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With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye,

I see each aimèd dart;
For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my heart.

Then low'ring, and pouring,
The storm no more I dread;
Tho' thick'ning, and black'ning,
Round my devoted head.

And thou grim Pow'r by life abhorr'd,
While life a pleasure can afford,
Oh! hear a wretch's pray'r!
Nor more I shrink appall'd, afraid;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,
To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,
Resign life's joyless day-

My weary heart its throbbing cease,
Cold mould'ring in the clay?
No fear more, no tear more,
To stain my lifeless face,

Enclasped, and grasped,

Within thy cold embrace!


Occasioned by the unfortunate issue of a Friend's Amour.

Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself,

And sweet affection prove the spring of woe!

O THOU pale orb that silent shines

While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
Thou seest a wretch who inly pines.
And wanders here to wail and weep!
With woe I nightly vigils keep,
Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam;

And mourn, in lamentation deep,
How life and love are all a dream!

I joyless view thy rays adorn

The faintly-markèd, distant hill;


I joyless view thy trembling horn,
Reflected in the gurgling rill:
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still!
Thou busy pow'r, remembrance, cease!
Ah! must the agonizing thrill
For ever bar returning peace!

No idly-feign'd, poetic pains,

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim: No shepherd's pipe-Arcadian strains; No fabled tortures, quaint and tame. The plighted faith, the mutual flame, The oft-attested pow'rs above,

The promis'd father's tender name; These were the pledges of my love! Encircled in her clasping arms,

How have the raptur'd moments flown! How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, For her dear sake, and her's alone! And, must I think it! is she gone,

My secret heart's exulting boast?

And does she heedless hear my groan?

And is she ever, ever lost?

Oh! can she bear so base a heart,

So lost to honour, lost to truth,

As from the fondest lover part,

The plighted husband of her youth? Alas! life's path may be unsmooth! Her way may lie thro' rough distress!

Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe

Her sorrows share, and make them less?

Ye winged hours that o'er us pass'd,
Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd,
Your dear remembrance in my breast

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd:
That breast, how dreary now, and void,
For her too scanty once of room!

Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, And not a wish to gild the gloom!

The morn, that warns th' approaching day, Awakes me up to toil and woe;

I see the hours in long array,

That I must suffer, lingering, slow: Full many a pang, and many a throe, Keen recollection's direful train,

Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, Shall kiss the distant western main.

And when my nightly couch I try,

Sore harass'd out with care and grief,
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye,
Keep watchings with the nightly thief:
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief,
Reigns, haggard-wild, in sore affright:
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief
From such a horror-breathing night.

O thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse
Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway
Oft has thy silent-marking glance

Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray!
The time, unheeded, sped away,
While love's luxurious pulse beat high,
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,
To mark the mutual-kindling eye.

Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set!
Scenes, never, never to return!
Scenes, if in stupor I forget,

Again I feel, again I burn!

From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn,
Life's weary vale I'll wander thro';
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn
A faithless woman's broken vow!



OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care,

A burden more than I can bear,

I set me down and sigh;

O life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,

To wretches such as I!

Dim backward as I cast my view,
What sick'ning scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may pierce me through,

Too justly I may fear!

Still caring, despairing,

Must be my bitter doom;

My woes here shall close ne'er
But with the closing tomb!

Happy! ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard!

Ev'n when the wishèd end's denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim,
Meet ev'ry sad returning night,
And joyless morn the same!
You, bustling, and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I, listless, yet restless,
Find ev'ry prospect vain.

How blest the solitary's lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all forgot,

Within his humble cell,

The cavern, wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly gather'd fruits,
Beside his crystal well!

Or haply, to his ev'ning thought,

By unfrequented stream,

The ways of men are distant brought,

A faint, collected dream;

While praising, and raising

His thoughts to heav'n on high,

As wand'ring, meand'ring,

He views the solemn sky.

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd

Where never human footstep trac'd,
Less fit to play the part,

The lucky moment to improve,

And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art:

But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,

The solitary can despise,

Can want, and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate;
Whilst I here must cry here
At perfidy ingrate!

O, enviable, early days,

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,
To care, to guilt unknown!

How ill exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,
Of others, or my own!
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,

That active man engage;
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim declining age!


Recommending a Boy.

Mossgaville, May 3, 1786.

I HOLD it, sir, my bounden duty

To warn you how that Master Tootie,
Alias, Laird M'Gaun,

Was here to hire yon lad away
"'Bout whom ye spak the tither day,

An' wad hae don't aff han';

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