THE GAMEKEEPER'S RETURN

AT NIGHT.

BY S. E. BRYDGES, ESQ.

WRITTEN 1802.

1.

THRO' the long morning have I toil'd
O'er heath and lonely wood,
And cross the dark untrodden glen
The fearful game pursu'd :

But deeper now the gathering clouds

Collect along the sky,

And faint and weary warn my steps
Their homeward course to hie.

2.

And now the driving mist withdraws

Her veil ; and vapoury grey I mark again the sacred tower I pass'd in yonder dale. A little while, and I shall gain Yon hill's laborious height; And then perhaps my humble cot Will chear my grateful sight,

3.

Ah now I see the smoke ascend

From forth the glimmering thatch:

Now my heart beats at every step,
And now I lift the latch;

Now starting from my blazing hearth
My little children bound,

And loud with shrill and clamorous joy
Their happy sire surround.

4.

How sweet when Night first wraps the world
Beneath her sable vest,

To sit beside the crackling fire

With weary limbs at rest;

And think on all the labours past,

That Morn's bright hours employ'd,
While all, that toil and danger seem'd,
Is now at home enjoy'd.

5.

The wild and fearful distant scene,
Lone covert, whistling storm,

Seem now in Memory's mellowing eye

To wear a softer form;

And while my wand'rings I describe,
As froths the nut-brown ale,
My dame and little list'ning tribe
With wonder hear the tale.

6.

Then soft enchanting slumbers calm,
My heavy eyelids close,

And on my humble bed I sink

To most profound repose ;

Save, that by fits, the scenes of day,
Come glancing on my sight,

And, touch'd by Fancy's magic wand,
Seem visions of delight.

MARCH, 1802.

ODE TO THE VENUS URANIA.

To heights where Fancy ne'er aspir'd,
In what blest region of the sky,
Eludes the Queen of Love retir'd,
The Sophist's art, the Poet's eye.

Not she for whom Cythera's bowers,
Or Aphac's violated steep,
Or proud Assyria's guilty towers,
Licentious revels wont to keep.

Thee rather modest Nymph! I greet,
The sage Athenian's chaster theme,
While echoed to his accents sweet,
The oliv'd roofs of Academe.

Still Goddess thy permitted view
Charms more than mortal can reveal,
Instruct each sense, to nature true,
The eye to judge, the heart to feel.

Within us dwell those forms divine,

Which thy sole image can impart; We rear to thee no marble shrine, Whose living temple is-the heart!

ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, OXON.

T. P.

INSCRIPTION

ON A MURAL TABLET,

IN THE

Chapel of Holyrood-house, Edinburgh.

SACRED

to the Memory of

HENRIETTA ELIZABETH HAY,

DAUGHTER OF THE

REVEREND GEORGE HAY DRUMMOND,

SON OF

ROBERT, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK; Who departed this Life, November 28, 1802, in the Sixteenth Year of her Age.

Too pure and perfect still to linger here,
Cheer'd with seraphic visions of the blest,
Smiling she dried a tender father's tear,

And pour'd her spirit forth upon his breast.

He bends not o'er the mansion of the dead,
Where loveliness and grace in ruins lie;
In sure and certain hope he lifts his head,
And Faith presents her in her native sky.

G. H. D.

IMITATION OF HORACE,

BOOK 2. ODE 14.

TO MR. PROFESSOR BEATTIE, JUNIOR, OF
MARISCHAL COLLEGE.

BY DR. W. C. BROWN,

PRINCIPAL OF MARISCHAL COLLEGE, ABERDEEN:

Eheu fugaces, Posthume, Posthume!
Labuntur anni.

ALAS, my Friend! the silent speed of time
Contracts the course of life's appointed space;
Scarce have we reach'd the period of our prime,
When Age's wrinkles creep along the face.

What, then, avails, my Beattie ! to pursue
The steepy path that Wisdom's voice prescribes ;
What, Passion's lawless tumults to subdue,

To spurn Ambition's wreaths! Corruption's bribes ?

Will Genius, Pow'r, or Opulence engage
The King of Terrors to suspend his blow?
He sweeps, alike, the hero, and the sage,
The king, and subject, to the shades below.

In vain, we shun the bloody fields of war,
The raging surge that breaks on Biscay's coast,
The feverish glare of Sirius' baneful star,
October's vapours, or December's frost.