ALL that echoes to the song of even,

All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields.

THE shepherd swain of whom I mention made,
On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock;
The sickle, scythe, or plough he never swayed;
An honest heart was almost all his stock;

His drink, the living water from the rock :

The milky dams supplied his board, and lent

Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock;

And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent,

Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went.

RISE, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,
While warbling larks on russet pinions float:
Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote,
Where the grey linnets carol from the hill.
Oh, let them ne'er, with artificial note,

To please a tyrant, strain the little bill,

But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will.

WHEN o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn, The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain grey,

And lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn;

Far to the west, the long, long vale withdrawn,
Where twilight loves to linger for a while.