Through many a wild, romantic grove,6 Near many a hermit-fancied cove,

(Fit haunts for friendship or for love) In musing mood,

An aged judge, I saw him rove,

Dispensing good.

With deep-struck reverential awe 7
The learned sire and son I saw ;
To Nature's God and Nature's law

They gave their lore:

This, all its source and end to draw;
That, to adore.

Brydone's brave ward 8 I well could spy, Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye; Who call'd on Fame, low standing by,

To hand him on,

Where many a patriot-name on high,

And hero shone.

DUAN SECOND.

WITH musing-deep, astonish'd stare,
I view'd the heavenly-seeming fair;
A whispering throb did witness bear

Of kindred sweet,

When with an elder sister's air

She did me greet.

'All hail! my own inspired bard! In me thy native muse regard! Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard,

Thus poorly low!

I come to give thee such reward

As we bestow.

Know, the great Genius of this land

Has many a light, aërial band,

Who, all beneath his high command,

Harmoniously,

As arts or arms they understand,

Their labours ply.

'They Scotia's race among them share; Some fire the soldier on to dare;

Some rouse the patriot up to bare

Corruption's heart:

Some teach the bard, a darling care,

The tuneful art.

''Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, They, ardent, kindling spirits pour;

Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar,

They, sightless, stand,

To mend the honest patriot-lore,

And grace the land.

And when the bard, or hoary sage,

Charm or instruct the future age,
They bind the wild poetic rage

In energy,

Or point the inconclusive page

Full on the eye.

'Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue; Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung

His' Minstrel lays ;'

Or tore, with noble ardour stung,

The sceptic's bays.

'To lower orders are assign'd
The humbler ranks of human-kind,
The rustic bard, the labouring hind,
The artisan :

All choose, as various they're inclined,
The various man.

'When yellow waves the heavy grain, The threatening storm some strongly rein; Some teach to meliorate the plain,

With tillage-skill;

And some instruct the shepherd-train,
Blithe o'er the hill,

'Some hint the lover's harmless wile; Some grace the maiden's artless smile; Some soothe the labourer's weary toil, For humble gains,

And make his cottage-scenes beguile
His cares and pains.

'Some, bounded to a district-space, Explore at large man's infant race, To mark the embryotic trace

Of rustic Bard;

And careful note each opening grace,

A guide and guard.

Of these am I-Coila my name; And this district as mine I claim,

Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, Held ruling power:

I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame,

Thy natal hour.

With future hope, I oft would gaze, Fond, on thy little early ways,

Thy rudely-caroll'd, chiming phrase,

In uncouth rhymes,

Fired at the simple, artless lays

Of other times.

'I saw thee seek the sounding shore, Delighted with the dashing roar; Or when the north his fleecy store

Drove through the sky,

I saw grim Nature's visage hoar

Struck thy young eye.

'Or when the deep green-mantled earth, Warm, cherish'd every floweret's birth, And joy and music pouring forth

In every grove,

I saw thee eye the general mirth

With boundless love.

"When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, I saw thee leave their evening joys,

And lonely stalk,

To vent thy bosom's swelling rise

In pensive walk.

• When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, The adored Name,

I taught thee how to pour in song,

To soothe thy flame.

'I saw thy pulse's maddening play, Wild, send thee Pleasure's devious way, Misled by Fancy's meteor ray,

By Passion driven ;

But yet the light that led astray

Was light from heaven.

I taught thy manners-painting strains,
The loves, the ways of simple swains,
Till now, o'er all my wide domains
Thy fame extends;

And some, the pride of Coila's plains,
Become thy friends.

Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, To paint with Thomson's landscape glow; Or wake the bosom-melting throe,

With Shenstone's art;

Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow
Warm on the heart.

'Yet all beneath the unrivall'd rose, The lowly daisy sweetly blows:

Though large the forest's monarch throws

His army shade,

Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows

Adown the glade.