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ON THE

BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD,

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY

DISTRESS.
SWEET flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,

And ward o'mony a pray'r,
What heart oʻstane wad thou na' move,

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair.
November hirples o'er the lea,

Chill on thy lovely form :
And gane, alas! the sheltering tree

Should shield thee frae the storm.
May He who gies the rain to pour,

And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving show'r,

The bitter frost and spaw.
May He, the friend of woe and want,

Who heal's life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,

And heal her cruel wounds.
But late she flourish’d, rooted fast,

Fair on the summer morn :
Now feebly bends she in the blast,

Unshelter'd and forlorn.
Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,

Upscath'd by ruffian hand !
And from thee many a parent stem

Arise to deck our land.

THE LAMENT, OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF

A FRIEND'S AMOUR.

Alas! how oft doth goodness wound itself,
And sweet affection prove the spring of woe !

HOME.

WNNW

OTHOU pale orb, that silent shines,

While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
Thou seest a wretch that inly pines,

And wanders here to wail and weep !
With woe I nightly vigils keep

Beneath thy wan unwarming beam;
And nouin, in lamentation deep,

How life and love are all a dream.
I.joyless view thy rays adorn

The faintly-marked distant hill :
I joyless view thy trembling horn

Reflected in the gurgling rill:
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still :

Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease!
Ah! must the agonizing thrill

For ever bar returning peace
No idly feign'd poetic pains

My sad love-lorn lamentings claim;
No shepherd's pipe-Arcadian strains ;

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame:
The plighted faith, the mutual flame,

The oft-attested powers above,
The promis'd Father's tender name :-

These were the pledges of my love!
Encircled in her clasping arms,

How have the raptur'd moments flown!
How have I wish'd for Fortune's charms,

For her dear sake, and her's alooc!

And must I think it! is she gone,

My secret heart's exulting boast ?'
And does she heedless hear my groan?

And is she ever, ever lost?
Oh! can she bear so base a beart,

So lost to honour, losť to truth,
As from the fondest lover part,

The plighted husband of her youth! Alas! life's path:may be unsmooth,

Her way may lie through rough distress! Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe,

Her sorrows share, and make them less ? Ye wingeď hours that o'er us past,

Enraptur'd more the more enjoy'd, Your dear remembrance in my breast,

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd. That breast, how dreary now, and void,

For her too scanty once of room !
Ev’n ev'ry ray of hope destroy’d,

And not a wish to gild the gloom !
The morn that warns th' approaching day

Awakes me up to toil and woe:
I see the hours in long array,

That I must suffer, ling'ring, slow. Full many a pang, and many a throe,

Keen recollection's direful train, Must wring my soul, ere Phæbus, low,

Shall kiss the distant western main.. And when my nightly couch I try,

Sore harrass'd out with care and grief, My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye,

Keep watchings with the nightly thief ; Or if I slumber, Fancy, chief,

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright: Ev'n day, all bitter, brings relief,

From such a horror-breathing night. O thou, bright queen, who o’er th' expans

Now highest reigns't, with boundless sway Oft has thy silent-marking glance Obsery'd us, fondly-wandering, stray!

The time, unheeded, sped away,

While love's luxurious palse beat bigb,
Beneath thy silver gleaming ray,

To mark the mutual kindling eye.
Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set!

Scenes, never, never to return !
Scenes, if in stupor I forget,

Again I feel, again I burn!
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn,

Life's weary vale l'll wander through
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn

A faithless woman's broken Vow.

DEPONDENCY.

ANODE.

OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress’d with care,

burden more than I can bear,

I sit me down and sigh:
o life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,

To wretches such as I !
Dim backward as I cast my view,

What sick’ning scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may pierce me through,
Too justly I may fear;
Still caring, despairing,

Must be my bitter doom ;
My woes bere shall close ne'er,

But with the closing tomb !
Happy, .ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,

No other view regard !
Ev'n when the wished end's denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied,

They bring their own reward :

Whilst I, a hope-abandon’d wight,

Unfitted with an aim,
Meet ev'ry sad returning night
And joyless morn the same;
You bustling, and justling,

Forget each grief and paio;
I listless, yet restless,

Find ev'ry prospect vain.
How blest the Solitary's lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,

Within his hamble cell,
The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,

Beside his crystal well!
Or, baply, to bis evening thought,

By unfrequented stream,
The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint collected dream :
While praising, and raising,

His thoughts to Heav'n on high,
As wand'ring, meand'ring,

He views the solemn sky.
Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd
Where never human footstep trac'd,

Less fit to play the part ;,
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop, and just to move,

With self-respecting art:
But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,

Which I too keenly taste,
The Solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be blest !
He heeds not, he needs not,

Or human love or bate,
Whilst I here must cry here,

At perfidy ingrate!
Oh! enviable early days,
When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,

To care, to guilt unknown!

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