In vain our flattering hopes our steps beguile,
The flying good eludes the searcher's toil :
In vain we seek the city or the cell,
Alone with virtue knows the power to dwell:
Nor need mankind despair these joys to know,
The gift themselves may on themselves bestow :
Soon, soon we might the precious blessing boast,
But many passions must the blessing cost;
Infernal malice, inly pining hate,

And envy, grieving at another's state;
Revenge no more must in our hearts remain,
Or burning lust, or avarice of gain.

When these are in the human bosom nursed, Can peace reside in dwellings so accursed? Unlike, O Eglintoun! thy happy breast, Calm and serene, enjoys the heavenly guest; From the tumultuous rule of passions freed, Pure in thy thought, and spotless in thy deed: In virtues rich, in goodness unconfined, Thou shin'st a fair example to thy kind 1; Sincere and equal to thy neighbour's name, How swift to praise! how, guiltless to defame! Bold in thy presence Bashfulness appears, And backward Merit loses all its fears.

Supremely blest by Heaven, Heaven's richest grace Confessed is thinc---an early blooming race;

Whose pleasing smiles shall guardian Wisdom arm,
Divine Instruction! taught of thee to charm:
What transports shall they to thy soul impart
(The conscious transports of a parent's heart),
When thou behold'st them of each grace possest,
And sighing youths imploring to be blest!
After thy image formed, with charms like thine,
Or in the visit, or the dance, to shine:
Thrice happy! who succeed their mother's praise,
The lovely Eglintouns of other days.

Meanwhile, peruse the following tender scenes, And listen to thy native poet's strains: In ancient garb the home-bred Muse appears, The garb our Muses wore in former years. As in a glass reflected, here behold How smiling Goodness looked in days of old : Nor blush to read, where Beauty's praise is shown, Or virtuous Love, the likeness of thy own; While 'midst the various gifts that gracious Heaven To thee, in whom it is well pleased, has given; Let this, O Eglintoun, delight thee most, T'enjoy that innocence the world has lost.

W. H.

INSCRIBED TO

JOSIAH BURCHET, Esq.

SECRETARY OF THE ADMIRALTY.

THE nipping frosts, an' driving snaw,

Are o'er the hills an' far awa';

Bauld Boreas sleeps, the Zephyrs blaw,
An' ilka thing

Sae dainty, youthfu', gay, an' braw
Invites to sing.

Then let's begin by creek o' day;
Kind Muse, skiff to the bent away,
To try anes mair the landart lay,

Wi' a' thy speed,

Since BURCHET awns that thou can play
Upo' the reed.

Anes, anes again, beneath some tree,

Exert thy skill an' natʼral glee,

To him wha has sae courteously,

To weaker sight,

Set these rude sonnets*, sung by me,

In truest light.

* Having done me the honour of turning some of my pastoral

poems into English justly and elegantly.

In truest light may a' that's fine
In his fair character still shine;

Sma' need he has o' sangs like mine,

To beet his name;

For frae the north to southern line,

Wide gangs his fame.

His fame, which ever shall abide,
While hist'ries tell o' tyrants' pride,
Who vainly strave upon the tide

T' invade these lands,

Where Britain's royal fleet doth ride,

Which still commands.

These doughty actions frae his pen
Our age, an' those to come, shall ken
How stubborn navies did contend

Upon the waves;

How free-born Britons fought like men,

Their faes like slaves.

Sae far inscribing, sir, to you,
This country sang, my fancy flew,

Keen your just merit to pursue;

But ah! I fear,

In gieing praises that are due,

I grate your ear.

Yet tent a poet's zealous prayer;
May powers aboon, wi' kindly care,

Grant you a lang an' muckle skair

O' a' that's good,

Till unto langest life an' mair

You've healthfu' stood!

May never care your blessings sour,

An' may the Muses, ilka hour,

Improve your mind, an' haunt your bower!... I'm but a callan ;

Yet may I please you, while I'm your

Devoted ALLAN.