THE wretch, condemned with life to part,

Still, still on hope relies;

And every pang that rends the heart,

Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,

Adorns and chears the way;

And still, as darker grows the night,

Emits a brighter ray.

O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,

Still importunate and vain,

To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain;

Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;

And he who wants each other blessing,

In thee must ever find a foe.

XL.

THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND

SMOLLET.

MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renowned,
Lie slaughtered on their native ground;
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoky ruins sunk 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 famished on the rocks,

Where once they fed their wanton flocks :

Thy ravished 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, crowned with praise,
Still shone with undiminished 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 chear 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.

O baneful cause! oh, fatal morn,
Accursed to ages yet unborn!

The sons against their father 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, doomed 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 stretched beneath the inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.

While the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpaired remembrance reigns,