With deep-struck reverential awe1
The learned Sire and Son I saw,
To Nature's God and Nature's law
They gave their lore:

This, all its source and end to draw;
That, to adore.

Brydone's brave ward' I well could spy,
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye;
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by,
To hand him on

Where many a Patriot-name on high,
And hero shone.

DUAN SECOND.

WITH musing deep, astonish'd stare,
I view'd the heavenly-seeming Fair,
A whispering throb did witness bear,
Of kindred sweet,
When, with an elder sister's air,
She did me greet:-

All hail! my own inspired Bard!
In me thy native Muse regard:
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard,
Thus poorly low!

I come to give thee such reward
As we bestow.

Know, the great Genius of this land
Has many a light aerial band,
Who, all beneath his high command,
Harmoniously,

As arts or arms they understand,

Their labors ply.

They Scotia's race among them share;
Some fire the Soldier on to dare;

Some rouse the Patriot up to bare

Corruption's heart;

Some teach the Bard, a darling care,

The tuneful art.

Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and present Professor Stewart.

2 Colonel Fullarton.

'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore,
They ardent, kindling spirits pour;
Or 'mid the venal Senate's roar,

They, sightless, stand,

To mend the honest Patriot-lore,

And grace the hand.

And when the Bard, or hoary Sage,
Charm or instruct the future age,
They bind the wild poetic rage
In energy,

Or point the inconclusive page
Full on the eye.

Hence Fullarton, the brave and young;
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue;
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung
His Minstrel lays;

Or tore, with noble ardor stung,
The Skeptic's bays.

To lower orders are assign'd,

The humbler ranks of human kind,
The rustic Bard, the laboring Hind,
The Artisan;

All choose, as various they 're inclined,
The various man.

When yellow waves the heavy grain,
The threatening storm some strongly rein;
Some teach to meliorate the plain

With tillage skill;

And some instruct the shepherd train
Blithe o'er the hill.

Some hint the lover's harmless wile;
Some grace the maiden's artless smile;
Some soothe the laborer's weary toil
For humble gains,

And make his cottage-scenes beguile
His cares and pains.

Some, bounded to a district-space,
Explore at large man's infant race,

1 David Hume.

To mark the embryotic trace,

Of rustic Bard;

And careful note each opening grace,
A guide and guard.

Of these am I-Coila1 my name;
And this district as mine I claim,
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame,
Held ruling power;

I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame,
Thy natal hour.

With future hope, I oft would gaze,
Fond, on thy little early ways,
Thy rudely caroll'd, chiming phrase,
In uncouth rhymes,
Fired at the simple, artless lays
Of other times.

I saw thee seek the sounding shore,
Delighted with the dashing roar;
Or when the North his fleecy store
Drove thro' the sky,
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar,

Struck thy young eye.

Or when the deep green-mantled earth
Warm cherish'd every floweret's birth,
And joy and music pouring forth
In every grove,

I saw thee eye the general mirth
With boundless love.

When ripen'd fields and azure skies,
Call'd forth the reapers' rustling noise,
I saw thee leave their evening joys,
And lonely stalk,

To vent thy bosom's swelling rise
In pensive walk.

When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong,
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along,

1 Coila, from Kyle, a district in Ayrshire, so called, saith tradition, from Coil, or Coilus, a Pictish monarch.

Those accents, grateful to thy tongue,
Th' adored name,

I taught thee how to pour in song,
To soothe thy flame.

I saw thy pulse's maddening play
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way,
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray,

By passion driven;

But yet the light that led astray

Was light from Heaven.

I taught thy manners-painting strains,
The loves, the ways of simple swains,
Till now, o'er all my wide domains

Thy fame extends:

And some, the pride of Coila's plains,
Become thy friends.

Thou canst not learn, nor can I show,
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow;
Or wake the bosom-melting throe,

With Shenstone's art;
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow
Warm on the heart.

Yet all beneath the unrivall'd rose,
The lowly daisy sweetly blows;

Tho' large the forest's monarch throws
His army shade,

Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows,
Adown the glade.

Then never murmur nor repine;
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine;
And trust me, not Potosi's' mine,
Nor kings' regard,

Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine,
A rustic Bard.

To give my counsels all in one,
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan;

1 In South America, famed for its gold mines.

Preserve the Dignity of Man,

With soul erect;

And trust the Universal Plan

Will all protect.

And wear thou this!-she solemn said,
And bound the Holly round my head:
The polish'd leaves and berries red
Did rustling play;

And, like a passing thought, she fled
In light away.

A DREAM.

Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason,

But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted treason.

[On reading in the public papers, the Laureate's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the Author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and in his dreaming fancy made the following address.]

GUID-MORNIN' to your Majesty!

May Heaven augment your blisses,
On every new birth-day ye see,
A humble poet wishes!

My Bardship here, at your levee,
On sic a day as this is,

Is sure an uncouth sight to see,
Amang thae' birth-day dresses
Sae fine this day.

I see ye 're complimented thrang,
By monie a lord and lady;
God save the king! 's a cuckoo sang,
That's unco3 easy said ay;

The Poets too, a venal gang,

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready,
Wad gar ye trow ye ne'er do wrang,
But ay unerring steady,

On sic a day.

For me! before a monarch's face,

Even there I winna flatter;

1 Among those.-2 By a crowd.-3 Very.-4 Believe.- Will not.