No torrents stain thy limpid source,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;
The springing trout in speckled pride,
The salmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike, intent on war,
The silver eel, and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch, and groves of pine,
And edges flower'd with eglantine.

Still on thy banks so gaily green,
May numerous herds and flocks be seen:
And lasses chanting o'er the pail,
And shepherds piping in the dale;
And ancient faith that knows no guile,
And industry embrown'd with toil;
And hearts resolved, and hands prepared,
The blessings they enjoy to guard!

Smollett.-Born 1721, Died 1771.

The sons against their fathers stood,
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceased,
The victor's soul was not appeased:
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames and murdering steel!

The pious mother, doom'd to death,
Forsaken wanders o'er the heath,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend:
And stretch'd beneath the inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.

While the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathising verse shall flow:
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn."

Smollett.-Born 1721, Died 1771.

923-THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,

Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;

Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoky ruins sank they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.

The wretched owner sees afar
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast, and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks
Where once they fed their wanton flocks;
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ;
Thy infants perish on the plain.

What boots it, then, in every clime,
Through the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy towering spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancour fell.

The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy day :
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains but those of sorrow flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe,
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.
Oh! baneful cause, oh! fatal morn,
Accursed to ages yet unborn!

924.-CHOICE OF A RURAL SITUATION AND DESCRIPTION OF THE AGUE.

Ye who amid this feverish world would wear
A body free of pain, of cares a mind;
Fly the rank city, shun its turbid air;
Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke
And volatile corruption, from the dead,
The dying, sick'ning, and the living world
Exhaled, to sully heaven's transparent dome
With dim mortality. It is not air

That from a thousand lungs reeks back to thine,

Sated with exhalations rank and fell,
The spoil of dunghills, and the putrid thaw
Of nature; when from shape and texture she
Relapses into fighting elements :

It is not air, but floats a nauseous mass
Of all obscene, corrupt, offensive things.
Much moisture hurts; but here a sordid bath,
With oily rancour fraught, relaxes more
The solid frame than simple moisture can.
Besides, immured in many a sullen bay
That never felt the freshness of the breeze,
This slumb'ring deep remains, and ranker
grows

With sickly rest: and (though the lungs abhor

To drink the dun fuliginous abyss)

Did not the acid vigour of the mine, Roll'd from so many thundering chimneys, tame

The putrid steams that overswarm the sky; This caustic venom would perhaps corrode Those tender cells that draw the vital air, In vain with all the unctuous rills bedew'd;

Or by the drunken venous tubes, that yawn In countless pores o'er all the pervious skin Imbibed, would poison the balsamic blood, And rouse the heart to every fever's rage. While yet you breathe, away; the rural wilds

Invite; the mountains call you, and the vales; The woods, the streams, and each ambrosial breeze

That fans the ever-undulating sky;

A kindly sky! whose fost'ring power regales
Man, beast, and all the vegetable reign.
Find then some woodland scene where nature
smiles

Benign, where all her honest children thrive.
To us there wants not many a happy seat!
Look round the smiling land, such numbers
rise

We hardly fix, bewilder'd in our choice.
See where enthroned in adamantine state,
Proud of her bards, imperial Windsor sits;
Where ehoose thy seat in some aspiring grove
Fast by the slowly-winding Thames; or where
Broader she laves fair Richmond's green re-
treats,

(Richmond that sees a hundred villas rise
Rural or gay). O! from the summer's rage
O! wrap me in the friendly gloom that hides
Umbrageous Ham!-But if the busy town
Attract thee still to toil for power or gold,
Sweetly thou mayst thy vacant hours possess
In Hampstead, courted by the western wind;
Or Greenwich, waving o'er the winding flood;
Or lose the world amid the sylvan wilds
Of Dulwich, yet by barbarous arts unspoil'd.
Green rise the Kentish hills in cheerful air;
But on the marshy plains that Lincoln spreads
Build not, nor rest too long thy wandering
feet.

For on a rustic throne of dewy turf,
With baneful fogs her aching temples bound,
Quartana there presides; a meagre fiend
Begot by Eurus, when his brutal force
Compress'd the slothful Naiad of the Fens.
From such a mixture sprung, this fitful pest
With fev'rish blasts subdues the sick'ning
land:

Cold tremors come, with mighty love of rest,
Convulsive yawnings, lassitude, and pains
That sting the burden'd brows, fatigue the
loins,

And rack the joints, and every torpid limb; Then parching heat succeeds, till copious

sweats

O'erflow a short relief from former ills.
Beneath repeated shocks the wretches pine;
The vigour sinks, the habit melts away:
The cheerful, pure, and animated bloom
Dies from the face, with squalid atrophy
Devour'd, in sallow melancholy clad.
And oft the sorceress, in her sated wrath,
Resigns them to the furies of her train:
The bloated Hydrops, and the yellow fiend
Tinged with her own accumulated gall.

John Armstrong.-Born 1709, Died 1779.

925.-RECOMMENDATION OF A HIGH

SITUATION ON THE SEA-COAST.

Meantime, the moist malignity to shun Of burthen'd skies; mark where the dry champaign

Swells into cheerful hills: where marjoram And thyme, the love of bees, perfume the air;

And where the cynorrhodon with the rose
For fragrance vies; for in the thirsty soil
Most fragrant breathe the aromatic tribes.
There bid thy roofs high on the basking
steep

Ascend, there light thy hospitable fires.
And let them see the winter morn arise,
The summer evening blushing in the west:
While with umbrageous oaks the ridge
behind

O'erhung, defends you from the blust'ring north,

And bleak affliction of the peevish east.
Oh! when the growling winds contend, and

all

The sounding forest fluctuates in the storm;
To sink in warm repose, and hear the din
Howl o'er the steady battlements, delights
Above the luxury of vulgar sleep.
The murmuring rivulet, and the hoarser
strain

Of waters rushing o'er the slippery rocks,
Will nightly lull you to ambrosial rest.
To please the fancy is no trifling good,
Where health is studied; for whatever moves
The mind with calm delight, promotes the
just

And natural movements of th' harmonious frame.

Besides, the sportive brook for ever shakes The trembling air; that floats from hill to hill,

From vale to mountain, with incessant change

Of purest element, refreshing still
Your airy seat, and uninfected gods.
Chiefly for this I praise the man who builds
High on the breezy ridge, whose lofty sides
Th' ethereal deep with endless billows chafes.
His purer mansion nor contagious years
Shall reach, nor deadly putrid airs annoy.
John Armstrong.-Born 1709, Died 1779.

Of pastoral Stafford runs the brawling Trent;

Such Eden, sprung from Cumbrian mountains; such

The Esk, o'erhung with woods; and such the

stream

On whose Arcadian banks I first drew air;
Liddel, till now, except in Doric lays,

Tuned to her murmurs by her love-sick swains

Unknown in song, though not a purer stream, Through meads more flowery, or more romantic groves,

Rolls towards the western main. Hail, sacred flood!

May still thy hospitable swains be blest
In rural innocence, thy mountains still
Teem with the fleecy race, thy tuneful woods
For ever flourish, and thy vales look gay
With painted meadows and the golden grain;
Oft with thy blooming sons, when life was

new,

Sportive and petulant, and charm'd with toys,

In thy transparent eddies have I laved;
Oft traced with patient steps thy fairy banks,
With the well-imitated fly to hook

The eager trout, and with the slender line
And yielding rod solicit to the shore

The struggling panting prey, while vernal clouds

And tepid gales obscured the ruffled pool,

And from the deeps called forth the wanton

swarms.

Form'd on the Samian school, or those of Ind,

There are who think these pastimes scarce humane ;

Yet in my mind (and not relentless I)
His life is pure that wears no fouler stains.

John Armstrong.-Born 1709, Died 1779.

927. PESTILENCE OF THE
FIFTEENTH CENTURY.

Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had spent Their ancient rage at Bosworth's purple field;

While, for which tyrant England should receive,

Her legions in incestuous murders mix'd,
And daily horrors; till the fates were drunk
With kindred blood by kindred hands pro-
fused:

Another plague of more gigantic arm
Arose, a monster never known before
Rear'd from Cocytus its portentous head;
This rapid fury not, like other pests,
Pursued a gradual course, but in a day
Rush'd as a storm o'er half the astonish'd
isle,

And strew'd with sudden carcases the land.

Shot to the heart, and kindled all within ;

And soon the surface caught the spreading fires.

Through all the yielding pores the melted blood

Gush'd out in smoky sweats; but nought assuaged

The torrid heat within, nor aught relieved The stomach's anguish. With incessant toil,

Desperate of ease, impatient of their pain, They toss'd from side to side. In vain the stream

Ran full and clear, they burnt, and thirsted still.

The restless arteries with rapid blood

Beat strong and frequent. Thick and pantingly

The breath was fetch'd, and with huge labourings heaved.

At last a heavy pain oppress'd the head,
A wild delirium came: their weeping friends
Were strangers now, and this no home of
theirs.

Harass'd with toil on toil, the sinking powers Lay prostrate and o'erthrown; a ponderous sleep

Wrapt all the senses up: they slept and died.

In some a gentle horror crept at first O'er all the limbs; the sluices of the skin Withheld their moisture, till by art provoked The sweats o'erflow'd, but in a clammy

tide;

Roused by the flames that fired her seats around,

The infected country rush'd into the town.
Some sad at home, and in the desert some
Abjured the fatal commerce of mankind.
In vain ; where'er they fled, the fates
pursued.

Others, with hopes more specious, cross'd the main,

To seek protection in far distant skies;

But none they found. It seem'd the general air,

From pole to pole, from Atlas to the east,
Was then at enmity with English blood;
For but the race of England all were safe
In foreign climes; nor did this fury taste
The foreign blood which England then con-
tain'd.

Where should they fly? The circumambient heaven

Involved them still, and every breeze was bane:

Where find relief? The salutary art

Was mute, and, startled at the new disease,
In fearful whispers hopeless omens gave.
To heaven, with suppliant rites, they sent
their prayers;

Heaven heard them not. Of every hope deprived,

Fatigued with vain resources, and subdued With woes resistless, and enfeebling fear, Passive they sank beneath the weighty blow. Nothing but lamentable sounds were heard, Nor aught was seen but ghastly views of death.

Infectious horror ran from face to face,
And pale despair. 'Twas all the business
then

To tend the sick, and in their turns to die.
In heaps they fell; and oft the bed, they

say,

The sickening, dying, and the dead contain'd.

John Armstrong.-Born 1709, Died 1779.

928.-CUMNOR HALL.

The dews of summer night did fall, The moon (sweet regent of the sky) Silver'd the walls of Cumnor Hall,

And many an oak that grew thereby. Now nought was heard beneath the skies (The sounds of busy life were still), Save an unhappy lady's sighs,

That issued from that lonely pile.

"Leicester," she cried, "is this thy love
That thou so oft hast sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,
Immured in shameful privity?

No more thou com'st, with lover's speed, Thy once beloved bride to see;

But be she alive, or be she dead,

I fear, stern Earl's the same to thee.

Not so the usage I received

When happy in my father's hall; No faithless husband then me grieved, No chilling fears did me appal.

I rose up with the cheerful morn,

No lark so blithe, no flower more gay; And, like the bird that haunts the thorn, So merrily sung the live-long day.

If that my beauty is but small,

Among court ladies all despised, Why didst thou rend it from that hall Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized? And when you first to me made suit,

How fair I was, you oft would say! And, proud of conquest, pluck'd the fruit, Then left the blossom to decay.

Yes! now neglected and despised,
The rose is pale, the lily 's dead;
But he that once their charms so prized,
Is sure the cause those charms are fled.

For know, when sickening grief doth prey,
And tender love 's repaid with scorn,
The sweetest beauty will decay :

What floweret can endure the storm?
At court, I'm told, is Beauty's throne,
Where every lady's passing rare,
That eastern flowers, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing, not so fair.

Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds
Where roses and where lilies vie,
To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must sicken when those gauds are by?

'Mong rural beauties I was one;

Among the fields wild flowers are fair;
Some country swain might me have won,
And thought my passing beauty rare.
But, Leicester (or I much am wrong),
It is not beauty lures thy vows;
Rather ambition's gilded crown

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

Then, Leicester, why, again I plead

(The injured surely may repine), Why didst thou wed a country maid,

When some fair princess might be thine? Why didst thou praise my humble charms, And, oh! then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave me to mourn the live-long day? The village maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as they go : Envious they mark my silken train, Nor think a countess can have woe.

The simple nymphs! they little know How far more happy's their estate; To smile for joy, than sigh for woe;

To be content, than to be great.

How far less bless'd am I than them,

Daily to pine and waste with care! Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air.

Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy

The humble charms of solitude; Your minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns, or pratings rude.

Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,
The village death-bell smote my ear;
They wink'd aside, and seem'd to say,
'Countess, prepare-thy end is near.'

And now, while happy peasants sleep,
Here I sit lonely and forlorn ;
No one to soothe me as I weep,
Save Philomel on yonder thorn.

My spirits flag, my hopes decay;

Still that dread death-bell smites my ear; And many a body seems to say,

Countess, prepare-thy end is near." "

Thus sore and sad that lady grieved

In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear.

And ere the dawn of day appear'd,

In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard, And many a cry of mortal fear.

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
An aerial voice was heard to call,
And thrice the raven flapp'd his wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

The mastiff howl'd at village door,
The oaks were shatter'd on the green;
Woe was the hour, for never more
That hapless Countess e'er was seen.

And in that manor, now no more
Is cheerful feast or sprightly ball;
For ever since that dreary hour

Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.

The village maids, with fearful glance,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall;
Nor ever lead the merry dance
Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.

Full many a traveller has sigh'd,

And pensive wept the Countess' fall, As wandering onwards they've espied The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

Mickle.-Born 1734, Died 1788.

929. THE MARINER'S WIFE.
And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Make haste, lay by your wheel;
Is this a time to spin a thread,
When Colin's at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman 's awa.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown;

For I maun tell the baillie's wife
That Colin's in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockings pearly blue;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;

Gie little Kate her button gown

And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been lang awa.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop,
Been fed this month and mair;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And mak our table neat and clean,

Let everything look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air;

His very foot has music in't

As he comes up the stair.
And shall I see his face again?
And shall I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet!

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,
That thirled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by, I hae him safe,
Till death we'll never part;
But what puts parting in my head?
It may be far awa!

The present moment is our ain,

The neist we never saw.

Since Colin's weel, and weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave;
And gin I live to keep him sae,
I'm blest aboon the lave.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.