Despised, oppress'd, the Godhead bears,
The torments of this vale of tears;
Nor bid His vengeance rise,
He saw the creatures he had made,
Revile His power, His peace invade;
He saw with mercy's eyes.
How shall we celebrate His name,
Who groan'd beneath a life of shame
In all afflictions try'd;
The soul is raptured to conceive
A truth, which being must believe,
The God eternal died.
My soul, exert thy powers, adore,
Upon devotion's plumage soar
To celebrate the day:
The God from whom creation sprung
Shall animate my grateful tongue:
From Him I'll catch the lay!
FROM "THE PROPHECY."
THIS truth of old was sorrow's friend"Times at the worst will surely mend." The difficulty's then to know
How long Oppression's clock can go;
When Britain's sons may cease to sigh,
And hope that their redemption's nigh.
When vile Corruption's brazen face
At council-board shall take her place;
And lords-commissioners resort
To welcome her at Britain's court;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When civil power shall snore at ease,
While soldiers fire-to keep the peace;
When murders sanctuary find,
And petticoats can Justice blind;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When tax is laid to save debate
By prudent ministers of state,
And what the people did not give,
Is levied by prerogative;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh
When Popish bishops dare to claim
Authority in George's name,
By treason's hand set up in spite
Of George's title, William's right;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
Commerce o'er Bondage will prevail,
Free as the wind that fills her sail.
When she complains of vile restraint,
And Power is deaf to her complaint;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When at Bute's feet poor Freedom lies,
Marked by the priest for sacrifice,
And doomed a victim for the sins
Of half the outs and all the ins;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
Then is your time to strike the blow,
And let the slaves of Mammon know,
Britain's true sons a bribe can scorn,
And die as free as they were born.
Virtue again shall take her seat,
And your redemption stand complete.
The Minstrel's Song.
OH! sing unto my roundelay;
Oh! drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holiday,
Like a running river be;
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
One of the pretended MSS.
Black his hair as the winter night. White his neck as summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought was he;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
Oh! he lies by the willow-tree.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing,
In the briered dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing.
To the nightmares as they go.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud;
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Here, upon my true-love's grave,
Shall the garish flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save
All the sorrows of a maid.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
With my hands I'll bind the briers,
Round his holy corse to gre;
Elfin-fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Come with acorn cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood all away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your deadly tide.
I die I come-my true-love waits.
Thus the damsel spake, and died.
BRIGHT Sun had in his ruddy robes been dight,
From the red east he flitted with his train;
The Houris draw away the gate of Night,
Her sable tapestry was rent in twain:
The dancing streaks bedecked heaven's plain,
And on the dew did smile with skimmering eye,
Like gouts of blood which do black armour stain,
Shining upon the bourn which standeth by ;
The soldiers stood upon the hillis side,
Like young enleaved trees which in a forest bide.
THE budding floweret blushes at the light,
The meads be sprinkled with the yellow hue,
In daisied mantles is the mountain dight,
The fresh young cowslip bendeth with the dew;
The trees enleafed, into heaven straight,
When gentle winds do blow, to whistling din is brought
The evening comes, and brings the dews along,
The ruddy welkin shineth to the eyne,
Around the ale-stake minstrels sing the song,
Young ivy round the door-post doth entwine;
I lay me on the grass, yet to my will
Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still.
In her twenty-fifth year ANNE M VICAR was born at Glasgow in 1754. she married the Rev. Mr Grant, parish minister of Laggan, in Invernessshire. She is the author of a volume of miscellaneous poems and several volumes of prose.
ON A SPRIG OF HEATH.
FLOWER of the waste! the heath-fowl shuns
For thee the brake and tangled wood-
To thy protecting shade she runs,
Thy tender buds supply her food;
Her young forsake her downy plumes,
To rest upon thy opening blooms.
Flower of the desert though thou art!
The deer that range the mountain free,
The graceful doe, the stately hart,
Their food and shelter seek from thee;
The bee thy earliest blossom greets,
And draws from thee her choicest sweets.
Gem of the heath! whose modest bloom
Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor;
Though thou dispense no rich perfume,
Nor yet with splendid tints allure,
Both valour's crest and beauty's bower,
Oft hast thou decked, a favourite flower.
Flower of the wild! whose purple glow
Adorns the dusky mountain's side,
Not the gay hues of Iris' bow,
Not garden's artful varied pride,
With all its wealth of sweets could cheer,
Like thee, the hardy mountaineer.
Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild
Of peace and freedom seem to breathe;
To pluck thy blossoms in the wild,
And deck his bonnet with the wreath,
Where dwelt of old his rustic sires,
Is all his simple wish requires.
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