To me ye are lost!--but your summits of green
Shall charm through the distance of many a scene,
In woe, and in wandering, and deserts, return
Like the soul of the dead to the perishing urn!
Ye hills of my country farewell evermore,

As I cleave the dark waves of your rock-rugged shore,
And ask of the hovering gale if it come

From the oak-towering woods on the mountains of home.

Miss Bannerman.

INSCRIPTION,

DESIGNED FOR A VILLAGE SPRING.

CALM is the tenor of my way,
Not hurry'd on with furious haste,
Nor rais'd aloft in proud display :
Pure to the tribute of my urn,
With constant flow, not idle waste,
Offering to him who sends the rain,
By serving man, the best return.
A course like mine, thy trial o'er,
Those living waters will attain,

Which he who drinks shall thirst no more.

TO CHEERFULNESS.

FAIR as the dawning light! auspicious guest!

Source of all comforts to the human breast!
Depriv'd of thee, in sad despair we moan,
And tedious roll the heavy moments on.
Though beauteous objects all around us rise
To charm the fancy, and delight the eyes;
Though Art's fair works and Nature's gifts conspire
To please each sense, and satiate each desire;
'Tis joyless all-till thy enliv'ning ray
Scatters the melancholy gloom away;
Then opens to the soul a heav'nly scene,
Gladness and peace, all sprightly, all serene.

Where dost thou deign, say, in what blest retreat, To choose thy mansion, and to fix thy seat? Thy sacred presence how shall we explore? Can Av'rice gain thee with her golden store? Can vain Ambition, with her boasted charms, Tempt thee within her wide-extended arms? No, with content alone canst thou abide, Thy sister ever smiling by thy side. When boon companions, void of ev'ry care, Crown the full bowl, and the rich banquet share, And give a loose to pleasure-art thou there? Or when the eager swains pursue the chase With active limbs, and health in ev'ry face,

}

Is it the voice that wak'ning up the morn,
Cheers the staunch hound, and winds the jolly horn?
Or, when the assembled great and fair advance
To celebrate the mask, the play, the dance,

Whilst beauty spreads its sweetest charm around,
And airs extatick swell their tuneful sound,
Art thou within the pompous circle found?
Does not thy influence more sedately shine?
Can such tumultous joys as these be thine?
Surely more mild, more constant in their course,
Thy pleasure issues from a nobler source,
From sweet discretion ruling in the breast,
From passions temper'd, and from lusts represt,
From thoughts unconscious of a guilty smart,
And the calm transports of an honest heart.

}

Thy aid, O ever faithful, ever kind, Through life, through death, attends the virtuous mind; Of angry fate wards from us ev'ry blow, Cures ev'ry ill, and softens ev'ry woe. Whatever good our mortal state desires, What wisdom finds, or innocence inspires; From Nature's bounteous hand whatever flows, Whate'er our Maker's providence bestows, By thee mankind enjoys; by thee repays

A grateful tribute of perpetual praise.

Calcot's Moral Thoughts.

THE LADY'S SCULL.

BLUSH not, ye fair! to own me-but be wise,
Nor turn from sad mortality your eyes:
Fame says (and fame alone can tell how true)
1-once-was lovely, and belov'd-like you.
Where are my vot'ries, where my flatt'rers now?
Fled with the subject of each lover's vow.
Adieu the rose's red, the lily's white:

Adieu those eyes that made the darkness light:
No more, alas! those coral lips are seen,
No longer breathes the fragrant gale between.

Turn from your mirror, and behold in me
At once what thousands can't, or dare not see:
Unvarnish'd I the real truth impart,

Nor here am plac'd but to direct the heart.
Survey me well, ye fair ones, and believe,
The grave may terrify, but can't deceive.

On beauty's fragile state no more depend; Here youth and pleasure, age and sorrow end: Here drops the mask, here ends the final scene, Nor differs grave three-score from gay fifteen. All press alike to the same goal-the tomb, Where wrinkled Laura smiles at Chloe's bloom.

When coxcombs flatter, and when fools adore, Here learn the lesson, to be vain no more:

Yet virtue still against decay can arm,

And even lend MORTALITY a charm.

Calcot's Moral Thoughts.

THE GENTLEMAN'S SCULL.

WHY start?-the case is yours-or will be soon;
Some years, perhaps—perhaps another moon.
Life at its utmost length is still a breath,

And those who longest dream must 'wake in death.
Like you, I once thought ev'ry bliss secure,
And gold of ev'ry ill the certain cure :

Till steep'd in sorrow, and besieg'd with pain,
Too late I found all earthly riches vain:
Disease with scorn threw back the sordid fee,
And Death still answer'd-what is gold to me?

Fame, titles, honours, next I vainly sought, And fools obsequious nurs'd the childish thought; Circled with brib'd applause, and purchas'd praise, I built on endless grandeur, endless days: 'Till death awoke me from my dream of pride, And laid a prouder beggar by my side.