THE day shines bright, the storms are o'er
That blurr'd the face of winter hoar;
The icy breath of March has ceas'd;
Congenial with the bleak north-east
The sloe from ebon spears has giv❜n,
His scanty garlands tempest-driven,
To all the whirling winds of heaven:
Whilst ev'ry hawthorn spray is dight
With pearls enchas'd in emeralds bright;
Far richer than the girdle wore
By the proud tyrant of Mysore ;
Nor purer could that gem appear,
Which shone unique in Charles's ear.
See Nature ev'ry joy renews-
Shall man alone his praise refuse?
Now all the elements rejoice,
Creation lifts one grateful voice;
Come, let us join the jocund throng,
Come listen to the woodland song,
My friendly Genius, come along!
Exchange Edina's dusky towers,
For Roslyn's fane, and fragrant bowers
Quit for a while thy studious cell,
Where Science loves with Worth to dwell;
Where Truth and Candour, hand in hand,
Joyful attend thy kind command;
And critic Skill, howe'er keen-ey'd,
Keeps bland Good-Nature by her side;
To vernal joy devote a day,
Arise, my friend, and come away!
Then hast'ning to the ruin'd shrine,
At Fortune we will ne'er repine;
Along the velvet sward forget
The thorns our worldly way beset,
The wants, the woes, the toils, the strife,
That vex the pilgrimage of life;
Or pausing o'er the mighty dead,
Where Edward's triple legion bled*,
And Victory, long-invited guest,
Sat plum'd upon the Regent's crest;
Rejoice in Scott'sh and English hearts,
Now firmly join'd in arms and arts,
Estrang'd no more by foreign leagues,
No longer curst with French intrigues;
Or wand'ring through each antique room,
The castle's vault, the dungeon's gloom;
Whilst feudal reliques there we see,
Triumph in British liberty;
And whilst each object, far and near,
Delights the eye, and charms the ear,
The Poet's + observation own,
"God made the country, man the town.”
* Battle of Roslyn, A. D. 1302.
When man in innocency walk'd,
And freely with his Maker talk'd,
A garden was the chosen place
Of mortal bliss, and heav'nly grace ;
(The scene from earth hath vanish'd long,
Yet blooms for aye in Milton's song)
So purest pleasure still is found
Where rural solitudes abound;
"Tis there where youthful Poets dream;
The sage finds there his Academe;
There bosom friends together meet,
Empty their breasts of counsels sweet
Free from the busy world's controul,
Man communes calmly with his soul,
Raises from earth its thoughts on high,
And lifts it to the Deity.-
Then let us some few hours employ
In contemplation's holy joy;
With sweet society between,
To gladden and improve the scene;
Nature's fair volume there peruse,
Whose pages well the mind amuse,
Quitting vain books, amongst the trees
Find leaves that teach, and tongues that please +;
Draw from the scenery around
Truths not in many authors found;
Trace Providence in all it gives,
And good in ev'ry thing that lives.
But let the female group be there,
No bliss compleat without the Fair!
* Midsummer Night's Dream, Act i. Sc. 1.
As You Like It, Act ii. Sc. 1.
And would that Priestess of the Nine,
The tuneful tender Adeline,
There wake the wild notes of her lyre;
E'en from the blest poetic choir
The Bard of Esk would charın'd look down
Proud were the melody his own,
Joyous to hear, that once again
The Muses haunt his Hawthornden.-
Yet, O forgive when mid these shades
A secret grief my soul pervades ;
Abstracts me from the scenes I love,
To muse upon a Saint above!
'Twas there she tript o'er flow'rs of May,
As blooming and as pure as they—
Ah! some within my breast I'll save,
To strew upon her hallow'd grave.-
Yet why should I such woe impart
To draw one sigh from Friendship's heart?
No more come join the cheerful throng,
My Friend, my Genius, come along!
SURROUNDED by foes, 'mid the ashes of Troy, Eneas preserv'd his Sire's life:
That so noble a deed some reward might enjoy, Heaven kindly took from him his wife.
NOCTURNAL VIEW OF THE MOUNT *,
Near Dromore, in the County Down, Ireland.
NIGHT-WAN D'RING Spirit! (whatsoe'er thy name)
Who marshall'd here of old thy warlike train,
Methinks I hear thee mourn thy faded fame
To the night breeze, in many a plaintive strain.
For deep in central gloom the Demon + weeps
That, in a Minstrel's form, enflam'd thy pride,
Which claim'd the region round, from Donard's
steep,
To the rich dales on Banna's flow'ry side.
The idea is here adopted, that this remarkable eminence (situated near the River Lagan) was either a fortification, or a place of military rendezvous. Some have supposed it a sepulchral
+ See the character given in Spenser's State of Ireland of the antient Irish Minstrels or Bards.
Donard, or Slieve-Donard, the highest mountain in Ireland, in the northern extremity of Mourne, in the county of Down.
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