Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong Necessity compels.

But Man, to whom alone is giv'n
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane-
And creatures for his pleasure slain.
In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on Nature you depend,

And life's poor season peaceful spend.
Or, if man's superior might

Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,

Man with all his pow'rs you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

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WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT

KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
Till fam'd Bredalbane opens to my view.
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,

woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides;

Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills;
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride,
The palace rising on his verdant side;

The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native taste,
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste;
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ;
The village, glittering in the noontide beam-

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell :
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;

Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods

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Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
And look through Nature with creative fire;
Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild;
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds :
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan,
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS.

AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods;
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,

Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds.
As high in air the bursting torrents flow,

As deep recoiling surges foam below,

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,
And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends.

Dim-seen, thro' rising mists and ceaseless show'rs,
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, lours.

Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils,
And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils-

OF ARNISTON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF

SESSION.

LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan;
The hollow caves return a sullen moan.

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves,
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic glooms I fly;
Where to the whistling blast and water's roar,
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,
Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway'd her rod;
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow,
She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe.

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men :
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise,
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes;
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly bursting cry:

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On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair.
Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times;
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,

As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:
While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue

The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:
Hark, injured Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale,
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail!

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains:
Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.

Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign;
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,
To mourn the woes my country must endure,
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

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ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR.

THE lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare,

Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell,

Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ; Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd, well; Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry sky, IO

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,

And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.

The paly moon rose in the livid east,

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately Form, In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast,

And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm.

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd: Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe,

The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war,

Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl❜d,
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar,
And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.

'My patriot son fills an untimely grave!' With accents wild and lifted arms she cried; 'Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride!

'A weeping country joins a widow's tear,

The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh.

'I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow; But, ah! how hope is born but to expire ! Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.

'My patriot falls but shall he lie unsung,
While empty greatness saves a worthless name?
No; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue,
And future ages hear his growing fame.

'And I will join a mother's tender cares, Thro' future times to make his virtues last,

That distant years may boast of other Blairs,'

She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.

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