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TO A GARDENER, ON HIS SPOILING SOME BEAUTIS
CAITIFF! in vain, prescient of bitter woe*,
shall know Their former pride; nor Spring their wounds shall
heal; Nor birds
merry peal; Yet hope not thou' to scape the destin'd blow.
O malice impotent! For though thy hand,
Arm’d with the felon axe and nerv'd by hate,
And bid each lordly forest bow its state,
R. A. D. * " A rogue the gallows as his fate foresees."
ADDRESSED TO THE LYRE OP COWPIR.
Lyre of the Bard, who swell’d his lay divine
On the green banks of gentle-flowing Ouse,
Say now what second owner wilt thou chuse His fingers midst thy widow'd strings to twine ? Vain were the wish, I ween, to call thee mine;
For O! what suitor of the smiling Muse,
Tho' sprinkled oft with Heliconian dews, Could draw such strains from thee as once were thine? Still then upon thy native willows hang, While thro' thy chords the murmuring winds com
plain, For him, who once to thy soft numbers sang,
And pour'd with wond'rous art his holy strain, 3Vell-skill'd to sooth affliction's bitter pang, Or check the growth of Folly's maddning reign!
PROUD Pharisee! who oft the midnight oil
Hast wasted to indite the pond'rous page,
Where thou didst thunder with a boundless rage,
Thy tender care, to teach us maxims sage,
Was meant a nation's patience to engage,
So prompt to scourge with unrelenting rod,
R, A. De
TO LORD COCHRANE:
Cochrane! who from the Languedocian coast,
Where long thine arms dismay and havoc spread
Return’d, hast now thy gallant squadrou led
Shook through its triple line with deepest dread;
To quicksands and to rocks for refuge fled, And bless'd escape, though ruin was the cost ! If round thy youthful brow such laurels rise,
What triumphs on thy coming years shall wait! Thy Country, as she turns to thee her eyes,
A second Nelson hails with heart elate : " Heir of his spirit; O be thine," she cries, “ An equal glory and a longer date”! 1809.
R. A. D,
BY MR. MØLACHLAN.
Lucis habitamus opacis,
Night o'er the world had spread her sable reign,
I saw methought a stately waving wood,