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, 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, With all its selfishness and pride! Peace to the cottage evening-fire, Our bard in Fancy's school was bred; To bind the holly round his head. How glow'd his youthful spirit then! He saw her workings in the sky, Like sunny smiles before the storm, Ah! why was then no helping hand Land of our fathers! bleak and stern, 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, 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. Sae fill the glass, but e'er we pree, 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 "Tis surely form'd of Britain's oak, O'er all her subject main: For, lo! * Britannia's sacred laws, Not Arthur's, with his knights around, Nor that where plates the Trojans ate, Though graced with Virgil's name. The poet's goblets, too, are thine- In Thomson's praise to ring, Whose Works, through Summer's parching glow, 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 But there are sounds along the gale ;- The flutes breathe nigh,-the portals now 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; I lived-I loved-I quaff'd, like thee: Better to hold the sparkling grape, Where'er my wit perchance hath shone Quaff whilst thou canst, another race Why not? since through life's little day, 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! |