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"Since from the void creation rose,
"Thou'st made a sacred vow,
"That Caledon to foreign foes

"Should ne'er be known to bow."

The mighty thunderer on his sapphire throne,
In mercy's robes attir'd, heard the sweet voice
Of female woe,soft as the moving song
Of Philomela 'midst the evening shades ;
And thus returned an answer to her prayers:

;

"Where birks at Nature's call arise; "Where fragrance hails the vaulted skies; "Where my own oak its umbrage spreads, Delightful 'midst the woody shades "Where ivy-mouldering rocks entwines; "Where breezes bend the lofty pines: "There shall the laughing Naiads stray, " 'Midst the sweet banks of winding Tay."

From the dark womb of earth Tay's waters spring,

Ordain'd by Jove's unalterable voice ; The sounding lyre celestial muses string; The choiring songsters in the groves rejoice.

Each fount its crystal fluids pours,

Which from surrounding mountains flow;

The river bathes its verdant shores;

Cool o'er the surf the breezes blow.

Let England's sons extol their gardens fair; Scotland may freely boast her generous

streams;

Their soil more fertile, and their milder air; Her fishes sporting in the solar beams. Thames, Humber, Severn, all must yield the bay

To the pure streams of Forth, of Tweed, and Tay.

CHORUS.

Thames, Humber, Severn, all must yield the

bay

To the pure streams of Forth, of Tweed, and Tay.

O Scotia! when such beauty claims
A mansion near thy flowing streams,
Ne'er shall stern Mars, in iron car,
Drive his proud coursers to the war;
But fairy forms shall strew around
Their olives on the peaceful ground ;
And turtles join the warbling throng,
To usher in the morning song;

Or shout in chorus all the live-long day,

From the green banks of Forth, of Tweed, and Tay.

When gentle Phoebe's friendly light
In silver radiance clothes the night,
Still Music's ever-varying strains
Shall tell the lovers, Cynthia reigns;
And woo them to her midnight bowers,
Among the fragrant dew-clad flowers,
Where every rock, and hill, and dale,
With echoes greet the nightingale,
Whose pleasing, soft, pathetic tongue,
To kind condolence turns the song ;
And often wins the love-sick swain to stray,
To hear the tender variegated lay,

Thro' the dark woods of Forth, of Tweed, and
Tay.

Hail, native streams, and native groves!
Oozy caverns, green alcoves!

Retreats for Cytherea's reign,

With all the graces in her train:

Hail, Fancy! thou whose ray so bright

Dispels the glimmering taper's light!
Come in aerial vesture blue,

Ever pleasing, ever new;

In these recesses deign to dwell

With me in yonder moss-clad cell : Then shall my reed successful tune the lay, In numbers wildly warbling as they stray Thro' the glad banks of Forth, of Tweed, and

Tay.

ODE TO PITY.

To what sequestered gloomy shade
Hath ever-gentle Pity strayed?
What brook is watered from her
eyes?
What gales convey her tender sighs?
Unworthy of her grateful lay,
She hath despised the great, the gay;
Nay, all the feelings she imparts
Are far estranged from human hearts.

Ah, Pity! whither wouldest thou fly
From human heart, from human eye?
Are desert woods, and twilight groves,
The scenes the sobbing pilgrim loves?
If there thou dwell'st, O Pity! say,
In what lone path you pensive stray?
I'll know thee by the lily's hue,
Besprinkled with the morning's dew:
For thou wilt never blush to wear
The pallid look and falling tear.

In broken cadence from thy tongue Oft have we heard the mournful song; Oft have we view'd the loaded bier Bedewed with Pity's softest tear.

Her sighs and tears were ne'er denied,
When innocence and virtue died.
But in this black and iron age,
Where Vice and all his demons rage,
Tho' bells in solemn peals are rung,
Tho' dirge in mournful verse is sung,
Soon will the vain parade be o'er,
Their name, their memory, no more,
Who love and innocence despised,

And

every virtue sacrificed.

Here Pity, as a statue, dumb,
Will pay no tribute to the tomb;
Or wake the memory of those
Who never felt for others woes.

Thou mistress of the feeling heart!
Thy powers of sympathy impart.
If mortals would but fondly prize
Thy falling tears, thy passing sighs;
Then should wan Poverty no more
Walk feebly from the rich man's door;
Humility should banish Pride,

And Vice be drove from Virtue's side: Then Happiness at length should reign ; The golden age begin again.

M

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