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And differing judgments serve but to declare
That truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where.
Of all it ever was my lot to read,
Of critics now alive, or long since dead,
The book of all the world that pleased me most
Was—well-a-day, the title-page was lost;
The writer well remarks, a heart that knows
To take with gratitude what Heaven bestows,
With prudence always ready at our call,
To guide our use of it, is all in all.
Doubtless it is.—To which, of my own store
I superadd a few essentials more.
But these, excuse the liberty I take,
I waive just now, for conversation's sake.' —
'Spoke like an oracle!' they all exclaim, And add Right Reverend to Smug's honoured name.
Boadicea. An Ode.
WHEN the British warrior queen,
Sage beneath a spreading oak
Every burning word he spoke
'Princess! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
Tis because resentment ties
'Rome shall perish—write that word
Perish hopeless and abhorred,
'Rome, for empire far renowned,
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,-
'Other Romans shall arise,
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
'Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land,
Armed with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command.
'Regions Caesar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway, Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.'
Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride,
Rushed to battle, fought and died,
'Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heaven awards the justice due;
Empire is on us bestowed,
Shame and ruin wait for you!'
To A Mountain Daisy.
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
Wi' speckled breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Amid the storm;
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
O' clod, or stane,
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
In humble guise;
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless maid,
And guileless trust,
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless-starred!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
And whelm him o'er!
Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven
To misery's brink,
He, ruined, sink!
Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
Full on thy bloom,
Shall be thy doom!
To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest, With The Plough.
WEE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
Wi' bickerin brattle l!
I 'm truly sorry man's dominion
Which makes thee startle
An' fellow mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
'S a sma' request:
And never miss't!
1 hurry. s hand-stick for clearing the plough.
J An ear of com now and then; a thrave is twenty-four sheaves.