From heart fincere, and warm, and free,

Devoted to the shade!

Ah, why does Fate his steps decoy,

In ftormy paths to roam, Remote from all congenial joy?

O take the wanderer home!

Thy fhades, thy filence, now be mine,
Thy charms my only theme;
My haunt the hollow cliff, whofe pine
Waves o'er the gloomy ftream;
Whence the fear'd owl, on pinions grey,
Breaks from the rustling boughs,
And down the lone vale fails away,
To more profound repose.

O while to thee the woodland pours
Its wildly warbling fong,

And balmy from the bank of flowers
The Zephyr breathes along,
Let no rude found invade from far,
No vagrant foot be nigh,
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car,
Flash on the flartled eye!

But if fome pilgrim through the glade
Thy hallow'd bow'rs explore,
O guard from harm this hoary head,
And liften to his lore;

For he of joys divine fhall tell,

That wean from earthly woe,

And triumph o'er the mighty fpell
That chains this heart below.

For me no more the path invites

Ambition loves to tread ;

No more I'll climb those toilfome heights

By guileful Hope misled ;

Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more
To Mirth's enliv❜ning firain;

For prefent pleasure foon is o'er,
And all the past is vain.

AT

THE HERMIT.

the clofe of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the fweets of forgetfulness prøve; When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's fong in the grove: 'Twas thus, by the cave of a mountain afar,

While a harp rung fymphonious, a Hermit began No more with himself, or with Nature at war,

He thought as a fage, though he felt as a man. "Ah, why all abandon'd to darkness and woe! "Why, lone Philomela! that languishing fall? "For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,

"And forrow no longer thy bofom inthrall; "But if Pity inspire thee, renew the fad lay,

"Mourn, fweetest complainer; man calls thee to

"mourn!

"O foothe him whose pleasures, like thine, pafs away! "Full quickly they pass-but they never return!

"Now gliding remote, on the verge of the fky, "The moon, half extinguish'd, her crefcent difplays: But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high

"She fhone, and the planets were loft in her blaze.

**Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness purfue

"The path that conducts thee to fplendor again: "But man's faded glory what change shall renew! "Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;

1 mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; "For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, "Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glittering with "Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; [dew: "Kind Nature the embryo bloffom will fave: But when shall spring vifit the mouldering urn "O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave;"

'Twas thus, by the glare of falfe fcience betray'd, That leads to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind; "My thoughts wont to roam, from 1hade onward to fhade: 'Deftruction before me, and Sorrow behind :' "O pity, great Father of Light," then I cry'd, "Thy creature, who fain would not wander from "Thee!

"Lo, humbled in duft, I relinquish my pride:

"From doubt and from darkness thou only canft "free."

And darkness and doubt are now flying away;

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.

So breaks on the traveller, faint and aftray,

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph defcending, And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! O'er the cold cheek of Death fmiles and roses are 'blending,

And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.'

BURNS.

THE

COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

TO R. Д----, ESQ.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the Poor.

Gray,

My lov'd, my honour'd, much-respected Friend!

No mercenary Bard his homage pays; With honeft pride, I fcorn each selfish end,

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I fing, in fimple Scottish lays,

The lowly train in life's fequefter'd scene,
The native feelings ftrong, the guilele's ways,
What A---- in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;

The fhort'ning winter-day is near a clofe;
The miry beafts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,

This night his weekly moil is at an end,

Collects his fpades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in eafe and reft to spend, [bend.
And weary,
o'er the moor, his courfe does hameward

At length his lonely cot appears in view,

Beneath the shelter of a lonely tree;

Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, ftacher through To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noife and glee. His wee-bit ingle blinkin bonilie,

His clean hearth-flane, his thrifty Wifie's fmile, The lifping infant, prattling on his knee,

Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drappin in,
At fervice out amang the farmers roun';
Some ca' the pleugh, fome herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neebor town:

Their eldeft hope, their Jenny, woman grown,

In youthfu' bloom, love fparktin in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to fhew a braw new gown, Or depofite her fair-won penny-fee,

To help her Parents dear, if they in hardship be.

With joy unfeign'd, brothers and fifters meet,
And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers:
The focial hours fwift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet;
Each tells the uncos that he fees or hears.
The Parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;

The Mother, wi' her needle and her theers,

Gars auld claes look amaift as weel's the new;

The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due..

Their Master's and their Miftrefs's command,
The youngkers a' are warned to obey;

And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand,

And ne'er, tho' out o' fight, to jauk or play;

"And O, be fure to fear the Lord alway!

“And mind your duty, duely, morn and night!