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For the Anniversary of MR. PITT's Birth-day, celebrated at Edinburgh.
Oh! dread was the time, and more dreadful the omen,
Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the furrow,
He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow,
Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,
Nor forget his grey-head, who, all dark in affliction,
And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection,
By his long reign of virtue remember his claim!
Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure,
OH THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT.
OH! think not my spirits are always as light,
And as free from a pang, as they seem to you now; Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow: No, life is a waste of wearisome hours,
Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns!
But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile;
May we never meet worse in our pilgrimage here Than the tear that enjoyment can gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear!
The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows!
When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind! But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest,
Too often have wept o'er the dream they believ'd;
But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth
WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE.
WHEN he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
Oh! say, wilt thou weep when they darken the fame
Yes, weep! and, however my foes may condenın,
For Heaven can witness, tho' guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee!
With thee were the dreams of my earliest lovè,
In my last humble pray'r to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
Oh! bless'd are the lovers and friends who shall live The days of thy glory to see;
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
FRIEND'S FAR AWAY.
COUNT not the hours, while their silent wings
Thus waft them in fairy flight;
For Feeling, warm from her purest springs,
Shall hallow the scene to-night:
And while the magic of joy is here,
And the colours of life are gay,
Let us think on those that have lov'd us dear
The friends who are far away.
Few are the hearts, that have proved the truth
And let those few, the beloved of youth,
Oh! vivid long, in the faithful breast,
Shall the gleam of remembrance play,
Like the ling'ring light on the crimson West,
Soft be the sleep of their pleasant hours,
And calm be the seas they roam!
May the way they travel be strew'd with flow'rs,
And if we, whose hearts are o'erflowing thus,
May some kind orison rise for us,
WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.
AT the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,
I have mus'd in a sorrowful mood,
On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower, Where the home of my forefathers stood.
All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode,
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; And travell'd by few is the grass cover'd road, Wirere the hunter of deer and the warrior trode To his hills that encircle the sea.
Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,