WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXLVI.
OURN, hapless CALEDONIA, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn !
Thy fons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie flaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hofpitable roofs, no more,
Invite the ftranger to the door;
In fmoaky ruins funk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.
The wretched owner fees afar
His all become the prey of war ;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then fmites his breast, and curses life.
Thy fwains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy ravish'd virgins fhriek in vain ;
Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it then, in every clime,
Thro' the wide fpreading wafte of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still fhone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy tow'ring fpirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage, and rancour fell.
The rural pipe, and merry lay
No more fhall chear the happy day:
No focial scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No ftrains, but thofe of forrow flow,
And nought be heard but founds of woe;
While the pale phantoms of the flain
Glide nightly o'er the filent plain.
Oh baneful caufe, oh! fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The fons, against their fathers stood,
The parent fhed his childrens blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's foul was not appeas'd;
The naked and forlorn muft feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring fteel!
The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forfaken, wanders o'er the heath.
The bleak wind whistles round her head;
Her helpless orphans cry for bread,
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the fhades of night descend,
And ftretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns;
Refentment of my country's fate,
Within my filial breaft fhall beat;
And, fpite of her insulting foe,
My fympathizing verfe fhall flow,
"Mourn, haplefs Caledonia, mourn
HE Curfeu tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds flowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness, and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds; Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Or drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds.
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The mopeing owl does to the moon complain Of fuch as, wand'ring near her fecret bow'r, Moleft her ancient folitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet fleep. The breezy call of incenfe breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more fhall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy houfwife ply her evening care: No children run to lifp their fire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare.
Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obfcure; Nor grandeur hear with a difdainful fmile, The short and fimple annals of the poor.
The boaft of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour,
The paths of glory. lead but to the grave.
Forgive, ye proud, th' involuntary fault,
If memory to these no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.
Can ftoried urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected fpot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,
Hands that the reins of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the fpoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury reprefs'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the foul.
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