III

No Bard nor lover's rapture this

In fancies vain and shallow ! She is, so come my soul to bliss, The Lovely Isabella!

TO SYMON GRAY

SYMON GRAY, you're dull to-day!
Dullness with redoubled sway
Has seized the wits of Symon Gray.

II

Dear Symon Gray, the other day
When you sent me some rhyme,

I could not then just ascertain
Its worth for want of time;

III

But now to-day, good Mr. Gray,
I've read it o'er and o'er :

Tried all my skill, but find I'm still
Just where I was before.

IV

We auld wives' minions gie our opinions,

Solicited or no ;

Then of its fauts my honest thoughts

I'll give-and here they go :

V

Such damn'd bombást no age that's past
Can show, nor time to come;

So, Symon dear, your song I'll tear,
And with it wipe my bum.

TO MISS FERRIER

I

NAE heathen name shall I prefix

Frae Pindus or Parnassus;

Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks

For rhyme-inspiring lasses.

Edinburgh knocks

II

Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three

Made Homer deep their debtor;

But gien the body half an e'e,

Nine Ferriers wad done better!

daughters

given; fellow

would have

WHEN dear Clarinda, matchless fair,

First struck Sylvander's raptur'd view,

He gaz'd, he listened to despair

Alas! 'twas all he dared to do.

II

Love from Clarinda's heavenly eyes
Transfix'd his bosom thro' and thro,
But still in Friendship's guarded guise-
For more the demon fear'd to do.

III

That heart, already more than lost,
The imp beleaguer'd all perdu;
For frowning Honor kept his post-
To meet that frown he shrunk to do.

His

IV

pangs the Bard refus'd to own,

Tho' half he wish'd Clarinda knew ;

But Anguish wrung the unweeting groanWho blames what frantic Pain must do?

V

That heart, where motley follies blend,
Was sternly still to Honor true :
To prove Clarinda's fondest friend
Was what a lover, sure, might do !

VI

The Muse his ready quill employ'd;
No nearer bliss he could pursue ;
That bliss Clarinda cold deny'd-
'Send word by Charles how you do!'

VOL. II.

H

VII

The chill behest disarm'd his Muse,

Till Passion all impatient grew :

He wrote, and hinted for excuse,

''Twas 'cause he'd nothing else to do.'

VIII

But by those hopes I have above!
And by those faults I dearly rue!
The deed, the boldest mark of love,
For thee that deed I dare to do!

IX

O, could the Fates but name the price
Would bless me with your charms and you,
With frantic joy I'd pay it thrice,

If human art or power could do!

X

Then take, Clarinda, friendship's hand
(Friendship, at least, I may avow),
And lay no more your chill command-
I'll write, whatever I've to do.

Wednesday night

SYLVANDER.