The arches striding o'er the new-born stream;
The village, glittering in the noontide beam-

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell:
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods-

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
And look through nature with creative fire:
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild:
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds:
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch
her scan,

And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.

WRITTEN

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL,

Standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch-Ness.

AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods;
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,
Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream re-
sounds.

As high in air the bursting torrents flow,

As deep recoiling surges foam below,

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de

scends,

And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends.

Dim-seen,

Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless

show'rs,

The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs.
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils,
And still below, the horrid cauldron boils-

ON

ON THE BIRTH

OF A

POSTHUMOUS CHILD,

Born in peculiar circumstances of family distress.

SWEET Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,

And ward o' mony a pray'r,

What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

November hirples o'er the lea,

Chill, on thy lovely form;

And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree,
Should shield thee frae the storm.

May

May He who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving show'r,
The bitter frost and snaw!

May HE, the friend of woe and want,
Who heals life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,
And heal her cruel wounds !

But late, she flourish'd, rooted fast,

Fair on the summer morn:

Now feebly bends she, in the blast,
Unshelter'd and forlorn:

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unscath'd by ruffian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land!

THE