The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy: But blate 16 and laithfu1, scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave 18. Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth! Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild? The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, His lyart haffets 20 wearing thin an' bare; The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 16 Bashful. 19 Great bible. 17 Shy. 18 The rest, others. 20 Grey temples. 21 Chooses. Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Then kneeling down, to heaven's eternal King, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent SONNET. Written on the summit of Plinlimmon. WITH pensive heart and trembling steps I tread These savage heights, with Alpine horrors crown'd; While eagles scream around their stormy head, "Tis awful! here no grovelling thought can dwell, Where all is vast, magnificent and high; I feel, I feel the ascending spirit swell, Though faint the foot, and wearied be the eye. Ah! treacherous heart, by earth-born cares depress'd, Why rove thy thoughts the sordid throng, Where sensual pleasures clog each vulgar breast, And gold and glory trail their pomp along? Oh! mount at length to heaven on rapid wing, And, blest with peace, and bright in endless spring, A MONASTIC ODE. HAIL, Solitude! how sweet thy shade, For holy contemplation made!" Far from the world, no more I see That stage of sin and vanity. While nations rage, my ravish'd sight Who walk'd with GoD in shades like this. THE END. LONDON: PRINTED BY R. GILB ERT, ST. JOHN'S SQUARE, |