To a Mountain Daisy.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,

High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield;

But thou, beneath the random bield

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,

Sweet floweret of the rural shade!

By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid

Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!

Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven

To misery's brink,

Till, wrench'd of every stay but Heaven,

He, ruin'd, sink!

Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,

That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!

Address to Edinburgh.

EDINA! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy Trade his labour plies; There Architecture's noble pride

Bids elegance and splendour rise; Here Justice, from her native skies,

High wields her balance and her rod;

There Learning, with his eagle eyes,

Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy sons, Edina! social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to Sorrow's wail,

Or modest Merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name!

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine;

I see the Sire of love on high,

And own His works indeed divine.

There, watching high the least alarms,

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold veteran, gray in arms,

And mark'd with many a seamy scar: The ponderous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd the invader's shock.