Till he's-Lord kens how far awa!
At Italy, or Well o' Spa;
Or to Montpelier's safter air;
For far aff fowls hae feathers fair.
There rest him weel;-for eith can we
Spare mony glaikit gowks like he.
They'll tell where Tiber's waters rise,
What sea receives the drumly prize,
That never wi' their feet hae met
The marches o' their ain estate.
The Arno an' the Tiber lang
Hae run fell clear in Roman sang;
But, save the reverence o' schools!
They're baith but lifeless dowie pools.
Dought they compare wi' bonnie Tweed,
As clear as ony laumer-bead?
Or, are their shores mair sweet an' gay
Than Fortha's haughs, or banks o' Tay?
Though there the herds can jink the showers
'Mang thriving vines an' myrtle bowers,
An' blaw the reed to kittle strains
While echo's tongue commends their pains;
Like ours, they canna warm the heart
Wi' simple, saft, bewitching art.
On Leader haughs, an' Yarrow braes,
Arcadian herds wou'd tyne their lays,
To hear the mair melodious sounds
That live on our poetic grounds.
Come, Fancy! come, an' let us tread
The Simmer's flowery velvet bed,
An' a' your springs delightfu' lowse
On Tweda's banks, or Cowdenknows,
That, taen wi' thy enchantin' sang,
Our Scottish lads may round ye thrang,
Sae pleas'd, they'll never fash again
To court you on Italian plain.
Soon will they guess, ye only wear
The simple garb o' nature here;
Mair comely far, an' fair to sight,
When in her easy cleedin dight,
Than, in disguise, ye was before
On Tiber's or on Arno's shore.
O Bangour!* now the hills an' dales
Nae mair gie back thy tender tales !
The birks on Yarrow now deplore,
Thy mournfu' muse has left the shore.
Near what bright burn, or crystal spring,
Did you your winsome whistle hing?
The Muse shall there, wi' watery ee,
Gie the dunk swaird a tear for thee;
An' Yarrow's genius, dowie dame!
Shall there forget her blude-stain'd stream,
On thy sad grave to seek repose,
Who mourn'd her fate, condol'd her woes.
* Mr Hamilton of Bangour.
OF CHAP. III. OF THE BOOK OF JOB.
PERISH the fatal day when I was born,
The night with dreary darkness be forlorn;
The loathed, hateful, and lamented night
When Job, 'twas told, had first perceiv'd the light;
Let it be dark, nor let the God on high
Regard it with a favourable eye;
Let blackest darkness and death's awful shade
Stain it, and make the trembling earth afraid;
Be it not join'd unto the varying year,
Nor to the fleeting months in swift career.
Lo! let the night, in solitude's dismay,
Be dumb to joy, and waste in gloom away;
On it may twilight stars be never known;
Light let it wish for, Lord! but give it none.
Curse it let them who curse the passing day,
And to the voice of mourning raise the lay;
Nor ever be the face of dawning seen
ope its lustre on the enamell'd green; Because it seal'd not up my mother's womb, Nor hid from me the sorrows doom'd to come.
Why, Lord! the wretched object of thine ire,
Did I not rather from the womb expire?
Why did supporting knees prevent my death,
Or suckling breasts sustain my infant breath?
For now my soul with quiet had been blest,
With kings and counsellors of earth at rest,
Who bade the house of desolation rise,
And awful ruin strike tyrannic eyes;
Or with the princes unto whom were told
Rich store of silver and corrupting gold;
Or, as untimely birth, I had not been
Like infant who the light hath never seen:
For there the wicked from their trouble cease,
And there the weary find their lasting peace;
There the poor prisoners together rest,
Nor by the hand of injury are prest;
The small and great together mingled are,
And free the servant from his master, there.
Say, wherefore has an over-bounteous Heaven
Light to the comfortless and wretched given ?
Why should the troubled and oppress'd in soul
Fret over restless life's unsettled bowl,
Who long for death, who lists not to their prayer,
And dig as for the treasures hid afar;
Who with excess of joy are blest and glad,
Rejoic'd when in the tomb of silence laid?
Why, then, is grateful light bestow'd on man,
Whose life is darkness, all his days a span?
For ere the morn return'd, my sighing came,
My mourning pour'd out as the mountain stream ;
Wild-visag'd fear, with sorrow-mingled eye,
And wan destruction, hideous, star'd me nigh!
For though no rest nor safety blest my soul,
New trouble came, new darkness, new controul.
O THOU, who with incessant gloom
Courts the recess of midnight tomb !
Admit me of thy mournful throng,
The scatter'd woods and wilds among.
If e'er thy discontented ear
The voice of sympathy can cheer,
My melancholy bosom's sigh
Shall to your mournful plaint reply;
There to the fear-foreboding owl
The angry Furies hiss and howl;
Or near the mountain's pendent brow,
Where rush-clad streams in cadent murmurs flow.
Who's he that with imploring eye
Salutes the rosy dawning sky?
The cock proclaims the morn in vain,
His sp'rit to drive to its domain :
For morning light can but return
To bid the wretched wail and mourn.
Not the bright dawning's purple eye
Can cause the frightful vapours fly;
Nor sultry Sol's meridian throne
Can bid surrounding fears be gone.
The gloom of night will still preside,
While angry conscience stares on either side.
To ease his sore distemper'd head,
Sometimes upon the rocky bed
Reclin'd he lies, to list the sound
Of whispering reed in vale profound,
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