For I maun crush amang the ftoure
Thy flender ftem:

To fpare thee now is paft my pow'r,
Thou bonie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neehor sweet,
The bonie Lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' fpreckl'd breast,

When upward-fpringing, blythe, to greet
The purpling East.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent earth
Thy tender form,

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High fhelt'ring woods an' wa's maun thield;
But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the hiftie ftibble field,
Unfeen, alane.

There, in thy fcanty mantle clad,
Thy fnawie bofom fun-ward fpread,
Thou lifts thy unaffuming head

In humble guife;

But now the fhare up-tears thy bed,
And low thou lies.

Such is the fate of artless Maid,

Sweet flow'ret of the rural fhade!

By love's fimplicity betray'd,

And guilelefs truft,

Till the, like thee, all foil'd, is laid
Low i' the duft.

Such is the fate of fimple Bard,
On life's rough océan, luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore;

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suff'ring Worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv’n

To Mis'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of ev'ry ftay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, fink.

E'en thou who mourn'ft the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no diftant date;
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,

Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom.

BRUCE.

ELEGY,

TO SPRING.

"TIS paft; the iron North has spent his rage ;

Stern Winter now refigns the length'ning day;

The ftormy howlings of the winds affuage,
And warm o'er ether western breezes play.

Of genial heat and cheerful light the source,
From fouthern climes, beneath another sky,
The fun, returning, wheels his golden course;
Before his beams all noxious vapours fly.

Far to the north grim Winter draws his train
To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen 'shore;
Where thron'd on ice, he holds eternal reign;

Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempefis

roar.

Loos'd from the bands of froft, the verdant ground
Again puts on her robe of cheerful green,
Again puts forth her flowers; and all around,
Smiling, the cheerful face of Spring is feen.

Behold! the trees new-deck their wither'd boughs;
Their ample leaves, the hofpitable plane,
The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose;

The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene.

The lity of the vale, of flowers the queen,
Puts on the robe she neither few'd nor fpun;
The birds on ground, or on the branches green,
Hop to and fro and glitter in the fun.

Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers,
From her low neft the tufted lark upfprings;

And, cheerful finging, up the air she steers;

Still high fhe mounts, ftill loud and sweet she fings.

On the green furze, cloth'd o'er with golden blooms, That fill the air with fragrance all around:

The linnet fits, and tricks his gloffy plumes,

While o'er the wild, his broken notes refound.

While the fun journeys down the western sky,

Along the greenfward, mark'd with Roman mound, Beneath the blithsome thepherd's watchful eye,

The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around.

Now is the time for those who wisdom love,
Who love to walk in Virtue's flow'ry road,
Along the lovely paths of Spring to rove,
And follow Nature up to Nature's GOD.
Thus Zoroafter studied Nature's laws;

Thus Socrates, the wifeft of mankind;

Thus heaven-taught Plato trac'd th' Almighty cauft,
And left the wond'ring multitude behind.
Thus Ably gather' academic bays;

Thus gentle Thomson, as the Seasons roll,
Taught them to fing the great CREATOR's praife,
And bear their poet's name from pole to pole.
Thus have I walk'd along the dewy lawn;

My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn; Before the lark, I've fung the beauteous dawn,

And gather'd health from all the gales of morn; And, e'en, when Winter chill'd the aged year, I wander'd lonely o'er the hoary plain; Though frofty Boreas warn'd me to forbear,

Boreas, with all his tempefts, warn'd in vain. Then fleep my nights, and quiet bless'd my days; I fear'd no lofs, my mind was all my ftore; No anxious withes e'er difturb'd my eafe;

Heaven gave content and health-I afk'd no more. Now Spring returns;-but not to me returns

The vernal joy, my better years have known;

Dim in my breaft life's dying taper burns,

And all the joys of life with health are flown. Starting and fhiv'ring in th' inconfiant wind,

Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, Beneath fome blafted tree I lie reclin'd,

And count the filent moments as they pass: The winged moments, whofe unftaying speed

No art can flop, or in their course arreft; Whofe flight fhall fhortly count me with the dead, And lay me down in peace with them that reft. Oft morning-dreams prefage approaching fate; And morning-dreams, as poets, tell, are true : Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate, And bid the realms of light and life adieu.

I hear the helpless wail, the fhriek of woe;

I fee the muddy wave, the dreary shore,
The fluggish streams that flowly creep below,
Which mortals vifit and return no more.
Farewel, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains!
Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound,
Where Melancholy with ftill filence reigns,

And the rank grafs waves o'er the cheerless ground.

There let me wander at the shut of eve,

When fleep fits dewy on the labourer's eyes,

The world and all its bufy follies leave,

And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies.

There let me fleep forgotten in the clay,

When Death fhall fhut these weary, aching eyes, Reft in the hopes of an eternal day,

Tin the last long night's gone, and the last moin arife.