Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage
With settled smiles to wait:
Inured to toil and bitter bread,
He bowed his meek submissive head,
And kissed thy sainted feet.
When eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
And every storm is laid;
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice
Low whispering through the shade.
Sylvia. Leave me, simple shepherd, leave me,
Drag no more a hopeless chain,
I cannot like, nor would deceive thee;
Love the maid that loves again.
Corin. Tho' more gentle nymphs surround me,
Kindly pitying what I feel,
Only you have power to wound me,
Sylvia, only you can heal.
Sylvia. Corin, cease thy idle teasing,
Love that's forced is harsh and sour; If the lover be displeasing,
To persist disgusts the more.
Corin. 'Tis in vain, in vain to fly me,
Sylvia, I will still pursue,
Twenty thousand times deny me,
I will kneel and weep anew.
Sylvia. Cupid ne'er shall make me languish,
I was born averse to love;
Lovers' sighs, and tears, and anguish,
Mirth and pastime to me prove.
Corin. Still I vow with patient duty,
Thus to meet your proudest scorn;
You for unrelenting beauty,
I for constant love was born.
But the fates had not consented,
Since they both did fickle prove;
Of her scorn the maid repented,
And the shepherd of his love.
A SCOTTISH poet, whose early promise was cut short by a premature death. He was born at Portmoak, in Kinross-shire.
ELEGY-WRITTEN IN SPRING.
'Tis past the iron North has spent his rage;
Stern Winter now resigns the lengthening day;
The stormy howlings of the winds assuage,
And warm o'er ether western breezes play.
Of genial heat and cheerful light the source,
From southern climes, beneath another sky,
The sun, returning, wheels his golden course:
Before his beams all noxious vapours fly.
Far to the north grim Winter draws his train,
To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore ;
Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reign;
Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempests roar.
Loosed from the bands of frost, the verdant ground
Again puts on her robe of cheerful green,
Again puts forth her flowers; and all around
Smiling, the cheerful face of spring is seen.
Behold! the trees new deck their withered boughs;
Their ample leaves, the hospitable plane,
The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose;
The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene.
The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen,
Puts on the robe she neither sewed nor spun ;
The birds on ground, or on the branches green,
Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun.
Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers,
From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings;
And, cheerful singing, up the air she steers;
Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she sings.
Now is the time for those who wisdom love,
Who love to walk in virtue's flowery road,
Along the lovely paths of spring to rove,
And follow Nature up to Nature's God.
A SCOTTISH poet, author of "The Harp," "Scotland's Skaith," "The Links of Forth," and some beautiful lyrics.
MARY OF CASTLE-CARY.
"SAW ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing,
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea-
Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming,
Sought she the burnie where flowers the haw-tree;
Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white,
Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e;
Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses,
Where could my wee thing wander frae me?"
"I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing,
Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea;
But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloaming,
Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tree :
Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-white,
Dark was the blue of her soft rolling e'e;
Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses—
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me."
"It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing,
It was nae my true love ye met by the tree :
Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature,
She never loved ony till ance she lo'ed me.
Her name it is Mary, she's frae Castle-Cary,
Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee:
Fair as your face is, wert fifty times fairer,
Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee."
"It was then your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary,
It was then your true love I met by the tree;
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me."
Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew,
Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e:
"Ye'seruesair this morning your boasts and your scorning;
Defend ye, fause traitor; fu' loudly ye lie."
"Away wi' beguiling," cried the youth smiling-
Off went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee,
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing,
Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e.
"Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing,
Is it my true love here that I see?"
"O Jamie, forgie me; your heart's constant to me; I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee."
A CUMBERLAND lady, who during a short residence in Scotland acquired a thoroughly idiomatic acquaintance with the Scottish language, and wrote some exquisite songs. She also wrote a poem in the Cumbrian dialect.
WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE?
WHAT ails this heart o' mine?
What ails this watery e'e?
What gars me a' turn pale as death
When I take leave o' thee?
When thou art far awa',
Thou'lt dearer grow to me;
But change o' place and change o' folk
May gar thy fancy jee.
When I gae out at e'en,
Or walk at morning air,
Ilk rustling bush will seem to say
I used to meet thee there.
Then I'll sit down and cry,
And live aneath the tree,
And when a leaf fa's i' my lap,
I'll ca't a word frae thee.
I'll hie me to the bower,
That thou wi' roses tied,
And where wi' mony a blushing bud
I strove myself to hide
I'll doat on ilka spot
Where I ha'e been wi' thee,
And ca' to mind some kindly word
By ilka burn and tree.
FROM THE NABOB.
WHEN silent time, wi' lightly foot,
Had trod on thirty years,
I sought again my native land
Wi' mony hopes and fears.
Wha kens gin the dear friends I left
May still continue mine?
Or gin I e'er again shall taste
The joys I left langsyne ?
As I drew near my ancient pile
My heart beat a' the way;
Ilk place I passed seemed yet to speak
O' some dear former day;
Those days that followed me afar,
Those happy days o' mine,
Whilk made me think the present joys
A' naething to langsyne!
The ivied tower now met my eye,
Where minstrels used to blaw;
Nae friend stepped forth wi' open hand,
Nae weel-kenned face I saw ;
Till Donald tottered to the door,
Wham I left in his prime,
And grat to see the lad return
He bore about langsyne.
In vain I sought in music's sound
To find that magic art,
Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays
Has thrilled through a' my heart.
The sang had mony an artfu' turn;
My ear confessed 'twas fine;
But missed the simple melody
I listened to langsyne.
Ye sons to comrades o' my youth,
Forgie an auld man's spleen,
Wha 'midst your gayest scenes still mourns
The days he ance has seen.
When time has passed and seasons fled,
Your hearts will feel like mine;
And aye the sang will maist delight
That minds ye o' langsyne!
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