English

Behold, ye fair! yon melancholy maid,
The tear just bursting from her downcast eye,
Who on the willow rests her pensive head,
“And pores upon the brook that babbles by.”

She once, like you, did laugh the hours away,
Was often merry, and was seldom grave;
Walks were not wanting to deceive the day,
Nor love, I ween, to cheer the gloomy eye.

The flow'rs of beauty blossom'd on her cheek,
Men thought her witty, and she thought so too;
She now and then would think, but oft'ner speak,

Why, O God! thy people spurn?
Why permit thy rage to burn?
God of mercy! save once more,
All our broken hearts restore.

Thou hast made our land to quake,
Heal the breaches thou dost make!
Bitter is the cup we drink,
Suffer not our souls to sink.

Be thy banner now unfurl'd,
Show thy might to all the world;
Save us, Lord! we cry to thee,
Lift thine arm, and set us free.

Late does the sun begin his shorten'd race,
Languid, altho' no cloud obscures our view;
The nipping hoar-frost veils the shrivel'd grass,
Where, whilom, wav'd the cool refreshing dew.

Cold from the north his hooked atoms calls,
And ev'ry field in firmer fetters binds;
Rustling in show'rs the wither'd foliage falls,
Slow from the tree, the sport of eddy winds.

The birds, all flocking from their summer haunts,
On the corn-stubbles pick the costly grain,
His deadly snares the cruel sowler plants,

Why, Lord! dost thou our race despise,
And spurn our feeble band?
Behold our foes in triumph rise,
And overrun the land!

As helpless sheep to slaughter led,
We fall before their might,
We're sold like beasts, cast out as dead,
And worthless in their sight.

We're fill'd with sorrow, cloth'd with shame,
And loaded with disgrace;
For all the world our cause defame,
And spurn us from their face.

Bow'd down to earth, in dust we lie,
With none to help or save;

Fair art thou, M IRA ! in thy lover's eye;
No maiden on our plains is half so fair;
I gaze with rapture on your charms, but sigh
To think that others may that rapture share.

I can't endure the cringing sawning race,
That bow around you wheresoe'er you go;
Contract your sphere, be cautious how you please:
The man that smiles upon you is my foe.

Away, the empty bustle of a croud,

O Lord! my bosom heaves with fears,
Mine eyes are quench'd with constant tears;
My friends forsake, my patrons flee,
My kinsmen dread my face to see.

With snares and fraud and cruel strife,
My foes conspire against my life;
I totter on the brink of death,
And constant anguish wastes my breath.

On thee, O Lord, my God! I wait,
To plead my cause against the great;
Let not my lordly foes exult,
And in my bondage thee insult.

Forsake me not, O Lord, my God!
I seek thine all-sustaining rod;

In the Manner of O VID .

In fruitful C LYDESDALE stands my native seat,
Mean, but not sordid, tho' not spacious, neat;
In C LYDESDALE , noted for its lovely dames,
And meadows, water'd with irrugnous streams;
For juicy apples, and for mellow pears,
Firm-footed horses and laborious steers:
In vain! would Phaebus cleave the earth with heat,
Or scorching S IRIUS desolation threat;
In vernal pride still smiles the varied scene,
The fields still flourish, and the grass is green;

At winter's numbing touch, the fields
Lie wither'd to a waste;
The trees their naked boughs extend,
Obnoxious to the blast.

The lifeless leaves blow here and there,
The sport of ev'ry wind;
And here and there the wood-birds flit,
But can no shelter find.

The skirting mountains, lately ting'd
With azure's airy hue,
In winter's hoary mantle clad,
Rise dazzling to the view.

Love, erst admirer of the plain,
To cottages retires,
Prevents the slumbers of the maid,

False and ill-grounded were my hopes,
My expectations vain;
Each step increases my complaints,
And nourishes my pain.

Here will I pause — this shady walk,
That variegated field,
Nor all the lovely landscape round,
Their wonted pleasures yield.

One black and universal cloud
Wide overspreads the whole;
Creation sickens, and is dark
And gloomy as my soul.

Clyde's plaintive wave, the sighing gale,
The warbler of each tree,
Sing one sad melancholy song,
In unison with me.

The pale-ey'd moon serenes the silent hour,
And many a star adorns the clear blue sky;
While pleas'd I view this desolated tow'r
That rears it's time-struck tott'ring top so high.

Here was the garden, there the festive hall,
This the broad entry, that the crowded street;
The task how pleasant to repair it's fall,
And ev'ry stone arrange in order meet!

The scheme is finish'd; — ages backward roll'd
And all it's former majesty restor'd: —
Imagination hastens to unfold