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Yes! I have tale of woe to tell,

With nature's ruth unmix'd, unshared: Ah Scotland! why, with alien look,

Didst thou behold thy native bard? When poison'd shafts assail'd him hard, Wing'd on the chilling blasts of fate, Why coldly linger'd that regard

Which came at last, but came too late?

Why from his plough, on fallow-field,
Didst thou seduce the peasant boy,
As crafty fowler lures his prey,

With bribes, and smiles but to destroy? There, long he might have lived in joy, And sung among his blithe compeers, Of home-delights that never cloy,

And all that humble life endears.

Who, in the meteor gleam of wealth,
Or rank, or fashion, may confide?
Fie on the glare of polish'd life,

With all its selfishness and pride!
Give me the cottage-ingle side-
Sincerity still lingers there;
And Truth, with Reason for its guide,
Around the lowly hearth repair.

Peace to the cottage evening-fire,
Blazing so merrily and clear,
When ancient tale and song go round,
Of wizard-spell, or deed of weir!
O let us ever mind, that here

Our bard in Fancy's school was bred;
And saw her airy form appear,

To bind the holly round his head.

How glow'd his youthful spirit then!
The pulses of his heart beat high,
For new was life, and love, and hope,
And nature to his ardent eye.

He saw her workings in the sky,
When Winter spread its pall of gloom,
When Spring laugh'd through a dewy eye,
Or Autumn shed its yellow bloom.

Like sunny smiles before the storm,
These days of transient rapture end,
And wants and woes, in length'ning train,
Where'er he turn'd his steps attend:

Ah! why was then no helping hand
Stretch'd forth to succour and to save,
Till kindred nations vainly blend
Their griefs o'er an untimely grave?

Land of our fathers! bleak and stern,
Who now shall raise the patriot lay,
And sing on thy romantic hills,
The glories of thine early day?
Thy Doric harp hangs in decay,
Unheeded, on the elder-tree;
Its master mouldering in the clay,
Who waked its wildest minstrelsy!

VERSES

ON BURNS'S PUNCH-BOWL.

J. G.

Written extempore, at the house of R-B-, Esq. by one of the Gentlemen present, when BURNS's Punch-Bowl (after dinner,) was introduced, full primed with excellent whisky-toddy.

THOU bonie, tosh, wee, modest bowl,
When wayward fate would dare to scoul,

How aft thou's cheer'd Burns' drooping soul,

When prim'd wi' nappy,

Round him and thee care then might growl,

But he was happy.

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Sae fill the glass, but e'er we pree,
Round this dear relict reverently,

We'll brighten Scotland's downcast e'e,

For sair she mourns,

And toast thy honoured memory,

Immortal BURNS!

ΤΟ

GEORGE CHALMERS, Esq.

The Possessor of a Table and Wine-Glasses which belonged to Thomson the Poet.

BY JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ.

FRIEND CHALMERS, 'tis a noble treat
At Thomson's hallowed board to meet-
The bard of Nature's sphere-
The bard who, long as ages roll,
And nature animates the whole,
Taste, virtue will revere.

"Tis surely form'd of Britain's oak,
That bears her thunder's dreadful stroke

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O'er all her subject main:

For, lo! * Britannia's sacred laws,
And Liberty's congenial cause,
Inspired his patriot strain.

Not Arthur's, with his knights around,
By fond tradition long renown'd,
Should equal thine in fame.

Nor that where plates the Trojans ate,
Portentous of a happier fate,

Though graced with Virgil's name.

The poet's goblets, too, are thine-
With votive bumpers let them shine,

In Thomson's praise to ring,

Whose Works, through Summer's parching glow,
Sear'd Autumn, Winter's blighting snow,

Will bloom in endless Spring.

Poems by Thomson.

THE MOSLEM BRIDAL SONG.

From the Italian.

THERE is a radiance in the sky, A flush of gold, and purple dye. Night lingers in the west, the sun Floats on the sea.-The day's begun. The wave slow swelling to the shore Gleams on the green like silver ore; The grove, the cloud, the mountain's brow, Are burning in the crimson glow; Yet all is silence,-till the gale Shakes its rich pinions from the vale.

It is a lovely hour,-though heaven
Had ne'er to man his partner given,
That thing of beauty, fatal, fair,
Bright, fickle-child of flame and air;
Yet such an hour, such skies above,
Such earth below, had taught him Love.

But there are sounds along the gale ;-
Not murmurs of the grot or vale-
Yet wild, yet sweet, as ever stole
To soothe the twilight wanderer's soul.
It comes from yonder jasmine bower,
From yonder mosque's enamell'd tower,
From yonder harem's roof of gold,
From yonder castle's haughty hold:
Oh strain of witchery! whoe'er
That heard thee, felt not joy was near?
My soul shall in the grave be dim,
Ere it forgets that bridal hymn.
'Twas such a morn, 'twas such a tone
That woke me;-visions! are you gone?

The flutes breathe nigh,-the portals now
Pour out the train, white veil'd, like snow
Upon its mountain summit spread,
In splendour beyond man's rude tread;
And o'er their pomp, emerging far
The bride, like morning's virgin star.
And soon along the eve may swim
The chorus of the bridal hymn;
Again the bright procession move
To take the last, sweet veil from Love.
Then speed thee on, thou glorious sun!
Swift rise,-swift set,-be bright-and done.

SIR,

TO THE EDITOR OF THE EUROPEAN MAGAZINE.

HEREWITH I send you an original Poem, by LORD BYRON, taken from the silver-mounting of a goblet made out of a human skull, found at Newstead.*

START not! nor dream my spirit fled;
In me behold the only skull
From which (unlike a living head)
Whatever flows is never dull.

I lived-I loved-I quaff'd, like thee:
I died, let earth my bones resign;
Fill up ! thou canst not injure me,-
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.

Better to hold the sparkling grape,
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy breed ;
And circle in the goblet's shape
The drink of gods, than reptiles feed.

Where'er my wit perchance hath shone
In aid of others, let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?

Quaff whilst thou canst, another race
(When thou and thine, like me, are sped,)
May rescue thee from death's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.

Why not? since through life's little day,
Our heads should sad effect produce ;-
Redeem'd, from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is thine to be of use.

J. T.

* On digging near the Abbey, for the purpose of making a cold-bath, several hu man skulls were found, two or three of them in a very perfect state; one of these his lordship formed the horrid idea of having fitted up as a goblet, which was filled with ale, and handed about to his guests after their cheese!

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