Within his humble cell,

The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,
Beside his crystal well!

Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought,
By unfrequented stream,

The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint collected dream:

While praising, and raising

His thoughts to heav'n on high,
As wand'ring, meand'ring,

He views the solemn sky.

IV..

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd
Where never human footstep trac'd,
Less fit to play the part;

The lucky moment to improve,

And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art:

But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,

The Solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate!

ས.

Oh! enviable, early days,
When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,
To care, to guilt unknown!
How ill-exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,
Of others, or my own!
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,

Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,

That active man engage!
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim declining age!

WINTER,

WINTER,

A

DIRGE.

I.

THE wintry west extends his blast,

And hail and rain does blaw;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:

While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest,

And pass the heartless day.

II.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,'

The joyless winter-day,

Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join,

The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

III.

Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,

Because they are Thy Will!

Then all I want (O, do thou grant

This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy thou dost deny, Assist me to resign.

*Dr. Young.

THE

THE

COTTER'S

SATURDAY NIGHT.

INSCRIBED TO R. A****, Esq.

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short but simple annals of the poor.

GRAY,

I.

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays;

With honest pride I scorn each selfish end :

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:

To