There, seated in her beauteous bay,
Eblana's towers their pride display;
But there tumultuous Folly raves,
And high her torch dire Discord waves;
Then haste me to my native plain,
Where all the peaceful Pleasures reign.
Once more my longing eye devours
Her silent stream and modest bowers;
Once more the welcome dear I prove
Of friends, whom, as myself, I love;
Once more confess, where'er I roam,
No place I find so dear as home.
Oh Thou! whose kind paternal hand
Preserves by sea, protects by land,
Grant us sweet peace-'tis thine alone-
To a tumultuous world unknown;
That-whether warring winds engage,
Or restless human passions rage—
A sacred refuge we may find,
The temple of a quiet mind.
Being the Versification of a Reply by the Honourable
Henry Erskine to a Highlander.
"PRAY can you tell the reason why
"Our whisky has been tax'd so high ?"
"Why Sir!" said Erskine, 'tis that Pitt,
"Who some sagacity inherits,
"Has on this sort of project hit,
"In these hard times, to raise our spirits."
IMITATION OF MODERN POETRY,
NOT a breeze crisp'd the leaves of the bow'r,
Not a murmur was heard through the air,
As with twilight approach'd the blest hour
Love had fixed for a sight of my fair.
Expectation had flush'd every nerve,
While on tiptoe I listen'd around,
Not a soul could my glances observe,
Not a footstep was heard on the ground.
Every object now faded from sight,
While my thoughts were still fix'd on my love,
O'er my fancy they beam'd such a light,
That I mark'd not the darkness above.
How my heart beat its cell in my breast,
As the form of a female I spied,
Till in rapture to feel myself blest,
I resolved for a moment to hide.
Then I heard how she eagerly sought,
To discover the nook where I lay,
Till I felt so transported, I thought
Her desires were increased by delay.
Round the bow'r she repeatedly mov'd,
Like an angel that fancy creates,
When I rushed and exclaimed-" My beloved!"
And it hoarsely replied "Supper waits."
PR'YTHEE, toast-master, order more liquor,
And tip the brisk waiter a wink:
Let the bumpers pass quicker and quicker,
Nor ask us how many we'll drink.
'Twere as likely by drops we'd be able
To measure the punch we consume;
All the walnut-shells count on the table,
Or number the flies in the room.
How many? we'll match with libations,
Compute them as high as you may,
All the clappings and vociferations
For "God save the King," at the play.
Counted bumpers seem grudg'd, like a penny
Reluctantly paid by a Jew:
Honest lad, never think of how many,
But limit and welcome how few.
COME, thou best of painters, come!
Master of the Rhodian art,
While mem'ry with her image glows,
Paint the mistress of my heart.
First her glossy ringlets trace:
-Paint them soft, and black as jet;
And, if such thy mimic power,
Paint them breathing every sweet,
From the full luxuriant cheek,
Peeping thro' her dusky hair,
Let the ivory forehead rise
Brightly-glittering, smooth, and fair.
Her eye-brows trace with steadiest hand;
With care the graceful arch design;
Part not the bewitching curves,
Nor yet unite the waving line.
Shaded by a jetty lid,
Paint me next her eye of fire,
Sparkling bright with rays of sense,
Melting too with soft desire.
Roses blend with whitest milk—
Tint her lovely cheeks with this;
And her soft persuasive lips
Challenging the luscious kiss,
Round her alabaster neck
Let the wanton graces play; Shade, with a robe of purple dye,
The brighter charms that shun the day.
But gently thro' the careless folds
Let the snowy bosom break:
Enough! 'tis she! I own thy power;
It breathes-it lives it soon will speak!
DEAR Chloe, let not pride devour
That little, vain, affected heart;
Because I said the sweetest flower
Ne'er breath'd the sweets thy lips impart.
Nor spoil thy face with airs so silly,
Nor point those lovely eyes with scorn;
Because I swore the rose and lily
Ne'er gave such beauties to the morn.
Yes! thou art like-so like the flower,
Its warning fate should fill with sorrow; The blooming plaything of an hour,
But pluckt-and torn-and dead to-morrow.
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