Classic Poem

BOOK I. ODE XXII .

TO R — — S — — .

The man sincere and pure of ill,
Needs not with shafts his quiver fill,
Nor point the venom'd dart;
O'er him no weapon can prevail,
Clad in the firmest coat of mail,
A brave and honest heart.

Secure in innocence he goes
Through boiling friths and highland snows;
Or if his course he guide,
To where far-fam'd Lochleven's wave
Does round his islands winding, lave
Buchanan's hilly side.

For in Glentannar, as I stood
And sung my Erskine to the wood,
Unheeding of my way;
My every care forsook behind,
While all on Erskine ran my mind,
It chanc'd my steps to stray:

When, lo! forth rushing from behind
A savage wolf of monstrous kind,
Fierce shook his horrid head:
Unarm'd I stood, and void of fear
Beheld the monstrous savage near,
And me, unarm'd, he fled.

A beast of such portentous size,
Such hideous tusks and glaring eyes,
Fierce Daunia never bred;
Nor Juba's land, without controul,
Where angry lions darkling howl,
His equal ever fed.

Place me where the summer breeze
Does ne'er refresh the weary trees,
All on the gloomy plain,
Which side of earth, offended Heav'n
To the dominion foul has given,
Of clouds and beating rain.

Place me underneath the day,
Near neighbour to the burning ray;
Yet there the maid shall move;
There, present to my fancy's eyes,
Sweet smiling Erskine will I prize,
Sweet speaking Erskine love.