Or thither, where, beneath the showery west,
The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid;
Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest,

No slaves revere them, and no wars invade:
Yet frequent now, at midnight's solemn hour,
The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold,
And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power,
In pageant robes, and wreathed with sheeny gold,
And on their twilight tombs aërial council hold.

But, oh! o'er all, forget not Kilda's race,

On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides, Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides. Go! just as they, their blameless manners trace! Then to my ear transmit some gentle song Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, And all their prospect but the wintry main. With sparing temperance, at the needful time, They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-prest, Along the Atlantic rock, undreading, climb,

And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest. Thus, blest in primal innocence, they live Sufficed, and happy with that frugal fare Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give.

Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare; Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

K

Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes engage Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest:

For not alone they touch the village breast, But filled, in elder time, the historic page.

There, Shakespeare's self, with every garland crowned, In musing hour his wayward sisters found, And with their terrors drest the magic scene. From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design, Before the Scot, afflicted and aghast!

The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line

Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant passed. Proceed! nor quit the tales which, simply told, Could once so well my answering bosom pierce; Proceed, in forceful sounds and colours bold, The native legends of thy land rehearse ; To such adapt thy lyre and suit thy powerful verse.

In scenes like these, which, daring to depart
From sober truth, are still to nature true,
And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view,
The Heroic Muse employed her Tasso's art!
How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke,
Its gushing blood the gaping cypress poured !

When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blast upheaved the vanished sword! How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind,

To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung!

Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind
Believed the magic wonders which he sung!
Hence, at each sound, imagination glows!
Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows!

Melting it flows, pure, numerous, strong, and clear, And fills the impassioned heart, and wins the harmonious ear!

All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail !
Ye "spacious" friths and lakes, which, far away,
Are by smooth Annan filled, or pastoral Tay,
Or Don's romantic springs, at distance hail !

The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread Your lowly glens, o'erhung with spreading broom; Or, o'er your stretching heaths, by Fancy led. Then will I dress once more the faded bower

Where Jonson sat in Drummond's "classic" shade; Or crop, from Teviotdale, each "lyric flower,"

And mourn on Yarrow's banks, "where Willy's laid!" Meantime, ye powers that on the plains which bore The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains, attend !— Where'er he dwell, on hill or lowly moor,

To him I lose, your kind protection lend,

And, touched with love like mine, preserve my absent friend!

AKENSIDE.

ON LEAVING HOLLAND.

FARE

In June, 1744, Akenside had gone to Leyden to take his degree of Doctor of Physic, which he received on the 16th of May of that year. He stayed in Holland only long enough to see his diploma dissertation through the press.

I. I.

AREWELL to Leyden's lonely bound,
The Belgian Muse's sober seat;
Where, dealing frugal gifts around
To all the favourites at her feet,
She trains the body's bulky frame
For passive, persevering toils;
And lest, from any prouder aim,

The daring mind should scorn her homely spoils,
She breathes maternal fogs to damp its restless flame.
I. 2.

Farewell the grave, pacific air,

Where never mountain zephyr blew :

The marshy levels lank and bare,

Which Pan, which Ceres never knew :

The Naiads, with obscene attire,

Urging in vain their urns to flow;

While round them chaunt the croaking choir,

And haply soothe some lover's prudent woe,
Or prompt some restive bard and modulate his lyre.

I. 3.

Farewell, ye nymphs, whom sober care of gain
Snatched in your cradles from the god of Love:
She rendered all his boasted arrows vain ;
And all his gifts did he in spite remove.
Ye too, the slow-eyed fathers of the land,
With whom dominion steals from hand to hand,
Unowned, undignified by public choice,

I go where Liberty to all is known,
And tells a monarch on his throne,
He reigns not but by her preserving voice.

II. I.

O my loved England, when with thee
Shall I sit down, to part no more?
Far from this pale, discoloured sea,
That sleeps upon the reedy shore :
When shall I plough thy azure tide?
When on thy hills the flocks admire,

Like mountain snows; till down their side

I trace the village and the sacred spire,

While bowers and copses green the golden slope divide.