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Unmark'd were all my hopes and fears, While Strephon whispers in her ears.

O jealousy! distracting guest !
Fly to some happy lover's breast;
Fitly with joy thou minglest care,
But why inhabit with despair?

An Ode to William Pultney, Esg.

Remote from liberty and truth,
By fortune’s crime, my early youth

Drank errour's poison'd springs. Taught by dark creeds and mystick law, Wrapt up in reverential awe,

I bow'd to priests and kings.

Soon reason dawn'd-with troubled sight,
I caught the glimpse of painful light,

Afflicted and afraid.
Too weak it shone to mark my way,
Enough to tempt my steps to stray

Along the dubious shade.

Restless I roam'd, when from afar
Lo Hooker shines ! the friendly star

Sends forth a steady ray.
Thus cheer'd, and eager to pursue,
I mount, till glorious to my view,

Locke spreads the realms of day. Now warm’d with noble Sidney's page, I pant with all the patriot’s rage ;

Now wrapt in Plato's dream, With More and Harrington around, I tread fair Freedom's magick ground,

And trace the flattering scheme.

But soon the beauteous vision flies,
And hideous spectres now arise,

Corruption's direful train:
The partial judge perverting laws,
The priest forsaking virtue's cause,

And senates, slaves to gain.
Vainly the pious artist's toil
Would rear to heaven a mortal pile,

On some immortal plan;
Within a sure, tho' varying date,
Confined alas! is every state

Of-empire and of man.

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What though the good, the brave, the wise,
With adverse force undaunted rise,

To break the eternal doom !
Though Cato lived, though Tully spoke,
Though Brutus dealt the godlike stroke,

Yet perish'd fated Rome.
To swell some future tyrant's pride,
Good Fleury pours the golden tide

On Gallia’s smiling shores ;
Once more her fields shall thirst in vain
For wholesome streams of honest gain,

While rapine wastes her stores.

Yet glorious is the great design,
And such, O Pultney! sạch is thine,

To prop a nation's frame.
If crush'd beneath the sacred weight
The ruins of a falling state,

Shall tell the patriot's name.

JOHN LOGAN.

Soutra. Med Lothian. 1748

1788.

Logan is accused of having purloined certain Poems from

the manuscript of poor Michael Bruce, and published them as his own. The best pieces in his volume, are, however, indisputably his own.

SONG.
The Braes of Yarrow.

“ Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream!

" When first on them I met my lover; « Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream!

“ When now thy waves his body cover! “ For ever now, O Yarrow stream!

“ Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; “ For never on thy banks shall I

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.

“ He promised me a milk-white steed,

“ To bear me to his father's bowers; “ He promised me a little page,

-6 To ’squire me to his father's towers; “ He promised me a wedding-ring,

“ The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow ;“ Now he is wedded to his grave,

“ Alas, his watery grave in Yarrow!

“ Sweet were his words when last we met;

« My passion I as freely told him! “ Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought

« That I should never more behold him! « Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;

« It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow; • Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,

" And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.

“ His mother from the window look’d,

“ With all the longing of a mother ; “ His little sister weeping walk'd

- The green-wood path, to meet her brother. “ They sought him east, they sought him west,

“ They sought him all the forest thorough; “ They only saw the cloud of night,

“ They only heard the roar of Yarrow.

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