing tear, 
 For soft as breath of violet stealing by, 
 Beneficent as dewy April clear, 
 Was he the spirit meek whose clay reposes here. 
 
256 
 EPITAPH 
 
 LET titPd guilt and overweening pride, 
 Call forth the brass, the marble, and the steel, 
 And lying bard, with pompous phrase to hide 
 That baseness time is panting to reveal ! 
 But what avails it ? Public fame may reel, 
 A moment giddy with the flattering tale, 
 Which as it flows suspicion shall congeal, 
 Till, with the dup'd expectant's hope, it fail, 
 And o'er the hated name rank rottenness prevail ! 
 
 Not such is, ROBERT RUSSELL, worth like thine, 
 
 Which unambitious shun'd its own display, 
 
 Though bright con tent with mellow'd beams to shine 
 
 Along the track of life's laborious way. 
 
 With tears we hang this tributary lay 
 
 Upon thy urn our full hearts to relieve, 
 
 While hope reposes on the destin'd day, 
 
 When truth's fair hand th' immortal wreath shall 
 
 weave, 
 Which God himself shall give, the good alone receive. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
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