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THE LAMENT.

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!

Home.

O Thou pale orb, that silent shines,

While care-untroubled mortals sleep! Thou seest a wretch that 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 marked distant hill :
I joyless view thy trembling horn

Reflected in the gurgling rill:
My fondly fluttering heart, be still!

Thou busy power, Remembrance, cease!
Ah! must the agonizing thrill

For ever bar returning peace ! No idly feign'd poetic pains,

My sad lovelorn lamentings claim; No shepherd's pipe-Arcadian strains ;

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame: The plighted faith ; the mutual flame;

The oft attested powers above; The promised Father's tender name:

These were the pledges of my love ! VOL. IV.

R

Encircled in her clasping arms,

How have the raptured moments flown! How have I wish'd for fortune's charms,

For her dear sake, and hers 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 through 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,

Enraptured more, the more enjoy’d, Your dear remembrance in my breast,

My fondly treasured thoughts employ'd. That breast, how dreary now and void,

For her too scanty once of room! Even every ray of hope destroy'd,

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! The morn that warns the’ 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: E'en day, all bitter, brings relief

From such a horror-breathing night.

0! thou bright queen, who o’er the expanse

Now highest reign'st with boundless sway! Oft hast thy silent-marking glance

Observed us, fondly wandering, 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 every joy and pleasure torn,

Life's weary vale I'll wander through ; And hopeless, comfortless I'll mourn

A faithless woman's broken vow.

BURNS.

THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.

WRITTEN IN 1746.

MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.
The wretched owner sees afar
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast, and curses life!
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks
Where once they fed their wanton flocks :
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain;
Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it then, in every clime
Through the wide spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy towering spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell
By civil rage and rancour fell.
The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy day:
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:

No strains, but those of sorrow flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe,
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

O baneful cause! oh fatal morn,
Accursed to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their fathers stood,
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceased,
The victor's soul was not appeased ;
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames and murdering steel!

The pious mother, doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And, stretch'd beneath the inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes and dies.

While the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow :

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn.'

SMOLLET.

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