But whilst I thus adore,
I'm driven to wild despair;
Indifference is more

Than raging love can bear.

WOULD'ST thou know her sacred charms
Who this destin'd heart alarms,

What kind of nymph the Heavens decree
The maid that's made for love and me.

Who pants to hear the sigh sincere,
Who melts to see the tender tear,
From each ungentle passion free;
Such the maid that's made for me.

Who joys whene'er she sees me glad,
Who sorrows when she sees me sad,
For peace and me can pomp resign;
Such the heart that's made for mine.
Whose soul with generous friendship glows,
Who feels the blessings she bestows,
Gentle to all, but kind to me;
Such be mine, if such there be.

Whose genuine thoughts, devoid of art,
Are all the natives of her heart,
A simple train, from falsehood free;
Such the maid that's made for me.
Avaunt, ye light coquets, retire,
Whom glittering fops around admire;
Unmov'd your tinsel charms I see,
More genuine beauties are for me.

Should Love, fantastic as he is,
Raise up some rival to my bliss;
And should she change, but can that be?
No other maid is made for me.

BY A YOUNG LADY,

ON READING THE FOREGOING,

If you would know, my dearest friend,
The man whose merit may pretend
To gain my heart, that yet is free,
Him that's made for love and me:

His mind should be his chiefest care,
All his improvements centre there,
From each unmanly passion free;
That is the man who's made for me.
Whose generous bosom goodness warms,
Whom sacred virtue ever charms,
Who to no vice a slave will be;
This is the man who's made for me.

Whose tongue can easily impart
The dictates of his honest heart,
In plain good sense; from flattery free;
Such he must be who's made for me.

He alone can love inspire,
Who feels the warmth of friendship's fire;
Humane and generous, kind and free;
That is the man who's made for me.
If such an one, my friend, e'er tries
To make me his by strictest ties,

O GENTLE maid! whoe'er thou art,
That seek'st to bless a friendly heart;
Whose Muse and mind seem fram'd to prove
The tenderness of mutual love.

The heart that flutters in his breast,
That longs and pants to be at rest,
Roam'd all round thy sex, to find
A gentle mate; and hop'd her kind.

I saw a face and found it fair;
I search'd a mind-saw goodness there:
Goodness and beauty both combin'd;
But Heav'n forbad her to be kind.

To thee for refuge dare I fly,
The victim of another eye?
Poor gift! a lost, rejected heart,
Deep wounded by a foreign dart.

From this inevitable chain,
Alas! I hope to 'scape in vain.
Is there a pow'r can set me free,
A pow'r on Earth-or is it thee?

Yet were thy cheek as Venus fair;
Bloom'd all the Paphian goddess there,
Such as she bless'd Adonis' arms;
Thou could'st but equal Laura's charms.

Or were thy gentlest mind replete

With all that's mild, that's soft, that's sweet f
Was all that's sweet, soft, mild, combin'd,
Thou could'st but equal Laura's mind.

Since beauty, goodness, is not found
Of equal force to soothe this wound,
Ab! what can ease y anguish'd mind?
Perhaps the charm of being kind.

Canst thou transported view the lays
That warble forth another's praise,
Indulgent to the vow unknown,
Well pleas'd with homage not thy own?

Canst thou the sighs with pity hear
That swell to touch another's ear?
Canst thou with soft compassion see
The tears that fall, and not for thee?
Canst thou thy blooming hopes resign,
The vow sincere, so dearly thine;
All these resign, and prove to me
What Laura wou'd not deign to be?

When at thy feet I trembling fall,
My life, my soul, my Laura ċall;
Wilt thou my anxious cares beguile,
And o'er thy face spread Laura's smile.

Perhaps Time's gently stealing pace
May Laura's fatal form efface,
Thou to my heart alone be dear,
Alone thy image triumph here.

Come then, best angel! to my aid!

Come, sure thou'rt such, the gentlest maid:
If thou canst work this cure divine,
My heart henceforth is wholly thine.
Edinburgh.

THE YOUNG LADY'S ANSWER. YOUR Laura's charms I cannot boast; For beauty I ne'er was a toast; I'm not remarkable for sense; To wit I've not the least pretence.

If gold and silver have the power

To charm, no thousands swell my dower;
No shining treasures I possess,
To make the world my work confess.

An honest plain good-natur'd lass,
(The character by which I pass,)
I doubt will scarcely have the art

To drive your Laura from your heart.

But, sir, your having been in love, Will not your title to me prove: Far nobler qualities must be

In him who's made for love and me.

'Tis true you can with ease impart
The dictates of your honest heart,
In plain good sense, from flattery free:
But this alone won't answer me.

Once more peruse my lines with care;
Try if you find your picture there:
For by that test you'll quickly see,
If you're the man who's made for me.
Glasgow

TO A LADY

THE BRAES OF YARROW,

WHO RIDICULED THE AUTHOR'S LOVES. A FEMALE friend advis'd a swain

Whose heart she wish'd at ease, "Make love thy pleasure, not thy pain, Nor let it deeply seize.

"Beauty, where vanities abound,

No serious passion claims: Then, till a phenix can be found, Do not admit the flames."

But griev'd, she finds all his replies
(Since prepossess'd when young)
Take all their hints from Silvia's eyes,
None from Ardelia's tongue.

Thus, Cupid, all their aim they miss, Who would unbend thy bow; And each slight nymph a phenix is, If thou would'st have it so.

TO LADY JANE HOME,

IN IMITATION OF THE ANCIENT SCOTISH MANNER.

A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow?
Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,

And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Where gat ye that bony bony bride? Where gat ye that winsome marrow? AI gat her where I dare na weil be seen, Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Weep not, weep not, my bony bony bride, Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow, Nor let thy heart lament to leive

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

B Why does she weep, thy bony bony bride?
Why does she weep thy winsome marrow?
And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?

A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,

Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint her luver luver dear,
Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow,
And I bae slain the comliest swain

That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? Why on thy Braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholeous weids

Hung on the bony birks of Yarrow!

What yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! Tis he, the comely swain I slew

Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears, with dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,

And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow,
And weep around in waeful wise,

His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,

His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.

Did I not warn thee not to lue,

And warn from fight? but, to my sorrow, O'er rashly bald, a stronger arm

Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the
Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan, [grass,
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

Or clip thy wings, or cut thy tongue,
And spoil thy flight, and future song:
That thus, unseasonable guest,
Thou dar'st disturb a lover's rest,
And tear the maid, profuse of charms,
My fair Maria, from my arms.

TO A DOVE.

FROM ANACREON.

SAY, beauteous dove, where dost thou fly?
To what new quarter of the sky
Dost thou with silken plumes repair,
To scent with sweets the ambient air?
Stay, gentle bird, nor thou refuse
To bear along a lover's vows.

O tell the maid, for me belov'd,
O tell how constant I have prov'd;
How she to me all nymphs excell'd,
The first my eyes with joy beheld;
And since she treats me with disdain,
The first my eyes beheld with pain.
Yet whether, to my wishes kind,
She hear my pray'r with gracious mind,
Or, unrelenting of her will,
Her hot displeasure kindle still,

I, in her beauty's chains bound fast,
Shall view her with indiff'rence last.
Fly swift, my dove, and swift return
With answer back to those that mourn:
O! in thy bill, bring soft and calm
A branch of silver-flow'ring palm.
But why should I thy flight delay?
Go fleet, my herald, speed away.

HORACE.

BOOK I. ODE V.

WHAT happy youth, Maria, now Breathes in thy willing ear his vow?

With whom spend'st thou thy evening hours
Amidst the sweets of breathing flowers?
For whom retired to secret shade,

Soft on thy panting bosom laid,
Set'st thou thy looks with nicest care,
And bind'st in gold thy flowing hair?
O neatly plain! How oft shall he
Bewail thy false inconstancy?
Condemn'd perpetual frowns to prove,
How often weep thy alter'd love?
Who thee, too credulous, hopes to find,
As now still golden and still kind;
And heedless now of Fortune's power
Sets far away the evil hour:

How oft shalt thou, ill-star'd, bewail
Thou trusted to the faithless gale?
When unaccustom'd to survey
The rising winds and swelling sea;
When clouds shall rise on that dear face,
That shone adorn'd in every grace;
That yet untaught in wicked wiles,
Was wont t' appear to thee in smiles.
Wretch'd they to whom thou shin'st, untry'd
Thy shifting calm and treacherous tide:
For me, once shipwreck'd, now on shore,
I venture out my bark no more.

PALINODE.

O HAPPY youth, who now, possest
Of my Maria's smiles, art blest;
Think not thy joys will constant prove;
How many changes are in love!
I once was happy too like thee,
That Sun of beauty shone on me:
In darkness ever to deplore,
The Sun is set to shine no more;
Doom'd ne'er to view the rising light,
But weep out love's eternal night.

When first I spread the lover's sail,
Love blew from shore a friendly gale;
Sweet appear'd th' enchanting scene,
All calm below, above serene:
Joyous I made before the wind,
Heedless of what I left behind;
Nor rocks nor quicksands did I dread,
No adverse winds to check my speed;
No savage pirate did I fear,
To ravish all my soul held dear,
Far off my treasure to convey,
And sell in foreign lands away:
Maria's hands unfurl'd the sails,
Her prayers invok'd the springing gales:
'Twas calm whate'er her eyes survey'd,
Her voice the raging storm obey'd;
And o'er the bosom of the tides,
Her will the ruling rudder guides.
But ah! the change, she flies away,
And will vouchsafe no longer stay.
See now the swelling seas arise,
Loud storming winds enrage the skies.
All weak the tempest to withstand,
Trembling and pale I put to land.
Wet from the tossing surge, aghast
I thank the gods, the danger's past;
And swear to venture out no more,
Secure upon the safer shore:
Yet should the swelling seas subside,
And roll serene a silver tide;
Should yet the angry tempest cease,
And gently breathe a gale of peace;
Much, much I fear, I'd dare again
A second shipwreck on the main.

HORACE.

BOOK I. ODE VII.

TO THE EARL OF STAIR.

LET others in exalted lays
The lofty dome of Hopetoun praise,
Or where of old, in lonely cell,
The musing druid wont to dwell:
Or with the sacred sisters roam,
Near holy Melrose' ruin'd dome:
There are who paint with all their might
The fields where Fortha's streams delight;
That winding through Stirlina's plain,
Rolls beauteous to the distant main:
Or, faithful to the farmer's toil,
Extol fair Lothian's fertile soil;
Where Ceres her best gifts bestows,
And Edin town her structures shows.
Nor me delight those silvan scenes,
Those chequer'd bowers and winding greens;

Where art and nature join to yield
Unnumber'd sweets to Marlefield:
Nor yet that soft and secret shade,
Where fair Aboyn asleep is laid;
Where gay in sprightly dance no more
She dreams her former triumphs o'er.
These scenes can best entice my soul,
Where smooth Blancatria's waters roll;
Where beauteous Hume in smiling hour,
Plucks the green herb or rising flow'r;
Pleas'd on the borders to behold
The apple redden into gold.

But whate'er place thy presence boast,
Let not, O Stair! an hour be lost.
When the rough north and angry storm,
Nature's lovely looks deforin;
The south restores the wonted grace,
And wipes the clouds from Heaven's face.
So thou to finish all thy care,
The flask of brisk Champaign prepare;
Invite thy friends, with wise design,
And wash the ills of life with wine:
Whether beneath the open sky,
Stretch'd in the tented couch to lie,
Thy fate ordains; to shine again
Great on some future Blenheim's plain;
Higher to raise thy deathless name
Triumphant to sublimer fame:
Or, if secure from feverish heat,
Newliston cover thy retreat,

Where wit conspires with love's delights,
To grace thy days and bless thy nights.
When Fergus led, in days of yore,
His exil'd bands to Scotia's shore;
The godlike founder of our state,
Sustain'd the shocks of adverse fate:
Yet brave, disdaining to repine,
Around his brows he bound the vine:
Let's follow still without delay
Wherever Fortune shows the way;
Courage, my lads, let none despair,
When Fergus leads, 'tis base to fear:
With better auspice shall arise
Our empire in the northern skies:
Beauty and valour shall adorn
Our happy offspring yet unborn:
Now fill the glass, come fill again,
To morrow we shall cross the main.

Or this shall lay thee cold in earth,
Now raging o'er Edina's frith.
Let youth, while yet it blooms, excite
To mirth, and wit, and gay delight;
Nor thou refuse the voice that calls
To visits and to sprightly balls.
For Time rides ever on the post,
Ev'n while we speak the moment's lost.
Then call each joy in to this day,
And spend them now, while now you may;
Have every pleasure at command;
Fools let them lie in Fortune's hand.

HORACE.

BOOK I. ODE XXII.

TO RS

THE man sincere and pure of ill,
Needs not with shafts his quiver fill,
Nor point the venom'd dart;
O'er him no weapon can prevail,
Clad in the firmest coat of mail,

A brave and honest heart.

Secure in innocence he goes

Through boiling friths and highland snows;
Or if his course he guide,

To where far. fam'd Lochleven's wave
Does round his islands winding, lave
Buchanan's hilly side.

For in Glentannår, as I stood
And sung my Erskine to the wood,
Unheeding of my way;

My every care forsook behind,
While all on Erskine ran my mind,
It chanc'd my steps to stray:

When, lo! forth rushing from behind A savage wolf of monstrous kind, Fierce shook his horrid head: Unarm'd I stood, and void of fear Beheld the monstrous savage near, And me, unarm'd, he fled.

A beast of such portentous size,
Such hideous tusks and glaring eyes,
Fierce Daunia never bred;
Nor Juba's land, without controul,
Where angry lions darkling howl,
His equal ever fed.

Place me where the Summer breeze
Does ne'er refresh the weary trees,
All on the gloomy plain,
Which side of Earth, offended Heav'n
To the dominion foul has given,

Of clouds and beating rain.

Place me underneath the day,
Near neighbour to the burning ray;
Yet there the maid shall move;
There present to my fancy's eyes,
Sweet smiling Erskine will I prize,
Sweet speaking Erskine love.