200 ALEXANDER SELKIRK. ALEXANDER SELKIRK. I AM monarch of all I survey; I am out of humanity's reach, Society, Friendship, and Love ALEXANDER SELKIRK. Ye winds that have made me your sport, How fleet is a glance of the mind! But the seafowl is gone to her nest, William Couper. 201 202 ODE TO LEVEN WATER. ODE TO LEVEN WATER. ON Leven's banks, while free to rove, I envied not the happiest swain Pure stream, in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread; Still on thy banks so gaily green May numerous herds and flocks be seen; And shepherds piping in the dale; And industry embrowned with toil; And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, Tobias Smollett. A RURAL PICTURE. 203 A RURAL PICTURE. SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain; Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd; Where humble happiness endear'd each scene! The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, * * * * Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I past with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften'd from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung; The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool; The playful children just let loose from school; The watch-dog's voice, that bay'd the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. * * * * How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease; 204 MORNING. Who quits a world where strong temptations try, MORNING. WHAT tongue the melodies of morn can tell? The wild-brook babbling down the mountain side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, and linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark; Crown'dwith her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings; Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tower. J. Beattie. |