HAPPY Insect! what can be

In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill ;
'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede;

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!

All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou :
Thou dost innocently joy,

Nor does thy luxury destroy;

The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.

Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripen'd year!

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
Phœbus is himself thy sire:

To thee, of all things upon earth,

Life is no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect! happy thou

Dost neither age nor winter know;

But, when thou 'st drunk, and danc 'd, and sung

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,

(Voluptuous, and wise withal,

Epicurean animal!)

Sated with thy summer feast,

Thou retir'st to endless rest.

HOPE.

OPE! of all ills that men endure,

HOPE

The only cheap and universal cure!

Thou captive's freedom, and thou sick man's health!

Thou loser's victory, and thou beggar's wealth!

Thou manna, which from heaven we eat,

To every taste a several meat!

K

Thou strong retreat! thou sure entail'd estate,
Which nought has power to alienate!

Thou pleasant, honest flatterer! for none
Flatter unhappy men, but thou alone!

Hope thou first fruits of happiness!
Thou gentle dawning of a bright success!
Thou good preparative, without which our joy
Does work too strong, and, whilst it cures, destroy!
Who out of Fortune's reach dost stand,

And art a blessing still in hand!

Whilst thee her earnest-money we retain,
We certain are to gain,

Whether she her bargain break, or else fulfil;
Thou only good, not worse for ending ill!

Brother of Faith! 'twixt whom and thee
The joys of heaven and earth divided be!
Though Faith be heir, and have the fix'd estate,
Thy portion yet in moveables is great.
Happiness itself 's all one

In thee, or in possession!

Only the future's thine, the present his !
Thine's the more hard and noble bliss:
Best apprehender of our joys! which hast
So long a reach, and yet canst hold so fast!

Hope! thou sad lovers' only friend!
Thou way, that may'st dispute it with the end!
For love I fear 's a fruit that does delight
The taste itself, less than the smell and sight.

Fruition more deceitful is

Than thou canst be, when thou dost miss ;
Men leave thee by obtaining, and straight flee
Some other way again to thee;

And that's a pleasant country, without doubt,
To which all soon return who travel out.

YE Caledonian beauties, who have long

Been both the muse and subject of my song,
Assist your bard, who in harmonious lays,
Designs the glory of your Plaid to raise :

How my fond breast with blazing ardour glows,
Whene'er my song on you just praise bestows!
Phoebus and his imaginary nine,

With me have lost the title of divine;
To no such shadows will I homage pay,
These to my real muses shall give way—

My muses who, on smooth meand'ring Tweed,

Stray through the groves, or grace the clover mead;

Or these who bathe themselves where haughty Clyde Does roaring o'er his lofty cat'racts ride;

Or you, who on the banks of lofty Tay,

Drain from the flowers the early dews of May,
To varnish on your cheek the crimson dye,
Or make the white the falling snow outvie;
And you who on Edina's street display
Millions of matchless beauties every day;
Inspired by you, what poet can desire
To warm his genius at a brighter fire!

I sing the Plaid, and sing with all my skill;
Mount then, O Fancy, standard to my will!
Be strong each thought, run soft each happy line,
That gracefulness and harmony may shine,
Adapted to the beautiful design.

Great is the subject, vast th' exalted theme,
And shall stand fair in endless rolls of fame!
The Plaid's antiquity comes first in view—
Precedence to antiquity is due:

Antiquity contains a certain spell,

To make e'en things of little worth excel;
To smallest subjects gives a glaring dash,
Protecting high-born idiots from the lash:
Much more 'tis valued, when with merit placed-
It graces merit, and by merit's graced.

O first of garbs! garment of happy fate!
So long employ'd, of such an antique date;
Look back some thousand years, till records fail,
And lose themselves in some romantic tale,
We'll find our god-like fathers nobly scorn'd

To be with any other dress adorn'd;

Before base foreign fashions interwove,

Which 'gainst their interest and their bravery strove. 'Twas they could boast their freedom with proud Rome, And arm'd in steel, despise the senate's doom;