Those sculptured halls my feet shall never tread,
Where varnish'd Vice and Vanity combined,
To dazzle and seduce, their banners spread,
And forge vile shackles for the freeborn mind.
Where Insolence his wrinkled front uprears,
And all the flowers of spurious fancy blow;
And Title his ill-woven chaplet wears,
Full often wreath'd around the miscreant's brow:
Where ever-dimpling Falsehood, pert and vain,
Presents her cup of stale profession's froth!
And pale Disease, with all his bloated train,
Torments the sons of Gluttony and Sloth.

In Fortune's car behold that minion ride,
With either India's glittering spoils oppress'd ;
So moves the sumpter-mule, in harness'd pride,
That bears the treasure which he cannot taste.
For him let venal bards disgrace the bay,
And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string ;
Her sensual snares let faithless Pleasure lay,
And all her jingling bells fantastic Folly ring;
Disquiet, Doubt, and Dread shall intervene;
And Nature, still to all her feelings just,
In vengeance hang a damp on every scene,
Shook from the baneful pinions of Disgust.

Nature I'll court in her sequester'd haunts
By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell,
Where the poised lark his evening ditty chants,
And Health, and Peace, and Contemplation dwell.
There Study shall with Solitude recline,
And Friendship pledge me to his fellow-swains;
And Toil and Temperance sedately twine
The slender cord that fluttering life sustains :

And fearless Poverty shall guard the door,
And Taste unspoild the frugal table spread,
and Industry supply the humble store;
And Sleep unbribed his dews refreshing shed :
White-mantled Innocence, ethereal sprite,
Shall chase far off the goblins of the night;
And Independence o'er the day preside,
Propitious power! my patron and my pride.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

1729-1773.

MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN.
The silver moon's enamour'd beam

Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,

And kiss reflected light.
To beds of state go, balmy sleep

('Tis where you've seldom been),
May's vigil while the shepherds keep

With Kate of Aberdeen.
Upon the green the virgin's wait,

În rosy chaplets gay,
Till Morn unbar her golden gate,

And give the promised May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare,

The promised May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair,

As Kate of Aberdeen.
Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,

We'll rouse the nodding grove;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,

And hail the maid I love :
And see--the matin lark mistakes,

He quits the tufted green:
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

Now lightsome o'er the level mead,

Where midnight fairies rove,
Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead,

Or tune the reed to love:
For see the rosy May draws nigh ;

She claims a virgin queen;
And hark, the happy shepherds cry,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

JOHN LANGHORNE.

1735-1779.

OWEN OF CARRON.

I.

On Carron's side the primrose pale,

Why does it wear a purple hue ?
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,

Why stream your eyes with pity's dew? 'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood

That purple grows the primrose pale ;
That pity pours the tender flood

From each fair eye in Marlivale.
The evening star sat in his eye,

The sun his golden tresses gave,
The north's pure morn her orient dye,

To him who rests in yonder grave!
Beneath no high, historie stone,

Though nobly born, is Owen laid,
Stretch'd on the green wood's lap alone,

He sleeps beneath the waving shade.
There many a flowery race hath sprung,

And fled before the mountain gale,
Since first his simple dirge he sung;

Ye maidens fair of Marlivale!

Yet still, when May with fragrant feet

Hath wander'd o'er your meads of gold, That dirge I hear so simply sweet

Far echo'd from each evening fold.

II.

'Twas in the pride of William's day,

When Scotland's honours flourish'd still, That Moray's earl, with mighty sway,

Bare rule o’er many a Highland hill. And far for him their fruitful store

The fairer plains of Carron spread; In fortune rich, in offspring poor,

An only daughter crownd his bed. Oh! write not poor—the wealth that flows

In waves of gold round India's throne, All in her shining breast that glows,

To Ellen's charms were earth and stone. For her the youth of Scotland sigh’d,

The Frenchman gay, the Spaniard grave, And smoother Italy applied,

And many an English baron brave, In vain by foreign arts assail'd,

No foreign loves her breast beguile, And England's honest valour fail'd,

Paid with a cold but courteous smile, « Ah! wo to thee, young Nithisdale,

That o'er thy cheek those roses stray'd Thy breath, the violet of the vale,

Thy voice, the music of the shade!

.. Ah! wo to thee, that Ellen's love

Alone to thy soft tale would yield! For soon those gentle arms shall prove

The conflict of a ruder field.”

'Twas thus a wayward sister spoke,

And cast a rueful glance behind,
As from her dim wood-glen she broke,

And mounted on the moaning wind.

She spoke and vanishd; more unmoved

Chan Moray's rocks, when storms invest, The valiant youth by Ellen loved,

With aught that fear or fate suggest.

For love, methinks, hath power to raise

The soul beyond a vulgar state; Th’ unconquerd banners he displays

Control our fears and fix our fate.

III.

'Twas when, on summer's softest eve,

Of clouds that wander'd west away, Twilight with gentle hand did weave

Her fairy robe of night and day;

When all the mountain gales were still,

And the waves slept against the shore, And the sun, sunk beneath the hill,

Left his last smile on Lammermore;

Led by these waking dreams of thought,

That warm the young, unpractised breast, Her wonted bower sweet Ellen sought, And Carron murmur'd near, and soothed her

into rest.

IV.

There is some kind and courtly sprite

That o'er the realm of fancy reigns, Throws sunshine on the mask of night,

And smiles at slumber's powerless chains;