THE LOVER'S FATE.

JAMES THOMSON.

Hard is the fate of him who loves,
Yet dares not tell his trembling pain,
But to the sympathetic groves,

But to the lonely listening plain.

Oh! when she blesses next your shade,
Oh! when her footsteps next are seen
In flowery tracts along the mead,
In fresher mazes o'er the green;

Ye gentle spirits of the vale,

To whom the tears of love are dear,
From dying lilies waft a gale,
And sigh my sorrows in her ear.

Oh! tell her what she cannot blame,
Tho' fear my tongue must ever bind;
Oh, tell her that my virtuous flame
Is, as her spotless soul, refined.

Not her own guardian-angel eyes
With chaster tenderness his care,
Not purer her own wishes rise,

Not holier her own thoughts in prayer.

But if, at first, her virgin fear

Should start at love's suspected name, With that of friendship soothe her ear— True love and friendship are the same.

TO MYRA.

JAMES THOMSON.

O thou, whose tender serious eyes
Expressive speak the mind I love;
The gentle azure of the skies,

The pensive shadows of the grove:

O mix their beauteous beams with mine,
And let us interchange our hearts;
Let all their sweetness on me shine,
Pour'd thro' my soul be all their darts.

Ah! 'tis too much! I cannot bear
At once so soft so keen a ray :

In pity then, my lovely fair,

O turn those killing eyes away

But what avails it to conceal

One charm, where nought but charms I see? Their lustre then again reveal,

And let me, Myra, die of thee

CONTENTMENT.

JAMES THOMSON.

If thou, who live in shepherd's bower,
Press not the rich and stately bed;
The new-mown hay and breathing flower
A softer couch beneath them spread.

If those, who sit at shepherd's board,
Soothe not their taste by wanton art;
They take what Nature's gift afford,

And take it with a cheerful heart.

If those who drain the shepherd's bowl,

No high and sparkling wines can boast, With wholesome cups they cheer the soul, And crown them with the village toast.

If those who join in shepherd's sport,
Gay dancing on the daisied ground,
Have not the splendour of a court;
Yet love adorns the merry round.

RULE BRITANNIA!

JAMES THOMSON.

When Britain first, at Heaven's cominand,

Arose from out the azure main,

This was the charter of her land,

And guardian angels sung this strain:

Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,

Britons never will be slaves.'

The nations, not so bless'd as thee,
Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall;

While thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blast that tears the skies,
Serves but to root thy native oak.
These haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame :
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame;
But work their woe and thy renown.
To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main :
And every shore it circles thine.

The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair:

Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown'd,
And manly hearts to guard the fair :

Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves!'

[Published in the Masque of Alfred, by James Thomson and David

Mallet.

"The song of Rule Britannia will be the political hymn of this country as long as she maintains her political power."-SOUTHEY.]

WHEN SUMMER COMES.

WILLIAM CRAWFORD.

When summer comes, the swains on Tweed

Sing their successful loves;

Around the ewes and lambkins feed,

And music fills the groves.

But

my loved song

is then the broom

So fair on Cowden-knowes;

For sure, so sweet, so soft a bloom
Elsewhere there never grows.

There Colin tuned his oaten reed,
And won my yielding heart;
No shepherd e'er that dwelt on Tweed
Could play with half such art.

He sung of Tay, of Forth and Clyde,
The hills and dales all round,
Of Leader haughs, and Leader side—
Oh how I bless'd the sound.

Yet more delightful is the broom
So fair on Cowden-knowes;
For sure, so fresh, so bright a bloom
Elsewhere there never grows.

Not Tiviot braes, so green and gay,
May with this broom compare;
Not Yarrow banks in flow'ry May,
Nor the bush aboon Traquair.

More pleasing far are Cowden-knowes,
My peaceful happy home,
Where I was wont to milk my ewes,
At e'en, amang the broom.

Ye powers that haunt the woods and plains
Where Tweed or Tiviot flows,

Convey me to the best of swains,

And my loved Cowden-knowes.