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O Nymph reserved,-while now the bright-hair'd sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed,

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,--
Now teach me, maid composed,

To breathe some soften'd strain

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit;

As, musing slow I hail
Thy genial loved return.

For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning-lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in buds the day,

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with

sedge

And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,
The pensive Pleasures sweet,

Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;
Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams.

Or, if chill blustering winds or driving rain
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut

That, from the mountain's side,

Views wilds and swelling floods,

298

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires;
And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train

And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
Thy gentlest influence own,

And love thy favourite name!

GEORGE SEWELL
[d. 1726]

THE DYING MAN IN HIS GARDEN

WHY, Damon, with the forward day
Dost thou thy little spot survey,
From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer,
Pursue the progress of the year,
What winds arise, what rains descend,
When thou before that year shalt end?

What do thy noontide walks avail,
To clear the leaf, and pick the snail,
Then wantonly to death decree
An insect usefuller than thee?
Thou and the worm are brother-kind,
As low, as earthy, and as blind.

'299

Vain wretch! canst thou expect to see
The downy peach make court to thee?
Or that thy sense shall ever meet
The bean-flower's deep-embosom'd sweet
Exhaling with an evening blast?
Thy evenings then will all be past!

Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green
(For vanity's in little seen)
All must be left when Death appears,
In spite of wishes, groans, and tears;
Nor one of all thy plants that grow
But Rosemary will with thee go.

ALISON RUTHERFORD COCKBURN

[1712-1794]

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST'

I've seen the smiling

Of Fortune beguiling;

I've felt all its favours, and found its decay;

Sweet was its blessing,

Kind its caressing;

But now it is fled-fled far away.

I've seen the forest

Adorned the foremost,

With flowers of the fairest, most pleasant and gay;

Sae bonnie was their bloon.ing!

Their scent the air perfuming!

But now they are withered and a' wede away.

I've seen the morning

With gold the hills adorning,

And loud tempest storming before the mid-day.
I've seen Tweed's silver streams,

Shining in the sunny beams

Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way.

"The flowers of the Forest" in this and the following song are the men of Ettrick Forest in Selkirkshire who fell at the battle of Flodden.

300

Oh, fickle Fortune!

Why this cruel sporting?

Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day?
Nae mair your smiles can cheer me,

Nae mair your frowns can fear me;

For the flowers of the forest are a' wede away.

JANE ELLIOT

[1727-1805]

LAMENT FOR FLODDEN

I've heard them lilting' at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;

But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning '-
For the flowers of the forest are a' wede' away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;

Nae daffin', nae gabbin',' but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin' and hies her away.

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
Bandsters 10 are lyart," and runkled," and gray;
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

13

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie-
The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.

Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the fore-

most,

The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

Pens, folds.
Milking-stool. • Harvest.

[blocks in formation]

2 Lane. Jeering.

$ Withered.

strawbands for the

sheaves.

11 Withered. 13 Flattering.

• Doleful. 10 Makers 12 Wrinkled.

of

We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

301

CHRISTOPHER SMART

[1722-1770]

A SONG TO DAVID

O THOU, that sitt'st upon a throne,
With harp of high, majestic tone,
To praise the King of kings:
And voice of heaven, ascending, swell,
Which, while its deeper notes excel,
Clear as a clarion rings:

To bless each valley, grove, and coast,
And charm the cherubs to the post
Of gratitude in throngs;

To keep the days on Zion's Mount,
And send the year to his account,
With dances and with songs:

O servant of God's holiest charge,
The minister of praise at large,

Which thou mayst now receive;
From thy blest mansion hail and hear,
From topmost eminence appear
To this the wreath I weave.

Great, valiant, pious, good, and clean,
Sublime, contemplative, serene,

Strong, constant, pleasant, wise!
Bright effluence of exceeding grace;
Best man! the swiftness and the race,
The peril and the prize!

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