That our condition is the worst,

And we with such misfortunes curs'd
As all comparison defy,

Was late the universal cry.

When lo, an accident so slight
As yonder little linnet's flight,

Has made your stubborn heart confess
(So your amazement bids me guess)
That all our load of woes and fears
Is but a part of what he bears.
Where can he rest secure from harms,
Whom ev'n a helpless hare alarms?
Yet he repines not at his lot,
When past, the danger is forgot:
On yonder bough he trims his wings,
And with unusual rapture sings;

While we, less wretched, sink beneath
Our lighter ills, and rush to death.
No more of this unmeaning rage,
But hear, my friends, the words of age.
"When by the winds of autumn driven
The scatter'd clouds fly cross the heaven,
Oft have we, from some mountain's head,
Beheld the' alternate light and shade
Sweep the long vale. Here hovering lours
The shadowy cloud; there downward pours,
Streaming direct, a flood of day,

Which from the view flies swift away;
It flies, while other shades advance,
And other streaks of sunshine glance.
Thus chequer'd is the life below
With gleams of joy, and clouds of woe.
Then hope not, while we journey on,
Still to be basking in the sun :

Nor fear, though now in shades ye mourn, That sunshine will no more return.

If, by your terrors overcome,

Ye fly before the' approaching gloom,
The rapid clouds your flight pursue,
And darkness still o'ercasts your view.
Who longs to reach the radiant plain
Must onward urge his course amain;
For doubly swift the shadow flies,
When 'gainst the gale the pilgrim plies.
At least be firm, and undismay'd
Maintain your ground! the fleeting shade
Ere long spontaneous glides away,
And gives you back the' enlivening ray.
Lo, while I speak, our danger past!
No more the shrill horn's angry blast
Howls in our ear; the savage roar
Of war and murder is no more.
Then snatch the moment fate allows,
Nor think of past or future woes."
He spoke; and hope revives; the lake
That instant one and all forsake,
In sweet amusement to employ
The present sprightly hour of joy.

Now from the western mountain's brow
Compass'd with clouds of various glow,
The sun a broader orb displays,
And shoots aslope his ruddy rays.
The lawn assumes a fresher green,
And dew-drops spangle all the scene.
The balmy zephyr breathes along,
The shepherd sings his tender song,
With all their lays the groves resound,
And falling waters murmur round.

Discord and care were put to flight,
And all was peace and calm delight.

ELEGY.*

STILL shall unthinking man substantial deem The forms that fleet through life's deceitful dream? On clouds, where Fancy's beam amusive plays, Shall heedless Hope the towering fabric raise ? Till at Death's touch the fairy visions fly, And real scenes rush dismal on the eye; And, from Elysium's balmy slumber torn, The startled soul awakes, to think and mourn. O ye, whose hours in jocund train advance, Whose spirits to the song of gladness dance, Who flowery vales in endless view survey, Glittering in beams of visionary day; O, yet while Fate delays the' impending woc, Be rous'd to thought, anticipate the blow; Lest, like the lightning's glance, the sudden ill Flash to confound, and penetrate to kill; Lest, thus encompass'd with funereal gloom, Like me, ye bend o'er some untimely tomb, Pour your wild ravings in Night's frighted ear, And half pronounce Heaven's sacred doom severe. Wise, Beauteous, Good! O every grace combin❜d, That charms the eye, or captivates the mind! Fair as the floweret opening on the morn, Whose leaves bright drops of liquid pearl adorn! Sweet, as the downy-pinion'd gale, that roves To gather fragrance in Arabian groves! Mild, as the strains, that, at the close of day, Warbling remote, along the vales decay !

*On Mrs. Walker, a sister of Lord Monboddo.

Yet, why with these compar'd? What tints so fine,
What sweetness, mildness, can be match'd with thine?
Why roam abroad? Since still, to Fancy's eyes,
I see, I see thy lovely form arise.

Still let me gaze, and every care beguile,
Gaze on that cheek, where all the Graces smile;
That soul-expressing eye, benignly bright,
Where meekness beams ineffable delight;
That brow, where Wisdom sits enthron'd serene,
Each feature forms, and dignifies the mien:
Still let me listen, while her words impart
The sweet effusions of the blameless heart,
Till all my soul, each tumult charm'd away,
Yields, gently led, to Virtue's easy sway.

By thee inspir'd, O Virtue! Age is young,
And music warbles from the faltering tongue :
Thy ray creative cheers the clouded brow,
And decks the faded cheek with rosy glow,
Brightens the joyless aspect, and supplies
Pure heavenly lustre to the languid eyes:
But when Youth's living bloom reflects thy beams,
Resistless on the view the glory streams;
Love, Wonder, Joy, alternately alarm,
And Beauty dazzles with angelic charm.
Ah, whither filed!-ye dear illusions, stay
Lo, pale and silent lies the lovely clay-
How are the roses on that cheek decay'd,
Which late the purple light of youth display'd!
Health on her form each sprightly grace bestow'd;
With life and thought each speaking feature glow'd.
Fair was the flower, and soft the vernal sky;
Elate with hope, we deem'd no tempest nigh;
When lo, a whirlwind's instantaneous gust
Left all its beauties withering in the dust.

All cold the hand that sooth'd Woe's weary head! And quench'd the eye, the pitying tear that shed! And mute the voice, whose pleasing accents stole, Infusing balm, into the rankled soul!

O Death, why arm with cruelty thy power,
And spare the idle weed, yet lop the flower?
Why fly thy shafts in lawless error driven?

Is Virtue then no more the care of Heaven?-
But peace, bold thought! be still my bursting heart!
We, not Eliza, felt the fatal dart.

'Scap'd the dark dungeon, does the slave complain,
Nor bless the hand that broke the galling chain?
Say, pines not Virtue for the lingering morn,
On this dark wild condemn'd to roam forlorn?
Where Reason's meteor-rays, with sickly glow,
O'er the dun gloom a dreadful glimmering throw
Disclosing dubious to the' affrighted eye
O'erwhelming mountains tottering from on high,
Black billowy seas in storm perpetual toss'd,
And weary ways in wildering labyrinths lost.
O happy stroke! that burst the bonds of clay,.
Darts through the rending gloom the blaze of day,
And wings the soul with boundless flight to soar,
Where dangers threat, and fears alarm no more.
Transporting thought! here let me wipe away
The tear of grief, and wake a bolder lay.
But ah! the swimming eye o'erflows anew,-
Nor check the sacred drops to pity due;
Lo, where in speechless, hopeless anguish, bend
O'er her low'd dust, the Parent, Brother, Friend!
How vain the hope of man!-But cease thy strain
Nor Sorrow's dread solemnity profane ;

Mix'd with yon drooping Mourners, on her bier
In silence shed the sympathetic tear.