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النشر الإلكتروني

Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls,
Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise,
Or autumn's varied shades imbrown the walls:
Now the black tempest strikes the astonished eyes,
Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies;
The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean blue,
And now rude mountains frown amid the skies:
Whate'er Lorraine light-touched with softening hue,
Or savage Rosa dashed, or learned Poussin drew.

Each sound, too, here to languishment inclined,
Lulled the weak bosom, and induced ease;
Aërial music in the warbling wind,

At distance rising oft, by small degrees,
Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees
It hung, and breathed such soul-dissolving airs
As did, alas! with soft perdition please:
Entangled deep in its enchanting snares,
The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares.
Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state,
Of Caliphs old, who on the Tigris' shore,
In mighty Bagdat, populous and great,

Held their bright court, where was of ladies store,
And verse, love, music, still the garland wore :
When sleep was coy, the bard, in waiting there
Cheered the lone midnight with the Muse's lore,
Composing music bade his dreams be fair,
And music lent new gladness to the morning air.
Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran
Soft-tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell,
And sobbing breezes sighed, and oft began
So worked the wizard,) wintry storms to swell,

As heaven and earth they would together mell:
The demons of the tempest, growling fell,
Yet the least entrance found they none at all,
Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy hall.

THOMSON.

To my young Lady Lucy Sidney.

WHY came I so untimely forth

Into a world which, wanting thee,
Could entertain us with no worth
Or shadow of felicity?

That time should me so far remove
From that which I was born to love?

Yet, fairest blossom! do not slight

That age which you may know so soon:
The rosy morn resigns her light

And milder glory to the noon:

And then what wonders shall you do,
Whose dawning beauty warms us so?

Hope waits upon the flowery prime;
And summer, though it be less gay,
Yet is not looked on as a time

Of declination or decay:
For with a full hand that does bring
All that was promised by the spring.

WALLER.

It's hame, and it's hame.

It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be;

An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree !
When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree,
The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countree;
It's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

The green leaf o' loyaltie 's beginning for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countree.

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

There's nought now from ruin my country can save,
But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie
May rise again and fight for their ain countree.
It's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save,
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave;
But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my ee:
'I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree.'
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Solitude.

HAIL, old patrician trees, so great and good!
Hail, ye plebeian under-wood!

Where the poetic birds rejoice,

And for their quiet nests and plenteous food
Pay with their grateful voice.

Hail, the poor Muses' richest manor-seat!
Ye country houses and retreat,

Which all the happy gods so love,

That for you oft they quit their bright and great

Metropolis above.

Here Nature does a house for me erect;

Nature, the wisest architect,

Who those fond artists does despise

That can the fair and living trees neglect,
Yet the dead timber prize.

Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying,
Hear the soft winds, above me flying,
With all their wanton boughs dispute,
And the more tuneful birds to both replying;
Nor be myself, too, mute.

A silver stream shall roll his waters near,
Gilt with the sunbeams here and there,
On whose enamelled bank I'll walk,
And see how prettily they smile, and hear
How prettily they talk.

Ah, wretched and too solitary he,
Who loves not his own company!
He'll feel the weight of 't many a day,
Unless he call in sin or vanity

To help to bear 't away.

*

COWLEY.

To an Early Primrose.

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,

Was nursed in whirling storms,

And cradled in the winds.

Thee when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserved;

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