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Urg'd from the hill's high top, with progress swift,
A weighty stone, resistless, rapid came ;
Seen by the fated wretch, who stood unmov'd,
Nor turn'd to fly, till flight had been in vain ;
When now arriv'd the instrument of death,
And fell'd him to the ground. The thirsty land
Drank up his blood: such was the will of Heav'n!

How wide the landscape opens to the view!
Still as I mount the lessening hills decline,
Till high above them northern Grampius lifts
His hoary head, bending beneath a load
Of everlasting snow, O'er southern fields
I see the Cheviot hills, the ancient bounds
Of two contending kingdoms. There in fight
Brave Percy and the gallant Douglas bled;
The house of heroes, and the death of hosts!
Watering the fertile fields, majestic Forth,
Full, deep, and wide, rolls placid to the sea,
With many a vessel trim and oared bark
In rich profusion cover'd, wafting o'er
The wealth and produce of far distant lands.

But chief mine eye on the subjected vale Of Leven pleas'd looks down; while o'er the trees, That shield the hamlet with the shade of years,

The towering smoke of early fire ascends,

And the shrill cock proclaims th' advanced morn.

How blest the man who, in these peaceful plains,
Ploughs his paternal field; far from the noise,
The care, and bustle of a busy world!
All in the sacred, sweet, sequester'd vale
Of Solitude, the secret primrose-path

Of rural life, he dwells; and with him dwells
Peace and Content, twins of the silvan shade,
And all the Graces of the golden age.
Such is Agricola, the wise, the good;

By nature formed for the calm retreat,

The silent path of life. Learn'd, but not fraught
With self-importance, as the starched fool,
Who challenges respect by solemn face,

By studied accent, and high-sounding phrase.
Enamour'd of the shade, but not morose,
Politeness, rais'd in courts by frigid rules,
With him spontaneous grows. Not books alone,
But man his study, and the better part
To tread the ways of virtue, and to act
The various scenes of life with God's applause.
Deep in the bottom of the flowery vale,
With blooming fallows and the leafy twine
Of verdant alders fenc'd, his dwelling stands
Complete in rural elegance. The door,

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By which the poor or pilgrim never pass❜d,

Still open, speaks the master's bounteous heart.
There, O how sweet! amid the fragrant shrubs,
At evening cool to sit; while, on their boughs,
The nested songsters twitter o'er their young;
And the hoarse low of folded cattle breaks
The silence wafted o'er the sleeping lake,
Whose waters glow beneath the purple tinge
Of western cloud; while converse sweet deceives
The stealing foot of time! Or where the ground,
Mounded irregular, points out the graves
Of our forefathers, and the hallow'd fane,
Where swains assembling worship, let us walk,
In softly-soothing melancholy thought,
As Night's seraphic bard, immortal Young,
Or sweet-complaining Gray; there see the goal
Of human life, where drooping, faint, and tir'd,
Oft miss'd the prize, the weary racer rests.

Thus sung the youth, amid unfertile wilds And nameless deserts, unpoetic ground! Far from his friends he stray'd, recording thus The dear remembrance of his native fields, To cheer the tedious night; while slow disease Prey'd on his pining vitals, and the blasts Of dark December shook his humble cot.

THE PASSAGE OF

THE

MOUNTAIN OF ST. GOTHARD.

TO MY CHILDREN.

[DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE.]

YE Plains where three-fold harvests press the ground,
Ye Climes where genial gales incessant swell,
Where Art and Nature shed profusely round
Their rival wonders-Italy farewell!

Still may thy year in fullest splendor shine!
Its icy darts in vain may. Winter throw!

To thee a Parent, Sister, I consign,

And wing'd with health, I woo thy gales to blow.

Yet pleas'd, Helvetia's rugged brows I see,

And thro' their craggy steeps delighted roam; Pleas'd with a people, honest, brave, and free, Whilst every step conducts me nearer home

I wander where Tesino madly flows,

From cliff to cliff, in foaming eddies tost; On the rude mountain's barren breast he rose,

In Po's broad wave now hurries to be lost.

His shores, neat huts and verdant pastures fill,
And hills, where woods of Pine the storm defy;
While, scorning vegetation, higher still
Rise the bare rocks co-eval with the sky.

Upon his banks a favour'd spot I found,
Where shade and beauty tempted to repose;
Within a grove, by mountains circled round,
By rocks o'er-hung, my rustic seat I chose.

Advancing thence by gentle pace and slow,
Unconscious of the way my footsteps prest,
Sudden, supported by the hills below,

St. Gothard's summit rose above the rest.

'Midst tow'ring cliffs, and tracts of endless cold,
Th' industrious path pervades the rugged stone,
And seems-Helvetia let thy toils be told-
A granite girdle o'er the mountain thrown.

No haunt of Men the weary trav❜ller greets,
No vegetation smiles upon the moor,

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