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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.

Then 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 he blest!
He needs not, he heeds not,

Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here, must cry here,

At perfidy ingrate!

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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!
Yet 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,

The dim declining age!


I. ALL hail! inexorable lord! At whose destruction-breathing word,

The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel, wo-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,

A sullen welcome, all!
With stern resolv'd, despairing eye,

I see each aimed dart;
For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my heart.
Then low'ring and pouring,

The storm no more I dread;
Tho' thick’ning and black’ning,
Round my devoted head.

And thou, grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd,
While life a pleasure can afford,

Oh! hear a wretch's pray'r! No more I shrink appall d, afraid, I court, I beg thy friendly aid,

To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,

Resign life's joyless day;
My weary heart its throbbings cease,
Cold mould'ring in the clay?
No fear more, no tear more,

To strain my lifeless face;
Enclasped, and grasped

Within thy cold embrace!





Now Nature hangs her mantle green

On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white

Out o'er the grassy lea:
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,

And glads the azure skies;
But nought can glad the weary wight

That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,

Aloft on dewy wing;
The merle, in his noontide bow'r,

Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis mild wi' maoy a note,

Sings drowsy day to rest :
In love and freedom they rejoice,

Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,

The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen.

And milk-white is the slae :

The meanest hind in fair Scotland

May rove the sweets amang; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,

Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o' bonie France;

Where happy I hae been;
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn,

As blithe lay down at e’en:
And I'm the Sov'reign of Scotland,

And monie a traitor there;
Yet here I lie in foreign bands,

And never-ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman,

My sister and my fae,
Grim Vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword

That thro' thy soul shall gae:
The weeping blood in woman's breast

Was never known to thee;
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of wo

Frae woman's pitying e'e.

My son! my son! may kinder stars

Upon thy fortune shine;
And may those pleasures gild thy reign,

That ne'er wad blink on mine!
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,

Or turn their hearts to thee: And where thou meet’st thy mother's friend;

Remember him for me!

O! soon, to me, may summer-suns

Nae mair light up the morn! Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds

Wave o'er the yellow corn!

And in the narrow house o' death

Let winter round me rave;
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring,

Bloom on my peaceful grave!




Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself,
And sweet Affection prove the spring of wo!


O THOU pale orb, that silent shines,

While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
Thou seest a wretch that inly pines,

And wanders here to wail and weep!
With wo I nightly vigils keep,

Beneath thy wan unwarming beam ;
And mourn in lamentation deep,
How life and love are all a dream.

I joyless view thy rays adorn

The faintly-marked distant hill :
1 joyless view thy trembling horn,

Reflected in the gurgling rill :
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still !

Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease!
Ah! must the agonizing thrill

For ever bar returning peace!

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