If tenderness, pathos, and heart-moving ruth

Ever claimed your regard-to your bosom were dear, "Tis CAMPBELL, the votary of Nature and Truth,

This badge of your kindness, in triumph should bear;

Then haply, some Gertrude the fancy might charm,
With blue eyes as bright as the seraphs' above;
And whisper her tale, in soft accents, as warm,

As spotless, and sweet, as the first kiss of Love.

In SCOTT's wizard hand, 'twere a weapon of might,
In tilt, or in tournament, battle, or broil;
To call up the dead from their mansions of night;
Or sketch Love and Beauty, the guerdon of toil.

If wielded by BYRON, whose harp of the north
Has seldom been strung to a bold native lay;
The blaze of his glory might then have burst forth,
As pure as the morning, and bright as the day.

Not even APOLLO can add to his fire;

Yet haply, the gift might have mellowed his strain; From the songs of misanthropy turning his lyre,

From Harolds, and Conrads, that please, while they pain.

Again he might turn to the hills which he trod,

When his heart was as light as their pure mountain air ; And sing of the land of the heath-blossomed sod;

The deeds of its heroes, the loves of its fair.

How pleasing the pictures by Memory combined!
Had ROGERS your present received, and employed
In touching the chords round the heart fondly twined,
Which thrill o'er the past, that we loved and enjoyed!

Though cold blooded Critics, and Fancy's gay throng,
'Unfeeling and heartless, with Nature at strife,
Have wantonly censured, or slept o'er the song
That paints the domestic endearments of Life;

His muse is a matron, meek, modest, and chaste;
So graceful, and lovely, we still think her young;
She spreads a rich banquet, and smiles as we taste;
Love beams in her eye, and Truth flows from her tongue.

Had the SHEPHERD of ETTRICK been blest with the boon, His song would have led you o'er land, and o'er sea, Where the green fairies float on the beams of the moon, And bonny Kilmeny' glides light o'er the lea.

Had you sent it to CRABBE, in the juice of the sloe
He soon would have dipped it; delighted to trace,
In verse full of vigour, his pictures of woe,

Of vices, and follies-a people's disgrace:

In the unweeded garden of life, as he stalks,
He sees not the lily, and smells not the rose;
But sorrel and thistles, he culls in his walks,

With nettles, and nightshade, to heighten the dose :

Yet, a present from you, might have melted the bard, Who frowns o'er the Village, the Borough, the Hall; Might have shewn him in each, many worth his regard; With Truth, Love, and Virtue, triumphant in all.

To the sweet modest PRINGLE, how dear were the prize, (a) From the land of his fathers now wandering afar!

Again would his numbers flow, soft, as the sighs

That he breathed o'er his lyre, when with Fortune at war.

But the trophy is mine! and I boast of the meed;
To the Court of APOLLO you well know the way;
There, plead, that 'twas friendship which prompted the deed,
And thus of his Godship most fervently pray;

That as ever before, when you sued for yourself,

He graciously smiled, and your suit ne'er was vain, He now, would vouchsafe to bestow on this elf,

A spark of pure fire to illumine his brain :

APOLLO is gallant-you are his chere amie;

He cannot resist, and must dub me a bard; Methinks, I now feel what my pleasure shall be; And you in my triumph will have your reward.

For my verse shall not tell of the mighty in arms;
Of Conquest, that waves her red banner unfurled;
Enraptured, I'll sing the more dignified charms

Of Peace, Love, and Truth, that should govern the world.

Till then, as erewhile, I must cull the sweet flower, That crowns the gray rock, in the bleak lonely wild; For oft its chaste blossom has cheered the sad hour,

Its mild simple fragrance my griefs has beguiled.

TO THE MUSE.

My early friend-neglected long,
Thou ever dear, delightful maid,
Once more vouchsafe an artless song,
Ere Fancy's flame for ever fade.

When life was new, thy smile at eve, Has lightened oft the toils of day; The fairy webs thou deign'dst to weave, Were finely formed, of colours gay.

With thee, I've climbed the airy steep, To meet the day-star's parting beam; "Twas sweet, our vigil hours to keep,

By Clochton's wildly gurgling stream.

But sweeter still, at twilight hour,

To meet thee in the beechen grove, And feel the secret nameless power,

That taught the tender lay of Love.