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Though now he shuns thy longing arms, He soon shall court thy slighted charms; Though now thy offerings he despise, He soon to thee shall sacrifice;

Though now he freeze, he soon shall burn, And be thy victim in his turn

Celestial visitant, once more
Thy needful presence I implore!
In pity come and ease my grief,
Bring my distemper'd soul relief:
Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,
And give me all my heart desires.


BLESS'D as the immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.

'Twas this depriv'd my soul of rest,
And rais'd such tumults in my breast;
For while I gaz'd, in transport toss'd,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

My bosom glow'd: the subtle flame
Ran quickly through my vital frame;
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung,
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd,
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd;
My feeble pulse forgot to play,
I fainted, sunk, and dy'd away.




LONG have the writers of this warlike age
With human sacrifices drench'd the stage;
That scarce one hero dares demand applause,
Till, weltering in his blood, the ground he gnaws :
As if, like swans, they only could delight
With dying strains, and while they please affright.
Our Philips, though 'twere to oblige the fair,
Dares not destroy, where Horace bids him spare:
His decent scene like that of Greece appears;
No deaths our eyes offend, no sighs our ears.
While he from nature copies every part,
He forms the judgment, and affects the heart.
Oft' as Andromache renews her woe,

The mothers sadden, and their eyes o'erflow.
Hermione, with love and rage possest,
Now soothes, now animates, each maiden breast,
Pyrrhus, triumphant o'er the Trojan walls,
Is greatly perjur'd, and as greatly falls.
Love, and Despair, and Furies are combin'd
In poor Orestes, to distract his mind.
From first to last alternate passions reign;
And we resist the Poet's will in vain.


Few particulars of this ingenious poet and elegant gentleman have been transmitted by his cotemporaries to posterity.

William Hamilton was the second son of a gentleman of opulent fortune and honourable connections; and was born at Bangour, in Ayreshire, the family residence, in 1704. He received all the advantages of a liberal education; and being intended for no particular profession, his taste, like his studies, were unconfined ; but a genius for poetry discovered itself at a very early age, and this he improved by classical learning, and an intimate knowledge of men and manners.

During the prime of his life he seems to have divided his time between the occupations of literature, the amusements of poetry, and the gaieties of polished society, in which he shone with peculiar lustre.

The latter part of his days was clouded with misfortune. Both education and attachments had formed him a Jacobite; and in an evil hour, he joined the standard of the Pretender in 1745.

He celebrated the success of his party at PrestonPans, in a beautiful "Ode on the Battle of Gladsmuire;" but this was the only occasion he found for triumph and exultation. Next year the Jacobites were crushed; and he was obliged to wander about in the Highlands, for some time, exposed to the greatest dangers and inconveniences, till at last he found means to escape to France.

Hamilton resided on the continent for several years, unconnected with party, and devoting his time to the

ingenuous muse. At length, having made his peace with government, he returned to Scotland to take possession of the family estate, which had devolved to him by the death of his elder brother. His constitution having been always delicate, the severity of his native climate did not agree with him, and he returned to the continent, where he died at Lyons, in 1754. His corpse was brought to Scotland, and interred in the abbey church of Holyroodhouse.

Hamilton had been twice married, and left an only son to inherit his estate. He seems to have possessed the social virtues in an eminent degree, and to have been highly respected among his friends. As a poet, "The Triumph of Love," "The Braes of Yarrow," and some of his adapted translations of Horace, bespeak the delicacy of his taste, and the force of his genius.



Rursusque resurgens

Saevit amor.

VIRG. EN. 4.

O VOICE divine, whose heavenly strain
No mortal measure may attain,
O powerful to appease the smart,
That festers in a wounded heart,
Whose mystic numbers can assuage
The bosom of tumult'ous rage,
Can strike the dagger from despair,
And shut the watchful eye of care.
Oft lur'd by thee, when wretches call,
Hope comes, that cheers or softens all;
Expell'd by thee, and dispossest
Envy forsakes the human breast,
Full oft with thee the bard retires,
And lost to earth, to heaven aspires;
How nobly lost! with thee to rove
Through the long deep'ning solemn grove,
Or underneath the moonlight pale,
To silence trust some plaintive tale,
Of nature's ills, and mankind's woes,
While kings and all the proud repose;
Or where some holy aged oak,
A stranger to the woodman's stroke,
From the high rock's aërial crown
In twisting arches bending down,
Bathes in the smooth pellucid stream;
Full oft he waits the mystic dream
Of mankind's joys right understood,
And of the all-prevailing good.
Go forth invok'd, O voice divine!
And issue from thy sacred shrine;
Go search each solitude around,
Where Contemplation may be found,

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