Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons through the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed never to return. Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree : But my fause luver stole my rose, SONG. TUNE-"Catharine Ogie." YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, Thou'l break my heart, thou bonnie bird Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause luve was true. Thou'l break my heart, thou bonnie bird For sae I sat, and sae I sang, Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love, And sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree, And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi' me. SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. WILLIE WASTLE dwalt on Tweed, Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie; She has an e'e, she has but ane, A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, An' wi' her loof her face a-washin; But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ; Her walie nieves like midden-creels, Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water: Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her. WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? WILT thou be my dearie ? When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, Only thou, I swear and vow, Lassie, say thou lo'es me; Or if thou wilt na be my ain, If it winna, canna be, Lassie, let me quickly die, FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. My heart is sair, I dare na tell, My heart is sair for somebody; I could wake a winter night I could range the world around, Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, And send me safe my somebody Oh-hey! for somebody! I wad do what wad I not? A RED, RED ROSE. O MY luve's like a red, red rose, That's sweetly play'd in tune And I will luve thee still, my dear, And fare thee weel, my only luve! SONG. AE fond kiss and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee, THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA. O How can I be blithe and glad, Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonnie lad that I lo❜e best, Is o'er the hills and far awa? It's no the frosty winter wind, It's no the driving drift and snaw: But aye the tear comes in my e'e, To think on him that's far awa. My father pat me frae his door, The bonnie lad that's far awa. A pair o' gloves he gave to me, And silken snoods he gave me twa; And I will wear them for his sake, The bonnie lad that's far awa. The weary winter soon will pass, And spring will cleed the birken-shaw; And my sweet babie will be born, And he'll come hame that's far awa. WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T. FIRST when Maggy was my care, How we live, my Meg and me, 30 30 U 2 359 SAMUEL ROGERS. SAMUEL ROGERS, one of the most elegant of the | a recent edition has been given to the world, accomBritish poets, was the son of a banker, and himself panied with numerous engravings. This poem is follows that business in London, where he was born, about 1760. He received a learned education, which he completed by travelling through most of the countries of Europe, including France, Switzerland, Italy, Germany, &c. He has been all his life master of an ample fortune, and not subject, therefore, to the common reverses of an author, in which character he first appeared in 1787, when he published a spirited Ode to Superstition, with other poems. These were succeeded, after an interval of five years, by the Pleasures of Memory; a work which at once established his fame as a first-rate poet. In 1798, he published his Epistle to a Friend, with other poems; and did not again come forward, as a poet, till 1814, when he added to a collected edition of his works, his somewhat irregular poem of the Vision of Columbus. In the same year came out his Jaqueline, a tale, in company with Lord Byron's Lara; and, in 1819, his Human Life. In 1822, was published his first part of Italy, which has since been completed, in three volumes, duodecimo; and of which, his last and greatest, but by no means his best, performance; though an eminent writer in the New Monthly Magazine calls it "perfect as a whole.” There are certainly many very beautiful descriptive passages to be found in it; and it is totally free from meretriciousness: but we think the author has too often mistaken commonplace for simplicity, to render it of much value to his reputation, as a whole. It is as the author of the Pleasures of Memory, that he will be chiefly known to posterity, though, at the same time, some of his minor poems are among the most pure and exquisite fragments of verse, which the poets of this age have produced. In society, few men are said to be more agreeable in manners and conversation than the venerable subject of our memoir; and his benevolence is said to be on a par with his taste and accomplishments. Lord Byron must have thought highly of his poetry, if he were sincere in saying, “We are all wrong, excepting Rogers, Crabbe, and Campbell." THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. IN TWO PARTS. Hoc est Vivere bis, vita posse priore frui.-Mart. O COULD my mind, unfolded in my page, 234 1793. THE poem begins with the description of an obscure village, and of the pleasing melancholy which it excites on being revisited after a long absence. This mixed sensation is an effect of the memory. From an effect we naturally ascend to the cause; and the subject proposed is then unfolded, with an investigation of the nature and leading principles of this faculty. It is evident that our ideas flow in continual succession, and introduce each other with a certain degree of regularity. They are sometimes excited by sensible objects, and sometimes by an internal operation of the mind. Of and its many sources of pleasures to them, as well as to the former species is most probably the memory of brutes; us, are considered in the first part. The latter is the most perfect degree of memory, and forms the subject of the second. When ideas have any relation whatever, they are attractive of each other in the mind; and the perception of any object naturally leads to the idea of another, which was connected with it either in time or place, or which can be compared or contrasted with it. Hence arises our attachment to inanimate objects; hence also, in some degree, the love of our country, and the emotion with which we contemplate the celebrated scenes of antiquity. Hence a picture directs our thoughts to the original: and, as cold and darkness suggest forcibly the ideas of heat and light, he who feels the infirmities of age dwells most on whatever reminds him of the vigour and vivacity of his youth. The associating principle, as here employed, is no less conducive to virtue than to happiness; and, as such, it frequently discovers itself in the most tumultuous scenes of life. It addresses our finer feelings, and gives exercise to every mild and generous propensity. Not confined to man, it extends through all animated nature; and its effect sare peculiarly striking in the domestic tribes. TWILIGHT's soft dews steal o'er the village-green, Once the calm scene of many a simple sport; See, through the fractured pediment reveal'd, Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield, The martin's old, hereditary nest: [hung, Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest! As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. The storied arras, source of fond delight, With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight; And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest, On the dim window glows the pictured crest. The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart, The clock still points its moral to the heart. That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near ; And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of time? That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought; Those muskets, cased with venerable rust ; Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, As through the garden's desert paths I rove, Childhood's loved group revisits every scene The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green! Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! Clothed with far softer hues than light can give.' Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below, To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know ; Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades, and life forgets to charm; Thee would the muse invoke !-to thee belong The sage's precept, and the poet's song. What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals, When o'er the landscape time's meek twilight steals! As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed Imps in the barn with mousing owlet bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed; Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art, Control the latent fibres of the heart. Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of blackest As studious Prospero's mysterious spell shade, Drew every subject spirit to his cell; -Each, at thy call, advances or retires, When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd:- To learn the colour of my future years! Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast; This truth once known-To bless is to be blest! We led the bending beggar on his way, (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver gray,) Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. As in his scrip we dropt our little store, And sigh'd to think that little was no more, He breath'd his prayer, "Long may such goodness live!" "Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. But hark! through those old firs, with sullen swell, The church clock strikes! ye tender scenes, farewell! It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel door, The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed, Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his spade, He lectured every youth that round him play'd; And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay, Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day. Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone I search the records of each mouldering stone. Guides of my life! instructers of my youth! Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of truth; Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd; In age beloved, in poverty revered; In friendship's silent register ye live, Nor ask the vain memorial art can give. -But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep, Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires. Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore; Th' adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer, Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see The dear abode of peace and privacy; And as he turns, the thatch among the trees, The village common spotted white with sheep, So Scotia's queen, as slowly dawn'd the day Glance through the gloom, and whisper in the gale; |