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When Pitt expired in plenitude of power,
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
WHEN Friendship or Love our sympathies move,
Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile,
Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye
Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below,
The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale,
As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be his grave,
The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath
In Glory's romantic career:
But he raises the foe when in battle laid low,
If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride,
Sweet scene of my youth! seat of Friendship and Truth,"
Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more,
In the shade of her bower I remember the hour
By another possess'd, may she live ever blest!
Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart,
If again we shall meet in this rural retreat,
When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night,
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume,
May no marble bestow the splendour of woe,
October 26th, 1806.
REPLY TO SOME VERSES
OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS
WHY, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain,
For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh
Would you teach her to love? for a time seem to rove;
But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile,
And then you may kiss your coquette.
For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs,
Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain,
If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny
If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride,
Some other admire, who will melt with your fire,
For me, I adore some twenty or more,
No longer repine, adopt this design,
And break through her slight-woven net;
Then quit her, my friend! your bosom defend,
Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by the smart, Should lead you to curse the coquette.
October 27th, 1806.
TO THE SIGHING STREPHON.
YOUR pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend,
From friendship, I strove your pangs to remove,
Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid,
's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine Of this quickly reformèd coquette.
Yet still, I must own, I should never have known
As your fair was so devilish reserved.
Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical miss
Since the "world you forget, when your lips once have met,"
You say, when "I rove, I know nothing of love;"
If I rightly remember, I've loved a good number,
I will not advance, by the rules of romance,
To humour a whimsical fair;
Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't affright,
While my blood is thus warm, I ne'er shall reform,
Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure,
And if I should shun every woman for one
Whose image must fill my whole breast
What an insult 'twould be to the rest!
Now, Strephon, good bye; I cannot deny
ELIZA, what fools are the Mussulman sect,
Who to women deny the soul's future existence;
Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense,
He ne'er would have women from paradise driven; Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence,
With women alone he had peopled his heaven.
Yet still, to increase your calamities more,
Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, He allots one poor husband to share amongst four !
With souls you'd dispense; but this last who could bear it?
His religion to please neither party is made;
On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most uncivil; Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said,
"Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil."
LACHIN Y GAIR.*
AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
• Lachin y Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch na Garr, towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld. One of our modern tourists mentions it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain. Be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our " Caledonian Alps." Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, the recollection of which has given birth to these stanzas
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war;
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander d;
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade.
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale.
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.
Victory crown'd not your fall with applause :
You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar ;§
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar!
PARENT of golden dreams, Romance !
Thy votive train of girls and boys;
This word is erroneously pronounced plad: the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the orthography.
I allude here to my maternal an estors, "the Gordons," many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the second Earl of Huntley, married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James the First of Scotland. By her he left four sons: the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my progenitors.
Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, I am not certain; but, as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action," pars pro toto."
A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a Castle of Braemar.