The silver poplars in the Zephyrs play,

Their leaves presenting still a varying hue;
The mill that stops yon' streamlet's gentle way
At pauses strikes, to measur'd time still true.

On the tall trees the thrush her wild-notes sings,
While the meek grasshopper still chirps below;
The mower's scythe thro' all the valley rings,
And the bees hum as laden home they go.

Oh! blest the man, who from his heart can hail
These tranquil scenes, here study nature's page-
As Petrarch, in his rock-encompass'd vale,

And in Scillonte's shades the Grecian sage *.

And ye, who've long repented that your choice
Once led ye to pursue the worldling's course,
Fly, fly the storm; obey mild nature's voice,

And peaceful rest from the rude tempest's force.

Here may the heart, too oft by man betray'd,

Form round himself a world where guilt's unknown; The injur'd lover, the forsaken maid,

Their soul's deep wrongs in silence may bemoan.

And thou, mild seraph, who, thro' passing years, Hast watch'd my steps, thy guardian cares may cease; Encircled round with golden hope appears

The future now, as here I rest in

peace,

* Xenophon, who, banished from his native country, retired to Scillonte, in Peloponnesus, not far from Olympia, where he des voted his latter years to hunting and agriculture.

While here, as at the brink of heavenly joy
I fix my seat, abjuring worldly dreams;
Resolv'd ambition's tune shall ne'er decoy

My heart again, to taste her troubled streams.

Love's wants are few, a garden, plough, and field,
An arbour by his fair-one's fingers drest,

A straw-roof'd cot from curious eyes conceal'd,
A spot where two united urns may rest.

Far as a shepherd, in fair Enna's dale,

The distant roaring of the billows hears,
So distant now the sons of history's tale,
In low and broken sounds, assails mine ears.

Nor shall ambition's votaries e'er a note
Of admiration from my bosom gain;
Those who for liberty their lives devote,

Alone can from my hands a crown obtain.

Too proud to serve, where rank or pay invites,
No more a hireling to another's laws;
Yet ne'er will I desert man's genuine rights,
But gladly perish in fair Freedom's cause.

And when at last I rest from mortal strife,
O'er my cold clay let silver roses bloom;
And ah! may those who shar'd my love thro' life,
Shed drops of fond affection o'er my tomb.

ANNE PLUMPTRE.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

HENRY DUNDAS.

GROUSE SHOOTING IN THE HIGHLANDS, AFTER RETIRING FROM OFFICE IN 1801.

FROM public toils, and cares, and strife,
Welcome once more to private life,

In Scotia's rude domain;
Enjoy repose, content and ease,
Inhale the health-inspiring breeze,
Nor think of France and Spain.

Let those who hold the helm of state
Consume their nights in dire debate,
Their days in factious jars;

O'er ways and means incessant pore
To raise reluctant millions more,
Scant food for future wars.

Even peace on their devoted heads
No balmy dew of comfort sheds,
But discord flaps her wings;
For who shall fix each adverse claim,
Untouched his wisdom and his fame
By censure's venomed stings?

Far from the Senate and the Throne,
From budget, tax, investment, loan,'
Impeachment, expedition;

Peace shall your hether pillow bind,
And war no more distract your mind,
Nor projects of ambition.

The easy, social, joyous hour,

Unknown to pomp, remote from

Awaits you in the wild;

power,

Friendship shall lead you by the hand,
And Caledonia's arms expand,

To clasp her patriot child.

Should warfare still your thoughts engage,
To muirland scenes confine your rage,
In mimic camp arrayed;
Unheard, the sound of noisy drums,
There no Mysorean Tyrant comes,
Your quiet to invade.

The laurels won at Aboukir,

Deep moistened with a nation's tear,
Were death and glory's prize;
But where you urge the gay campaign,
No tears the cheek of friendship stain,
No Abercromby dies!

J. DUNLOP, ESQ.

THE HOUR OF LOVE.

WHEN the fair one, and the dear one,

Her lover by her side,

Strays or sits, as fancy flits,

Where yellow streamlets glide,
Gleams illuming, flowers perfuming,
Where'er her footsteps rove,
Time beguiling with her smiling-
O that's the hour of love!

Should the fair one, and the dear one,

The sigh of pity lend

For human woe, that presses low

A stranger or a friend!

Tears descending, sweetly blending

As down her cheek they rove, Beauty's charms in Pity's arms,— O that's the hour of love!