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But Anguish wrung the unweeting groan-
Who blames what frantic Pain must do?

That heart, where motley follies blend,
Was sternly still to Honour true :
To prove Clarinda's fondest friend,
Was what a lover sure might do.

The Muse his ready quill employed,
No nearer bliss he could pursue ;
That bliss Clarinda cold deny'd-
"Send word by Charles how you do!"

The chill behest disarm'd his muse,
Till passion all impatient grew:
He wrote, and hinted for excuse,
'Twas 'cause "he'd nothing else to do."

But by those hopes I have above!
And by those faults I dearly rue!
The deed, the boldest mark of love,
For thee that deed I dare to do!

O could the Fates but name the price
Would bless me with your charms and
you!

With frantic joy I'd pay it thrice,

If human art and power could do!

Then take, Clarinda, friendship's hand,
(Friendship, at least, I may avow;)
And lay no more your chill command,-
I'll write, whatever I've to do.

SYLVANDER.

Love and Friendship

The three toasts

VERSES TO CLARINDA

SENT WITH A PAIR OF WINE-GLASSES

FAIR Empress of the poet's soul,
And Queen of poetesses;
Clarinda, take this little boon,

This humble pair of glasses:

And fill them up with generous juice,
As generous as your mind;
And pledge them to the generous toast,
"The whole of human kind!"

"To those who love us!" second fill;
But not to those whom we love ;
Lest we love those who love not us-
A third-"To thee and me, love! "

TO ALEX. CUNNINGHAM

July 27th, 1788, ELLISLAND IN NITHSDALE
My godlike friend-nay, do not stare,
You think the praise is odd-like;
But "God is love," the saints declare,
Then surely thou art god-like.

And is thy ardour still the same?
And kindled still in ANNA?
Others may boast a partial flame,
But thou art a volcano !

Ev'n Wedlock asks not love beyond
Death's tie-dissolving portal;

But thou, omnipotently fond,
May'st promise love immortal!

Thy wounds such healing powers defy,
Such symptoms dire attend them,
That last great antihectic try—
Marriage perhaps may mend them.

Sweet Anna has an air-a grace,

Divine, magnetic, touching:

Hermit musings

She talks, she charms—but who can trace

The process of bewitching?

VERSES IN FRIARS' CARSE

HERMITAGE

First Version

THOU whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed,

Be thou deckt in silken stole,
Grave these maxims on thy soul.

Life is but a day at most,

Sprung from night, in darkness lost:
Hope not sunshine every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lour.

Happiness is but a name,

Make content and ease thy aim,
Ambition is a meteor-gleam;

Fame a restless idle dream;

Pleasures, insects on the wing

Round peace, the tend'rest flow'r of spring;

Those that sip the dew alone

Make the butterflies thy own;

Those that would the bloom devour

Crush the locusts, save the flower.

T

The home of happiness

For the future be prepar'd,

Guard wherever thou can'st guard;
But thy utmost duly done,

Welcome what thou can'st not shun.
Follies past, give thou to air,
Make their consequence thy care:

Keep the name of Man in mind,
And dishonour not thy kind.

Reverence with lowly heart

Him, whose wondrous work thou art;

Keep His Goodness still in view,

Thy trust, and thy example, too.

Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide!
Quod the Beadsman of Nidside.

AT WHIGHAM'S INN, SANQUHAR
ENVY, if thy jaundiced eye

Through this window chance to spy,
To thy sorrow thou shalt find
All that's generous, all that's kind,
Friendship, virtue, every grace,
Dwelling in this happy place.

VERSICLES ON SIGN-POSTS
He looked just as your sign-post Lions do,
With aspect fierce, and quite as harmless too.

So heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,
Dull on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.

His face with smile eternal drest,
Just like the landlord to his guest,
High as they hang with creaking din,
To index out the Country Inn.

A head, pure, sinless quite of brain and soul, At Wan-
The very image of a barber's poll;

Just shews a human face, and wears a wig,
And looks, when well friseur'd, amazing big.

PEGASUS AT WANLOCKHEAD

WITH Pegasus upon a day,
Apollo weary flying

(Through frosty hills the journey lay),
On foot the way was plying.

Poor slipshod giddy Pegasus
Was but a sorry walker;
To Vulcan then Apollo goes
To get a frosty caulker.

Obliging Vulcan fell to work,

Threw by his coat and bonnet,
And did Sol's business in a crack;
Sol paid him with a sonnet.

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead,
Pity my sad disaster!

My Pegasus is poorly shod,

I'll pay you like my master.

ON WILLIAM CREECH

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
And still his precious self his dear delight;
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets,
Better than e'er the fairest She he meets;
Much specious lore, but little understood,
(Veneering oft outshines the solid wood),

lockhead

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