No torrents stain thy limpid source, Still on thy banks so gaily green, Smollett.-Born 1721, Died 1771. The sons against their fathers stood, The pious mother, doom'd to death, While the warm blood bedews my veins, Smollett.-Born 1721, Died 1771. 923-THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Lie slaughter'd on their native ground; Thy hospitable roofs no more The wretched owner sees afar What boots it, then, in every clime, The rural pipe and merry lay 924.-CHOICE OF A RURAL SITUATION AND DESCRIPTION OF THE AGUE. Ye who amid this feverish world would wear That from a thousand lungs reeks back to thine, Sated with exhalations rank and fell, It is not air, but floats a nauseous mass 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 Benign, where all her honest children thrive. We hardly fix, bewilder'd in our choice. (Richmond that sees a hundred villas rise For on a rustic throne of dewy turf, Cold tremors come, with mighty love of rest, And rack the joints, and every torpid limb; Then parching heat succeeds, till copious sweats O'erflow a short relief from former ills. 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 Ascend, there light thy hospitable fires. O'erhung, defends you from the blust'ring north, And bleak affliction of the peevish east. all The sounding forest fluctuates in the storm; Of waters rushing o'er the slippery rocks, 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 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; 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 new, Sportive and petulant, and charm'd with toys, In thy transparent eddies have I laved; The eager trout, and with the slender line 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) John Armstrong.-Born 1709, Died 1779. 927. PESTILENCE OF THE 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, Another plague of more gigantic arm 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, 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. 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, 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, 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, To tend the sick, and in their turns to die. 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 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, For know, when sickening grief doth prey, What floweret can endure the storm? Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds 'Mong rural beauties I was one; Among the fields wild flowers are fair; 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, And now, while happy peasants sleep, 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, The mastiff howl'd at village door, And in that manor, now no more Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. The village maids, with fearful glance, 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. For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, Gie little Kate her button gown And Jock his Sunday coat; There's twa fat hens upo' the coop, And mak our table neat and clean, Let everything look braw, For wha can tell how Colin fared 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. The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw. Since Colin's weel, and weel content, |