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880.-GRONGAR HILL.

Silent nymph, with curious eye,
Who, the purple evening, lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man;
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings;
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale;
Come, with all thy various hues,
Come and aid thy sister Muse;
Now, while Phoebus riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky!
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong;
Grongar, in whose mossy cells
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;
Grongar, in whose silent shade,
For the modest Muses made;
So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rill,
Sate upon a flowery bed,

With my hand beneath my head;

While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead and over wood,

From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his chequer'd sides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves, and grottoes where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day:
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal:

The mountains round, unhappy fate;
Sooner or later of all height,

Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise:
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly-risen hill.

Now, I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours intervene ;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show,
In all the hues of Heaven's bow!
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.

Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly towering in the skies!
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires!
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads!
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks!

Below me trees unnumber'd rise,
Beautiful in various dyes:
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs.
And beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!

Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye!
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood,
His sides are clothed with waving wood,
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps ;
So both a safety from the wind
On mutual dependence find.

'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ;
'Tis now the apartment of the toad;
And there the fox securely feeds;
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there falls
Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls.
Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state;
But transient is the smile of Fate!
A little rule, a little sway,
A sun-beam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers how they run,
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life, to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought,
To instruct our wandering thought;
Thus she dresses green and gay,
To disperse our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,

When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody valleys, warm and low;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky!
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tower,
The naked rock, the shady bower;
The town and village, dome and farm,
Each give each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide ;
How close and small the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadows cross the eye!
A step methinks may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem;
So we mistake the Future's face,
Ey'd through Hope's deluding glass;
As yon summits soft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear:
Still we tread the same coarse way,
The present 's still a cloudy day.
O may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see;

Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tamed, my wishes laid;
For, while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul:
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.

Now, ev'n now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain-turf I lie ;
While the wanton zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,
Now, e'en now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts; be great who will; Search for Peace with all your skill : Open wide the lofty door,

Seek her on the marble floor.

In vain you search, she is not there;
In vain ye search the domes of Care!
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads, and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure, close allied,
Ever by each other's side:
And often, by the murmuring rill.
Hears the thrush, while all is still,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

John Dyer.-Born 1700, Died 1758.

881. THE BRAES OF YARROW.

A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow !
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
And think nae mair on the Braes of

Yarrow.

B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride?
Where gat ye that winsome marrow?
A. I gat her where I darena weil be seen,
Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride,
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow!
Nor let thy heart lament to leave

Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen,

Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?

A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,

Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen, Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint her lover lover dear,
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow,
And I hae slain the comeliest swain

That e'er poued birks on the Braes of
Yarrow.

Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red?

Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?

And why yon melancholious weeds

Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?

What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude?

What's yonder floats? O dule and sor

row!

'Tis he, the comely swain I slew

Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

Wash, oh wash his wounds his wounds in tears,

His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,

And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow,
And weep around in waeful wise,

His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierced his breast,
His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.

Did I not warn thee not to lue,

And warn from fight, but to my sorrow; O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm

Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,

Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,

As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple frae the rock as mellow.

Fair was thy love, fair fair indeed thy love, In flowery bands thou him didst fetter; Though he was fair and weil beloved again, Than me he never lued thee better.

Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the Braes of
Yarrow.

C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride,
How can I busk a winsome marrow,
How lue him on the banks of Tweed,
That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow.

O Yarrow fields! may never never rain,
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely slain my love,
My love, as he had not been a lover.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing,
Ah! wretched me! I little little kenn'd
He was in these to meet his ruin.

The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed,

Unheedful of my dule and sorrow, But e'er the to-fall of the night

He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

Much I rejoiced that waeful waeful day;

I sang, my voice the woods returning, But lang ere night the spear was flown

That slew my love, and left me mourning.

What can my barbarous barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My lover's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

My happy sisters may be may be proud;
With cruel and ungentle scoffin,
May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes
My lover nail'd in his coffin.

My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, And strive with threatening words to move

me,

My lover's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou ever bid me love thee?

Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love, With bridal sheets my body cover, Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,

Let in the expected husband lover.

But who the expected husband husband is? His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter.

Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,

Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down,
O lay his cold head on my pillow;
Take aff take aff these bridal weeds,
And crown my careful head with willow.

Pale though thou art, yet best yet best beloved,

O could my warmth to life restore thee!
Ye'd lie all night between my breasts,
No youth lay ever there before thee.

Pale pale, indeed, O lovely lovely youth, Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lie all night between my breasts,

No youth shall ever lie there after.

Return, return, O mournful mournful bride,
Return and dry thy useless sorrow :
Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs,
He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

William Hamilton.-Born 1704, Died 1754.

882.-SONG.

Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale, Where Yarrow streams along, Forsake your rural toils, and join In my triumphant song.

She grants, she yields; one heavenly smile

Atones her long delays,

One happy minute crowns the pains
Of many suffering days.

Raise, raise the victor notes of joy,

These suffering days are o'er; Love satiates now his boundless wish From beauty's boundless store :

No doubtful hopes, no anxious fears,
This rising calm destroy;
Now every prospect smiles around,
All op'ning into joy.

The sun with double lustre shone
That dear consenting hour,
Brighten'd each hill, and o'er each vale
New colour'd every flower:

The gales their gentle sighs withheld,
No leaf was seen to move,

The hovering songsters round were mute,
And wonder hush'd the grove.

The hills and dales no more resound The lambkin's tender cry; Without one murmur Yarrow stole In dimpling silence by :

All nature seem'd in still repose
Her voice alone to hear,

That gently roll'd the tuneful wave,
She spoke and bless'd my ear.

Take, take whate'er of bliss or joy You fondly fancy mine; Whate'er of joy or bliss I boast, Love renders wholly thine:

The woods struck up to the soft gale,
The leaves were seen to move,
The feather'd choir resumed their voice,
And wonder fill'd the grove;

The hills and dales again resound
The lambkins' tender cry,

With all his murmurs Yarrow trill'd
The song of triumph by;

Above, beneath, around, all on

Was verdure, beauty, song;

I snatch'd her to my trembling breast, All nature joy'd along.

William Hamilton.-Born 1704, Died 1754.

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far,

To breathe in distant fields a purer air;
And fix'd on Cambria's solitary shore,
Give to St. David one true Briton more.

For who would leave, un bribed, Hibernia's land,

Or change the rocks of Scotland for the Strand ?

There none are swept by sudden fate away, But all, whom hunger spares, with age decay:

Here malice, rapine, accident conspire,
And now a rabble rages, now a fire;
Their ambush here relentless ruffians lay,
And here the fell attorney prowls for prey;
Here falling houses thunder on your head,
And here a female atheist talks you dead.
While Thales waits the wherry that con-
tains

Of dissipated wealth the small remains,

On Thames's banks, in silent thought we stood,

Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver flood:

Struck with the seat that gave Eliza birth,
We kneel, and kiss the consecrated earth;
In pleasing dreams the blissful age renew,
And call Britannia's glories back to view;
Behold her cross triumphant on the main,
The guard of commerce, and the dread of
Spain,

Ere masquerades debauch'd, excise oppress'd,
Or English honour grew a standing jest.

A transient calm the happy scenes bestow, And for a moment lull the sense of woe. At length awaking, with contemptuous frown, Indignant Thales eyes the neighbouring town: "Since worth," he cries, "in these degenerate days,

Wants e'en the cheap reward of empty praise; In those cursed walls, devote to vice and gain,

Since unrewarded science toils in vain ;
Since hope but soothes to double my distress,
And every moment leaves my little less;
While yet my steady steps no staff sustains,
And life still vigorous revels in my veins;
Grant me, kind Heaven, to find some happier
place,

Where honesty and sense are no disgrace; Some pleasing bank where verdant osiers play,

Some peaceful vale with Nature's painting gay;

Where once the harass'd Briton found repose, And safe in poverty defied his foes;

Some secret cell, ye powers indulgent, give, Let -live here, for has learn'd to live. Here let those reign whom pensions can incite

To vote a patriot black, a courtier white; Explain their country's dear-bought rights

away,

And plead for pirates in the face of day;
With slavish tenets taint our poison'd youth,
And lend a lie the confidence of truth.
Let such raise palaces, and manors buy,
Collect a tax, or farm a lottery;
With warbling eunuchs fill a licensed stage,
And lull to servitude a thoughtless age.

"Heroes, proceed! what bounds your pride shall hold ?

What check restrain your thirst of power and gold?

Behold rebellious Virtue quite o'erthrown, Behold our fame, our wealth, our lives your

own.

To such a groaning nation's spoils are given, When public crimes inflame the wrath of Heaven:

But what, my friend, what hope remains for me,

Who start at theft, and blush at perjury? Who scarce forbear, though Britain's court he sing,

To pluck a titled poet's borrow'd wing;

A statesman's logic unconvinced can hear,
And dare to slumber o'er the Gazetteer:
Despise a fool in half his pension dress'd,
And strive in vain to laugh at H-y's
jest.

"Others, with softer smiles and subtler art,

Can sap the principles, or taint the heart;
With more address a lover's note convey,

Or bribe a virgin's innocence away.

Well may they rise, while I, whose rustic tongue

Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varnish wrong,
Spurn'd as a beggar, dreaded as a spy,
Live unregarded, unlamented die.

"For what but social guilt the friend endears?

Who shares Orgilio's crimes, his fortunes shares.

But thou, should tempting villany present
All Marlborough hoarded, or all Villiers

spent,

Turn from the glittering bribe thy scornful

eye,

Nor sell for gold what gold could never buy, The peaceful slumber, self-approving day, Unsullied fame, and conscience ever gay.

"The cheated nation's happy favourites, see!

Mark whom the great caress, who frown on

me!

London! the needy villain's general home,
The common sewer of Paris and of Rome,
With eager thirst, by folly or by fate,
Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state.
Forgive my transports on a theme lile this,
I cannot bear a French metropolis.

"Illustrious Edward! from the realms of
day,

The land of heroes and of saints survey!
Nor hope the British lineaments to trace,
The rustic grandeur, or the surly grace;
But, lost in thoughtless ease and empty
show,

Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau;
Sense, freedom, piety, refined away,
Of France the mimic, and of Spain the prey.
"All that at home no more can beg or
steal,

Or like a gibbet better than a wheel;
Hiss'd from the stage, or hooted from the
court,

Their air, their dress, their politics import;
Obsequious, artful, voluble, and gay,
On Britain's fond credulity they prey.
No gainful trade their industry can 'scape,
They sing, they dance, clean shoes, or cure a
clap:

All sciences a fasting Monsieur knows,
And bid him go to hell, to hell he goes.

"Ah! what avails it that, from slavery far,
I drew the breath of life in English air;
Was early taught a Briton's right to prize,
And lisp the tale of Henry's victories;
If the gull'd conqueror receives the chain,
And flattery subdues when arms are vain?

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