WRITTEN AT ST. ANDREWS,

IN 1798.

ALONG the shelves that line Kibriven's shore
I lingering pass, with steps well-pois'd and slow,
Where brown the slippery wreaths of sea-weeds

grow,

And listen to the weltering ocean's roar.

When o'er the crisping waves the sun-beams gleam,
And from the hills the latest streaks of day
Recede, by Eden's shadowy banks I stray,
And lash the willows blue that fringe the stream;
And often to myself, in whispers weak,

I breathe the name of some dear gentle maid;
Or some lov'd friend, whom in Edina's shade
I left when forc'd these eastern shores to seek!
And for the distant months I sigh in vain
To bring me to these favourite haunts again.

TO RUIN.

WRITTEN IN 1798.

DIRE Power! when closing autumn's hoary dews
Clog the rank ambient air with fell disease,
And yellow leaves hang shivering on the trees,
My pensive fancy loves on thee to muse.
Mountains, that once durst climb the azure sky,

Proud waving woods, and vales expanding green,
No trace display of what they once have been;
But deep beneath the world of waters lie. —
Yet not the shaken earth, the lightning's blaze,

When yawning gulfs wide peopled realms devour,
But nature's secret all-destroying power

With ceaseless torment on my spirit preys :

While man's vain knowledge in his fleeting hour

Serves but to show how fast himself decays.

MELANCHOLY.

WRITTEN IN 1798.

WHERE its blue pallid boughs the poplar rears
I sit, to mark the passing riv'let's chime,
And muse whence flows the silent stream of time;
And to what clime depart the winged years.
In fancy's eye each scene of youth appears

Bright as the setting sun's last purple gleam,

Which streaks the mist that winds along the stream, Bathing the harebell with eve's dewy tears. Ah! blissful days of youth, that ne'er again Revive, with scenes of every fairy hue, And sunny tints which fancy's pencil drew, Are you not false as hope's delusive train? For, as your scenes to memory's view return, You ever point to a lov'd sister's urn.

TO THE YEW.

WRITTEN IN 1799.

WHEN fortune smil'd, and nature's charms were new,
I lov'd to see the oak majestic tower;
I lov'd to see the apple's painted flower,
Bedropt with pencill'd tints of rosy hue.
Now more I love thee, melancholy Yew,

Whose still green leaves in solemn silence wave
Above the peasant's red unhonour'd grave,

Which oft thou moistenest with the morning dew.
To thee the sad, to thee the weary fly;

They rest in peace beneath thy sacred gloom,
Thou sole companion of the lowly tomb!

No leaves but thine in pity o'er them sigh.

Lo! now, to fancy's gaze, thou seem'st to spread
Thy shadowy boughs to shroud me with the dead.

ODE,

ADDRESSED TO MR. GEO. DYER,

ON SCOTTISH SCENERY AND MANNERS.

WRITTEN IN 1799.

I.

DYER! whom late on Lothian's daisied plains,
We hail'd a pilgrim-bard, like minstrel old,
(Such as our younger eyes no more behold,
Though still remembered by the aged swains,)
Sleeps thý shrill lyre where Cam's slow waters lave
Her sedgy banks o'erhung with oziers blue?
Or does romantic Tweed's pellucid wave

Still rise in fancy to the poet's view?

Her moors, that oft have seen the hostile throng

Of warriors mingle in encounter dire;

Her meads, that oft have heard the shepherd's song

Carol of youthful love's enchanting fire; —