"Tis thine to sing how, framing hideous spells, In Sky's lone isle, the gifted wizard-seer, Lodged in the wintery cave with Fate's fell spear, Or in the depth of Uist's dark forest dwells: How they, whose sight such dreary dreams engross,

With their own visions oft astonish'd droop,

When, o'er the wat'ry strath, or quaggy moss, They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop,

Or, if in sports, or on the festive green, Their destined glance some fated youth descry, Who now, perhaps, in lusty vigour seen, And rosy health, shall soon lamented die.

For them the viewless forms of air obey; Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair. They know what spirit brews the stormful day, And heartless, oft like moody madness, stare To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.

To monarchs dear,* some hundred miles astray, Oft have they seen Fate give the fatal blow! The seer, in Sky, shriek'd as the blood did flow, When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay! As Boreas threw his young Aurora forth,†

In the first year of the first George's reign, And battles raged in welkin of the North,

They mourn'd in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain!

And as, of late, they joy'd in Preston's fight,

Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crown'd!

He glows, to draw you downward to your death, In his bewitch'd low, marshy, willow brake! What though far off, from some dark dell espied,

His glimmering mazes cheer the excursive sight, Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside, Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; For watchful, lurking mid th' unrustling reed, At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, And listens oft to hear the passing steed, And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes, If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise.

Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest, indeed!

Whom late bewilder'd in the dank, dark fen, Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then! To that sad spot where hums the sedgy weed: On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood, Shall never look with pity's kind concern, But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood O'er its drown'd banks, forbidding all return! Or, if he meditate his wish'd escape, To some dim hill that seems uprising near,

To his faint eye, the grim and grisly shape, In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear.

Meantime the watery surge shall round him rise,

Pour'd sudden forth from every swelling source! What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs?

drown'd!

Illustrious William !§ Britain's guardian name! One William saved us from a tyrant's stroke; He, for a sceptre, gain'd heroic fame,

But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke,

To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke!

These, too, thou'lt sing! for well thy magic muse Can to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar; Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more! Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne'er lose:

Let not dank Will mislead you to the heath: Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake,

* SUPPLEMENTAL LINES BY MR. MACKENZIE. "Or on some bellying rock that shades the deep, They view the lurid signs that cross the sky, Where in the west, the brooding tempests lie; And hear the first faint rustling pennons sweep. Or in the arched cave, where, deep and dark,

The broad unbroken billows heave and swell,
In horrid musings rapt, they sit to mark

The lab'ring moon; or list the nightly yell
Of that dread spirit, whose gigantic form
The seer's entranced eye can well survey,
Through the dim air who guides the driving storm,
And points the wretched bark, its destined prey.
Or him who hovers on his flagging wing,
O'er the dire whiripool, that, in ocean's waste,
Draws instant down whate'er devoted thing

The falling breeze within its reach hath placed

The distant seaman hears, and flies with trembling haste.
Or, if on land the fiend exerts his sway,

Silent he broods o'er quicksand, bog, or fen,
Far from the sheltering roof and haunts of men,

force,

And down the waves he floats a pale and breathless corse!

For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait,
Or wander forth to meet him on his way;
For him in vain at to-fall of the day

His babes shall linger at th' unclosing gate! Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night,

Her travell'd limbs in broken slumbers steep! With drooping willows dress'd, his mournful sprite Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep: Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand, Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering

cheek,

And with his blue-swoln face before her stand, And shivering cold, these piteous accents speak:

When witched darkness shuts the eye of day,
And shrouds each star that wont to cheer the night;
Or, if the drifted snow perplex the way,
With treacherous gleam he lures the fated wight,

And leads him floundering on and quite astray." [Other verses were written by the late Lord Kinnedder, which Sir Walter Scott, in all the partiality of friendship, thought equal to the original. To add to an unfinished poem one must write with the same genius which the author wrote: and Collins, as Pope said of Akenside, was no every day-writer.]

[† The Northern Lights.]

Second sight is the term that is used for the divination of the Highlanders.

The Duke of Cumberland, who defeated the Pretender at the battle of Culloden.

A fiery meteor, called by various names, such as Will with the Wisp, Jack with the Lanthorn, &c. It hovers in the air over marshy and fenny places.

"Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue, At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; Nor e'er of me one helpless thought renew, While I lie weltering on the osier'd shore, Drown'd by the Kelpie's* wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more!"

Unbounded is thy range; with varied skill Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring

From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle, To that hoar pilet which still its ruins shows: In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found, Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows,

And culls them, wond'ring, from the hallow'd ground!

Or thither, where beneath the show'ry west The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid: Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest,

No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: Yet frequent now, at midnight solemn hour,

The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power,

In pageant robes, and wreath'd with sheeny gold,

And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold.

But, oh, o'er all, forget not Kilda's race,

On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides,

Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides. Go! just, as they, their blameless manners trace! Then to my ear transmit some gentle song, Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, And all their prospect but the wintery main.

With sparing temperance at the needful time They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-prest, Along th' Atlantic rock undreading climb, And of its eggs despoil the solan's§ nest.

Thus blest in primal innocence they live, Sufficed, and happy with that frugal fare

Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give. Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare; Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes

engage

Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest; For not alone they touch the village breast, But fill'd, in elder time, th' historic page.

There, Shakspeare's self, with every garland crown'd,

Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen,

*The water fiend.

One of the Hebrides is called the Isle of Pigmies; where it is reported, that several miniature bones of the human species have been dug up in the ruins of a chapel there.

Icolmkill, one of the Hebrides, where near sixty of the ancient Scottish, Irish, and Norwegian kings are interred.

An aquatic bird like a goose, on the eggs of which the

In musing hour; his wayward sisters found, And with their terrors drest the magic scene. From them he sung, when, mid his bold design, Before the Scot, afflicted and aghast,

The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line, Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant past. Proceed! nor quit the tales which, simply told, Could once so well my answering bosom pierce; Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colours bold, The native legends of thy land rehearse; To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful

EDWARD MOORE was the son of a dissenting clergyman at Abingdon, in Berkshire, and was bred to the business of a linen-draper, which he pursued, however, both in London and Ireland, with so little success, that he embraced the literary life (according to his own account) more from necessity than inclination. His Fables (in 1744) first brought him into notice. The Right Honourable Mr. Pelham was one of his earliest friends; and his Trial of Selim gained him the friendship of Lord Lyttelton. Of three works which he produced for the stage, his two comedies, the "Foundling" and "Gil Blas," were unsuccessful; but he was fully indemnified by the profits and reputation of the "Gamester." Moore himself acknowledges that he owed to Garrick many popular passages of his drama; and Davies, the biographer of Garrick, ascribes

to the great actor the whole scene between Lewson and Stukely, in the fourth act; but Davies's authority is not oracular. About the year 1751, Lord Lyttelton, in concert with Dodsley, projected the paper of the "World," of which it was agreed that Moore should enjoy the profits, whether the numbers were written by himself or by volunteer contributors. Lyttelton's interest soon enlisted many accomplished coadjutors, such as Cambridge, Jenyns, Lord Chesterfield, and H. Walpole. Moore himself wrote sixty-one of the papers. In the last number of the "World" the conclusion is made to depend on a fictitious incident which had occasioned the death of the author. When the papers were collected into volumes, Moore, who superintended the publication, realized this jocular fiction by his own death, whilst the last number was in the press.*

THE DISCOVERY. AN ODE.
Vir bonus est quis?-HOR.

TAKE wing, my muse! from shore to shore
Fly, and that happy place explore

Where Virtue deigns to dwell;
If yet she treads on British ground,
Where can the fugitive be found,
In city, court, or cell?

Not there, where wine and frantic mirth
Unite the sensual sons of Earth

In Pleasure's thoughtless train:
Nor yet where sanctity's a show,
Where souls nor joy nor pity know
For human bliss or pain.

[* Mr. Moore was a poet who never had justice done him while living. There are few of the moderns who have a more correct taste, or a more pleasing manner of express

Her social heart alike disowns

The race, who, shunning crowds and thrones,
In shades sequester'd doze;

Whose sloth no generous care can wake,
Who rot, like weeds on Lethe's lake,

In senseless, vile repose.

With these she shuns the factious tribe,
Who spurn the yet unoffer'd bribe,
And at corruption lour;
Waiting till Discord Havoc cries,
In hopes, like Catiline, to rise

On anarchy to power!

Ye wits, who boast from ancient times

A right divine to scourge our crimes,

ing their thoughts. It was upon his Fables he chiefly founded his reputation; yet they are by no means his best production.-GOLDSMITH.]

Is it with you she rests?
No. Int'rest, slander are your views,
And Virtue now, with every Muse,
Flies your un hallow'd breasts.

There was a time, I heard her say,
Ere females were seduced by play,

When beauty was her throne; But now, where dwelt the soft Desires, The furies light forbidden fires,

To Love and her unknown.

From these th' indignant goddess flies,
And where the spires of Science rise,
A while suspends her wing;
But pedant Pride and Rage are there,
And Faction tainting all the air,

And pois'ning every spring.

Long through the sky's wide pathless way
The Muse observed the wand'rer stray,

And mark'd her last retreat;
O'er Surrey's barren heaths she flew,
Descending like the silent dew
On Esher's peaceful seat.

There she beholds the gentle Mole
His pensive waters calmly roll,

Amidst Elysian ground:

There through the winding of the grove
She leads her family of Love,

And strews her sweets around.

I hear her bid the daughters fair
Oft to yon gloomy grot repair,

Her secret steps to meet:

"Nor thou," she cries, "these shades forsake,
But come, loved consort, come and make
The husband's bliss complete."

Yet not too much the soothing ease
Of rural indolence shall please

My Pelham's ardent breast;
The man whom Virtue calls her own
Must stand the pillar of a throne,

And make a nation bless'd.
Pelham! 'tis thine with temp'rate zeal
To guard Britannia's public weal,
Attack'd on every part:
Her fatal discords to compose,
Unite her friends, disarm her foes,
Demands thy head and heart.

When bold Rebellion shook the land,
Ere yet from William's dauntless hand
Her barbarous army fled;

When Valour droop'd, and Wisdom fear'd,

Thy voice expiring Credit heard, And raised her languid head.

Now by thy strong assisting hand, Fix'd on a rock I see her stand,

Against whose solid feet, In vain, through every future age, The loudest most tempestuous rage Of angry war shall beat.

And grieve not if the sons of Strife
Attempt to cloud thy spotless life,

And shade its brightest scenes;
Wretches by kindness unsubdued,
Who see, who share the common good,
Yet cavil at the means.

Like these, the metaphysic crew,
Proud to be singular and new,

Think all they see deceit;
Are warm'd and cherish'd by the day,
Feel and enjoy the heavenly ray,

Yet doubt of light and heat.

THE HAPPY MARRIAGE.

How blest has my time been! what joys have I known,

Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my own!
So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain,
That freedom is tasteless and roving a pain.

Through walks grown with woodbines, as often we stray,

Around us our boys and girls frolic and play:
How pleasing their sport is! the wanton ones see,
And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me.

To try her sweet temper, ofttimes am I seen,
In revels all day with the nymphs on the green:
Though painful my absence, my doubts she be
guiles,

And meets me at night with complacence and smiles.

What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue, Her wit and good humour bloom all the year

through;

Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth, And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.

Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, And cheat, with false vows, the too credulous fair; In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam! To hold it for life, you must find it at home.

DYER was the son of a solicitor at Aberglasney, in Caermarthenshire. He was educated at Westminster school, and returned from thence to be instructed in his father's profession, but left it for poetry and painting; and, having studied the arts of design under a master, was for some time, as he says, an itinerant painter in Wales. viding his affections, however, between the sister Muses he indited (1726) his Grongar Hill amidst those excursions. It was published about his twenty-seventh year. He afterward made the tour of Italy in the spirit both of an artist and

Di

poet, and, besides studying pictures and prospects, composed a poem on the Ruins of Rome. On his return to England he married a lady of the name of Ensor, a descendant of Shakspeare, retired into the country, and entered into orders. His last preferment was to the living of Kirkely on Bane. The witticism on his " Fleece," related by Dr. Johnson, that its author, if he was an old man, would be buried in woollen, has, perhaps, been oftener repeated than any passage in the poem itself.

GRONGAR HILL.

SILENT nymph, with curious eye! Who, the purple evening, lie On the mountain's lonely van, Beyond the noise of busy man; Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet sings; Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the forest with her tale; Come, with all thy various hues, Come, and aid thy sister Muse; Now, while Phoebus riding high Gives lustre to the land and sky! Grongar Hill invites my song, Draw the landscape bright and strong; Grongar, in whose mossy cells, Sweetly musing, Quiet dwells; Grongar, in whose silent shade, For the modest Muses made, So oft I have, the evening still, At the fountain of a rill,

Sat upon a flow'ry bed,

With my hand beneath my head;

While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead, and over wood,

From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till contemplation had her fill.

About his chequer'd sides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves, and grottos where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day:
Wide and wider spreads the vale;
As circles on a smooth canal:
The mountains round, unhappy fate,
Sooner or later, of all height,

Withdraw their summits from the skies, And lessen as the others rise:

Still the prospect wider spreads,

Adds a thousand woods and meads;

Still it widens, widens still,

And sinks the newly-risen hill.

[* In Lewis' Miscellanies, 1726.]

61

Now I gain the mountain's brow.
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours intervene ;
But the gay, the open scene,
Does the face of nature show,
In all the hues of heaven's bow;
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around, beneath the sight.
Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly towering in the skies!
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires!
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads!
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks!

Below me trees unnumber'd rise,
Beautiful in various dyes:

The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir, that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs.
And beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,

On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye!
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood,

His sides are clothed with waving wood,
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps:
So both a safety from the wind
On mutal dependence find.

"Tis now the raven's bleak abode;
"Tis now th' apartment of the toad;
And there the fox securely feeds;
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Conccal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there falls
Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls.