Would my love but in pity appear
On the spot where he moulds my cold grave, And bedew the green sod with a tear, 'Tis all the remembrance I crave.
To the sward then his visage he turn'd;
'Twas wan as the lilies in May;
Fair Stella may see him inurn'd,
He hath sigh'd all his sorrows away.
THE TOWN AND COUNTRY CONTRASTED.
IN AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.
FROM noisy bustle, from contention free,
Far from the busy town I careless loll,
Not like swain Tityrus, or the bards of old,
Under a beechen, venerable shade;
But on a furzy heath, where blooming broom
And thorny whins the spacious plains adorn:
Here health sits smiling on my youthful brow;
For ere the sun beams forth his earliest ray,
And all the east with yellow radiance crowns;
Ere dame Aurora, from her purple bed,
'Gins with her kindling blush to paint the sky,
The soaring lark, morn's cheerful harbinger,
And linnet joyful flutt'ring from the bush,
Stretch their small throats in vocal melody,
To hail the dawn, and drowsy sleep exhale
From man, frail man! on downy softness stretch'd.
Such pleasing scenes Edina cannot boast;
For there the slothful slumber seal'd mine eyes,
Till nine successive strokes the clock had knell'd,
There not the lark, but fishwives' noisy screams,
And inundations plunged from ten house height,
With smell more fragrant than the spicy groves
Of Indus, fraught with all her orient stores,
Roused me from sleep; not sweet refreshing sleep,
But sleep infested with the burning sting
Of bug infernal, who the livelong night
With direst suction sipp'd my liquid gore.
There gloomy vapours in our zenith reign'd,
And fill'd with irksome pestilence the air.
There ling'ring sickness held his feeble court,
Rejoicing in the havock he had made;
And Death, grim Death! with all his ghastly train,
Watch'd the broke slumbers of Edina's sons.
Hail, rosy health! thou pleasing antidote
'Gainst troubling cares! all hail, these rural fields, Those winding rivulets, and verdant shades,
Where thou, the heav'n-born goddess, deign'st to dwell! With thee the hind, upon his simple fare,
Lives cheerful, and from heaven no more demands.
But ah! how vast, how terrible the change
With him who night by night in sickness pines!
Him nor his splendid equipage can please,
Nor all the pageantry the world can boast;
Nay, not the consolation of his friends
Can aught avail: his hours are anguish all,
Nor cease till envious death hath closed the scene.
But, Carlos, if we court this maid celestial,
Whether we through meand'ring rivers stray,
Or midst the city's jarring noise remain,
Let temperance, health's blythe concomitant,
To our desires and appetites set bounds,
Else, cloy'd at last, we surfeit every joy ;
Our slacken'd nerves reject their wonted spring;
We reap the fruits of our unkindly lusts,
And feebly totter to the silent grave.
To what sequester'd gloomy shade
Hath ever gentle Pity stray'd?
What brook is water'd 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 wouldst 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
Bedew'd 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,
Though bells in solemn peals are rung,
Though 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 vanquish pride,
And vice be drove from virtue's side:
Then happiness at length should reign,
And golden age begin again.
[This 'Song' appeared in Johnson's 'Scots Musical Museum' [178, Vol. II. p. 186], adapted to the tune of the 'Highland Lamentation," which was composed by James Oswald, and published in the third volume of his Caledonian Pocket Companion, p. 24.]
AMIDST a rosy bank of flowers,
Young Damon mourn'd his forlorn fate;
In sighs he spent his languid hours.
And breath'd his woes in lonely state.
Gay joy no more shall cheer his mind,
No wanton sports can soothe his care,
Since sweet Amanda proved unkind,
And left him full of black1 despair.
His looks that were as fresh as morn
Can now no longer smiles impart;
His pensive soul, on sadness borne,
Is rack'd and torn by Cupid's dart.
Turn, fair Amanda! cheer your swain,
Unshroud him from his veil of woe;
Range every charm to ease the pain
That in his tortured breast doth grow.
ON THE COLD MONTH OF APRIL, 1771.2
Oh! who can hold a fire in his hand
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus!
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite
By bare imagination of a feast;
Or wallow naked in December's snow,
By bare remembrance of the summer's heat.
POETS in vain have hail'd the op'ning spring,
In tender accents woo'd the blooming maid;
In vain have taught the April birds to wing
Their flight through fields in verdant hue array'd.
The Muse, in every season taught to sing,
Amidst the desert snows, by fancy's powers,
Can elevated soar on placid wing
To fields where spring its kindest influence showers.
2 The original title was " April 1771, as it was, not as it was wont to be." 3 Richard II. Act I. Sc. 3.
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