Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?
Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; I tremble to approach an angry God,
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.
Forgive my foul offence!"
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtue's way;
Again in folly's path might go astray;
Again exalt the brute and sink the man ;
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan?
Who sin so oft have mourn'd yet to temptation ran ?
O Thou, great Governor of all below!
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
Ór still the tumult of the raging sea;
With that controling pow'r assist ev'n me,
Those headlong furious passions to confine;
For all unfit I feel my powers to be,
To rule their torrent in th' allowed line,
O, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine !
[By the Same, from the Same.]
YEAowery banks o' bonie Doon,
can ye blume sae fair;
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care.
Thou'll break my heart thou bonie bird
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o' the happy days
When my fause luve was true.
Thou'll break my heart thou bonie bird
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist nae o' my fate.
Aft had I rov'd by Bonie Doon,
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its love,
And sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose
Frae aff its thorny tree,
And my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi' me.
YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS.
[By the Same, from the Same.]
ON wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde,
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the beather to feed,
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed:
Where the grouse, &c.
Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores,
To me hae the charms o' yon wild mossy moors;
For there by a lanely, and sequester'd stream,
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.
Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path,
Jik stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath;
For there wi' my lassie the day lang I rove,
While o'er us unheeded flie the swift hours o' love.
She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair;
O' nice education but sma' is her share;
Her parentage humble as humble can be ;
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me.
To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs;
And when wit and refinement ha'e polished her darts,
They dazzle our een as they fly to our hearts.
Bat kindness, sweet kindness in the fond sparkling e'e
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me;
And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her arms,
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms!
[Bv the Same, from the Same.]
LOW spreads the gloom my soul desires
The sun from India's shore retires;
To Evan Banks, with temp'rate ray,
Home of my youth, he leads the day.
Oh banks to me for ever dear!
Oh streams whose murmurs still I hear!
All, all my hopes of bliss reside
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde.
And she in simple beauty drest,
Whose image lives within my breast;
Who trembling heard my parting sigh,
And long pursued me with her eye;
Does she with heart unchang'd as mine,
Oft in the vocal bowers recline ?
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide,
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde ?
Ye lofty banks that Evan bound!
Ye lavish woods that wave around,
And o'er the stream your shadows throw,
Which sweetly winds so far below!
What secret charm to mem'ry brings,
All that on Evan's border springs;
Sweet banks! ye bloom by Mary's side:
Blest stream! she views thee haste to Clyde.
Can all the wealth of India's cost
Atone for years in absence lost?
Return, ye moments of delight,
With richer treasures bless my sight!
Swift from this desart let me part,
And fly to meet a kindred heart!
Nor more may aught my steps divide
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde.
[By the Same, from the Same.]
E fond kiss and then we sever;
Ae farewell, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that fortune grieves him
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, na cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy :
But to see her was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never lov'd sae kindly,
Had we never lov'd sae blindly,
Never met-or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken hearted.
Here, as if nature's law restrain'd his course,
The wint'ry tempest spends its latest force.
Beyond Thresprotia's cliffs unruffled lie
A milder climate and serener sky;
Along the vales more genial breezes blow;
And brighter sun-beams on the mountains glow.
There was a time, when o'er these favour'd plains,
Through wint'ry months where partial summer reigns,
The sun of freedom cheer'd the rising day,
And blooming science drank the vital ray.
Now, sunk in shades of intellectual night,
Extinct for ever is that golden light:
Forlorn and wither'd lies the Muses bow'r;
For stern oppression blasts each op'ning flow'r,
Checks in the soul each germ of heav'nly birth,
And bows her fairest scyons to the earth;
While ev'ry vice to slavish fear allied
Pollutes the heart, and chills its genial tide.
Yet in unfading bloom the scene appears,
All glowing with the pride of distant years;
And still, by nature and the Muses dress'd,
Might waken rapture in a poet's breast.
E'en I, whose thriftless hand for many a day
Had cast the half-form'd classic wreath away,
Feel kindling ardour rush through every vein,
And weave once more the long-forgotten strain.
Ye isles beyond the Adriatic wave!
Whose classic shores Ionian waters lave;
Ye plains of Greece! the Muse's ancient pride,
Whose rising beauties crown the western tide;
That smile beneath November's deepest gloom;
Where April wantons in luxuriant bloom,
No longer vocal to your native lyre,
Forgive the daring strain your charms inspire;
Though all unworthy of the meed ye claim,
A meed as deathless as your ancient fame.
For well I know, that not to me belong
The lofty raptures of poetic song:
My simple Muse in faney's gilded ray
May sport, the insect of a summer day;
May sparkle like the dew-drop on the flower;
But never please beyond the transient hour.
Yet, when the year renews its lovely prime,
And spring, advancing from the southern clime,
With rosy smile the infant zephyr greets,
And bathes his tepid wing in balmy sweets,
My heart, responsive, owns the genial glow;
And the wild numbers all unbidden flow.
Hail to the mountains! round whose sacred lead Their early pride the vernal hours have shed:
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