Go, climb the heights, when clad in twilight grey The soft still moon pulls off the veil of night; Thence, all these valley-dimpled plains survey,

These beaked hills with waving foliage dight, Yon beauteous spire, the heath-impurpled moor, And ocean slumb'ring on the distant shore.

As on we fare behold, a diff'rent scene!

Proud sylvan theatres of various shape,

With humble glens, wild and grotesque between, Stretch'd at the broad base of each jutting cape; Whence streams irriguous rill, and murmuring take Their mazy progress to the living lake.

O! for some shepherd's cot, some rustic shed, Deep in the bosom of these peaceful vales! Whether beneath yon mountain'st woody head, Or in the lone recess of Whisper-dales,+ Where silence listens to the wood-lark's song, And liquid lapse of rills that glide along.

Spirit of Hilda,|| guide me through thy groves, Through ev'ry tangled maze, and bushy dell, The pathless haunts which Meditation loves, Where Innocence and careless Quiet dwell; Here let me Wisdom's pensive steps pursue, And bid this vain, this nauseous world adieu.

+ Called Hackness-head.

A beautiful Dale at the top of Long-field Valley.
Lady Hilda, foundress of Whitby Abbey.

Hither, of yore, when from the murky caves
Of the deep forest,† rapine's lawless crew
Rush'd forth, or pirates from the briny waves,
Hither defenceless Sanctity withdrew :
Here told his beads, and pass'd, devoid of care,
A life of praise, and penitence, and prayer.

SCOTT.

LINES

TO A BEAUTIFUL MACAW, CHAINED TO THE DOOR OF

A LAPIDARY'S SHOP, SCARBOROUGH.

Well may'st thou, Poll, of thy bright plumes be vain,

Thy colours are all "warranted in grain!"

What belle, bedizen'd in her best array,

Can half thy gorgeous rainbow tints display?

+ The Forest of Pickering.

All well, and fashionably chosen too!

Green, yellow, purple, scarlet, and sky-blue!
We modern belles on no one colour fix,

But, Tom Fool like, the whole at once we mix.
But though in beauty thou dost her out-vie,
Thou'rt not so happy as the butterfly :-
She roams at large, and wantons in the air,
While thou art chain'd to thy poor prison there!
But if thou'st not the liberty of walking,

Sure, Poll, thou takest that of talking!
Whate'er thou sayst, or be it right or wrong,
We must submit,-no scandal is thy tongue!
But, like myself, who still on nonsense doat,
'Tis all at random, Polly,-all by ROTE!

HERMIONE.

TO OCEAN.

Roll on thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll !
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;
Man marks the earth with ruin-his controul
Stops with the shore; along the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave,unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.

His steps are not upon thy paths,-thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise

And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields

For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,