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Down the deep dale, and narrow winding way,
They foot it featly, ranged in ringlets gay:
"Tis joy and frolic all, where'er they rove,
And Fairy people is the name they love.

THE HARES.

A FABLE.

Yes, yes, I grant the sons of earth
Are doomed to trouble from their birth.
We all of sorrow have our share;
But say, is yours without compare?
Look round the world; perhaps you'll find
Each individual of our kind
Pressed with an equal load of ill,
Equal at least:-Look further still,
And own your lamentable case
Is little short of happiness.
In yonder hut that stands alone
Attend to Famine's feeble moan;

Or view the couch where Sickness lies,
Mark his pale cheek, and languid eyes,
His frame by strong convulsion torn,
His struggling sighs, and looks forlorn.
Or see, transfixed with keener pangs,
Where o'er his hoard the miser hangs;
Whistles the wind; he starts, he stares,
Nor Slumber's balmy blessings shares;
Despair, Remorse, and Terror roll
Their tempests on his harassed soul.
But here perhaps it may avail

To' enforce our reasoning with a tale.
Mild was the morn, the sky serene,

The jolly hunting band convene;
The beagle's breast with ardour burns,
The bounding steed the champaign spurns
And Fancy oft the game descries

The morning but awakes our fears,
The evening sees us bathed in tears,
But must we ever idly grieve,
Nor strive our fortunes to relieve?
Small is each individual's force:
To stratagem be our recourse;
And then, from all our tribes combined,
The murderer to his cost may find
No foes are weak, whom Justice arms,
Whom Concord leads, and Hatred warms,
Be roused; or liberty acquire,

Or in the great attempt expire."
He said no more; for in his breast
Conflicting thoughts the voice suppressed:
The fire of vengeance seemed to stream
From his swoln eyeball's yellow gleam.

And now the tumults of the war,
Mingling confusedly from afar,
Swell in the wind. Now louder cries
Distinct of hounds and men arise.
Forth from the brake, with beating heart,
The' assembled hares tumultuous start,
And, every straining nerve, on wing,
Away precipitately spring.

The hunting band, a signal given,
Thick thundering o'er the plain are driven;
O'er cliff abrupt, and shrubby mound,
And river broad, impetuous bound;
Now plunge amid the forest shades,
Glance through the openings of the glades;
Now o'er the level valley sweep,

Now with short steps strain up the steep;
While backward from the hunter's eyes
The landscape like a torrent flies.
At last an ancient wood they gained,
By pruner's axe yet unprofaned.
High o'er the rest, by Nature reared,
The oak's majestic boughs appeared;

Through the hound's nose, and huntsman's eyes. Beneath a copse of various hue

Just then, a council of the hares

Had met, on national affairs.

The chiefs were set; while o'er their head
The furze its frizzled covering spread.
Long lists of grievances were heard,
And general discontent appeared:
"Our harmless race shall every savage,
Both quadruped and biped, ravage?
Shall horses, hounds, and hunters still
Unite their wits, to work us ill?
The youth, his parent's sole delight,
Whose tooth the dewy lawns invite,
Whose pulse in every vein beats strong,
Whose limbs leap light the vales along,
May yet ere noontide meet his death,
And lie dismembered on the heath.
For youth, alas! nor cautious age,
Nor strength, nor speed, eludes their rage.
In every field we meet the foe,

Each gale comes fraught with sounds of wo;

In barbarous luxuriance grew.

No knife had curbed the rambling sprays,
No hand had wove the' implicit maze.
The flowering thorn, self-taught to wind,
The hazle's stubborn stem intwined,
And bramble twigs were wreathed around,
And rough furze crept along the ground.
Here sheltering, from the sons of murther,
The hares drag their tired limbs no further.

But lo, the western wind ere long
Was loud, and roared the woods among;
From rustling leaves, and crashing boughs,
The sound of wo and war arose.
The hares distracted scour the grove,
As terror and amazement drove;
But danger, wheresoe'er they fled,
Still seemed impending o'er their head.
Now crowded in a grotto's gloom,
All hopes extinct, they wait their doom.

Dire was the silence, till, at length,
Even from despair deriving strength,
With bloody eye, and furious look,
A daring youth arose, and spoke:

"O wretched race, the scorn of Fate,
Whom ills of every sort await!
O, cursed with keenest sense to feel
The sharpest sting of every ill!

Say ye, who, fraught with mighty scheme,
Of liberty and vengeance dream,
What now remains? To what recess
Shall we our weary steps address,
Since fate is evermore pursuing

All ways, and means to work our ruin?
Are we alone, of all beneath,
Condemned to misery worse than death!
Must we, with fruitless labour, strive
In misery worse than death to live!
No. Be the smaller ill our choice:
So dictates Nature's powerful voice.
Death's pang will in a moment cease;
And then, All hail, eternal peace!"
Thus while he spoke, his words impart
The dire resolve to every heart.

A distant lake in prospect lay,
That, glittering in the solar ray,
Gleamed through the dusky trees, and shot
A trembling light along the grot:
Thither with one consent they bend,
Their sorrows with their lives to end,
While each, in thought, already hears
The water hissing in his ears.
Fast by the margin of the lake,
Concealed within a thorny brake,
A linnet sate, whose careless lay
Amused the solitary day.
Careless he sung, for on his breast
Sorrow no lasting trace impressed;
When suddenly he heard a sound
Of swift feet traversing the ground.
Quick to the neighbouring tree he flies,
Thence trembling casts around his eyes;
No foe appeared, his fears were vain;
Pleased he renews the sprightly strain.

Some new phenomenon to raise;
Which, bursting on his frighted gaze,
From its proud summit to the ground
Proves the whole edifice unsound.

"Children," thus spoke a hare sedate,
Who oft had known the' extremes of fate,
"In slight events the docile mind
May hints of good instruction find.
That our condition is the worst,
And we with such misfortunes cursed
As all comparison defy,
Was late the universal cry.
When lo, an accident so slight
As yonder little linnet's flight,
Has made your stubborn heart confess
(So your amazement bids me guess)
That all our load of woes and fears
Is but a part of what he bears.
Where can he rest secure from harms,
Whom e'en a helpless hare alarms?
Yet he repines not at his lot,
When past, the danger is forgot:
On yonder bough he trims his wings,
And with unusual rapture sings;
While we, less wretched, sink beneath
Our lighter ills, and rush to death.
No more of this unmeaning rage,
But hear, my friends, the words of age.

"When by the winds of autumn driven
The scattered clouds fly cross the heaven,
Oft have we, from some mountain's head,
Beheld the alternate light and shade

Sweep the long vale. Here hovering lours
The shadowy cloud; there downward pours,
|Streaming direct, a flood of day,

Which from the view flies swift away;
It flies, while other shades advance,
And other streaks of sunshine glance.
Thus chequered is the life below
With gleams of joy, and clouds of wo.
Then hope not, while we journey on,
Still to be basking in the sun:

Nor fear, though now in shades ye mourn,
That sunshine will no more return.

The hares, whose noise had caused his fright, If, by your terrors overcome,

Saw with surprise the linnet's flight.
"Is there on earth a wretch, (they said)
Whom our approach can strike with dread?
An instantaneous change of thought
To tumult every bosom wrought.
So fares the system-building sage,
Who, plodding on from youth to age,
At last on some foundation-dream
Has reared aloft his goodly scheme,
And proved his predecessors fools,
And bound all nature by his rules;
So fares he in that dreadful hour,
When injured Truth exerts her power,

Ye fly before the' approaching gloom,
The rapid clouds your flight pursue,
And darkness still o'ercasts your view.
Who longs to reach the radiant plain
Must onward urge his course amain;
For doubly swift the shadow flies,
When 'gainst the gale the pilgrim plies.
At least be firm, and undismayed
Maintain your ground! the fleeting shade
Ere long spontaneous glides away,
And gives you back the' enlivening ray.
Lo, while I speak, our danger past!
No more the shrill horn's angry blast

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STILL shall unthinking man substantial deem
The forms that fleet through life's deceitful dream?
On clouds, where Fancy's beam amusive plays,
Shall heedless Hope the towering fabric raise?
Till at Death's touch the fairy visions fly,
And real scenes rush dismal on the eye;
And, from Elysium's balmy slumber torn,
The startled soul awakes, to think and mourn.
O ye, whose hours in jocund train advance,
Whose spirits to the song of gladness dance,
Who flowery vales in endless view survey,
Glittering in beams of visionary day;
O, yet while fate delays th' impending wo,
Be roused to thought, anticipate the blow;
Lest, like the lightning's glance, the sudden ill
Flash to confound, and penetrate to kill;
Lest, thus encompassed with funereal gloom
Like me, ye bend o'er some untimely tomb,
Pour your wild ravings in Night's frighted ear,
And half pronounce heaven's sacred doom severe.
Wise, Beauteous, Good! O every grace com-
bined,

That charms the eye, or captivates the mind!
Fair as the floweret opening on the morn,
Whose leaves bright drops of liquid pearl adorn!
Sweet, as the downy-pinioned gale, that roves
To gather fragrance in Arabian groves!
Mild as the strains, that, at the close of day,
Warbling remote, along the vales decay!-
Yet, why with these compared? What tints so fine,
What sweetness, mildness, can be matched with
thine?

Why roam abroad? Since still, to Fancy's eyes,
I see, I see thy lovely form arise.

On Mrs. Walker, a sister of Lord Monboddo.

Still let me gaze, and every care beguile,
Gaze on that cheek, where all the Graces smile;
That soul-expressing eye, benignly bright,
Where meekness beams ineffable delight;
That brow, where Wisdom sits enthroned serene,
Each feature forms, and dignifies the mien
Still let me listen while her words impart
The sweet effusions of the blameleless heart,
Till all my soul, each tumult charm'd away,
Yeilds, gently led, to Virtue's easy sway.
By thee inspir'd, O Virtue! Age is young,
And music warbles from the faltering tongue:
Thy ray creative cheers the clouded brow,
And decks the faded cheek with rosy glow,
Brightens the joyless aspect, and supplies
Pure heavenly lustre to the languid eyes:
But when Youth's living bloom reflects thy bearas,
Resistless on the view the glory streams.
Love, Wonder, Joy, alternately alarm,
And Beauty dazzles with angelic charm.

Ah, whither fled!- -ye dear illusions, stay.
Lo, pale and silent lies the lovely clay-
How are the roses on that cheek decayed,
Which late the purple light of youth displayed
Health on her form each sprightly grace bestowed:
With life and thought each speaking feature glow'd
Fair was the flower, and soft the vernal sky;
Elate with hope, we deemed no tempest nigh;
When lo, a whirlwind's instantaneous gust
Left all its beauties withering in the dust.

All cold the hand that soothed Wo's weary head' And quenched the eye, the pitying tear that shed! And mute the voice, whose pleasing accents stole Infusing balm into the rankled soul!

O Death, why arm with cruelty thy power,
And spare the idle weed, yet lop the flower?
Why fly thy shafts in lawless error driven?
Is Virtue then no more the care of Heaven ?—
But peace, bold thought! be still my bursting heart!
We, not Eliza, felt the fatal dart.

'Scaped the dark dungeon, does the slave complain,
Nor bless the hand that broke the galling chain?
Say, pines not virtue for the lingering morn,
On this dark wild condemned to roam forlorn?
Where Reason's meteor-rays, with sickly glow,
O'er the dun gloom a dreadful glimmering throw?
Disclosing dubious to the affrighted eye,
O'erwhelming mountains tottering from on high,
Black billowy seas in storms perpetual tossed,
And weary ways in wildering labyrinths lost.
O happy stroke! that burst the bonds of clay,
Darts through the rending gloom the blaze of day,
And wings the soul with boundless flight to soar,
Where dangers threat, and fears alarm no more.

Transporting thought! here let me wipe away
The tear of grief, and wake a bolder lay.
But ah! the swimming eye o'erflows anew,-
Nor check the sacred drops to pity due;

Lo, where in speechless, hopeless anguish, bend
O'er her loved dust, the Parent, Brother, Friend!
How vain the hope of man! But cease thy strain,
Nor Sorrow's dread solemnity profane;
Mixed with yon drooping Mourners, on her bier
In silence shed the sympathetic tear.

EPITAPH:

BEING PART OF AN INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT,
To be erected by a Gentleman to the Memory of
his Lady.

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;
I mourn, but ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with
dew.

Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn:
Kind Nature the embryo-blossom will save.
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?
O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!"
'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,

FAREWELL, my best beloved; whose heavenly That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind;

mind

Genius with virtue, strength with softness joined;
Devotion, undebased by pride or art,
With meek simplicity, and joy of heart;
Though sprightly, gentle; though polite, sincere;
And only of thyself a judge severe;

Unblamed, unequalled in each sphere of life,
The tenderest Daughter, Sister, Parent, Wife.
In thee their Patroness the afflicted lost;

Thy friends, their pattern, ornament, and boast;
And I—but ah, can words my loss declare,
Or paint the extremes of transport and despair!
O Thou, beyond what verse or speech can tell,
My guide, my friend, my best beloved, farewell!

THE HERMIT.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove;
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his harp rung symphonious, a Hermit began;
No more with himself, or with nature at war,
He thought as a Sage, though he felt as a man.

"Ah why, all abandoned to darkness and wo,
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And sorrow no longor thy bosom inthral.
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,
Mourn, sweetest complainer, Man calls thee to

mourn;

O sooth him, whose pleasures like thine pass away.
Full quickly they pass-but they never return.

"Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
The moon half extinguished her crescent displays:
But lately I marked, when majestic on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again:

My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to
shade,

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
O-pity, great Father of light! (then I cried)
Thy creature, who fain would not wander from

Thee!

Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride;
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst
free."

And darkness and doubt are now flying away;
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn;
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn:
See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descend-
ing,

And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are
blending,

And Beauty Immortal awakes from the tomb.

EPITAPH ON THE AUTHOR.

BY HIMSELF.

ESCAPED the gloom of mortal life, a soul

Here leaves its mouldering tenement of clay, Safe, where no cares their whelming billows roll, No doubts bewilder, and no hopes betray.

Like thee, I once have stemmed the sea of life;

Like thee, have languished after empty joys; Like thee, have laboured in the stormy strife;

Been grieved for trifles, and amused with toys.

Yet for awhile, 'gainst passion's threatful blast

Let steady reason urge the struggling oar; Shot through the dreary gloom, the morn at last Gives to thy longing eye the blissful shore.

Forget my frailties, thou art also frail;

Forgive my lapses, for thyself may'st fall; Nor read, unmoved, my artless tender tale, I was a friend, oh man! to thee, to all.

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