TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, Esq. Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest. LIKE April morning clouds, that pass, Now winding slow its silver train, And almost slumbering on the plain ; Whose voice inconstant dies away, And ever swells again as fast, Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream. Of Light and Shade's inconstant race ; Weaving its maze irregular; And pleased, we listen as the breeze Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell, I love the license all too well, In sound now lowly, and now strong, Oft, when mid such capricious chime, To thy kind judgment seemed excuse |