See, from the Caledonian shore,

With blooming laurels cover'd o'er,
Buchanan march along!

Hail, honour'd heir of David's lyre,
Thou full-grown image of thy sire!
And hail thy matchless song!

What terror sounds through all thy strings
When, in his wrath, the' Almighty flings
His thunder through the skies!
Anon, when Heaven's wide opening ray
Shines all our gloomy doubts away,
How soft the notes arise!

When billows upon billows roll,
And night o'erwhelms the tossing soul,
How potent is thy lyre

To hush the raging storm to rest,
Restore the sunshine of the breast,
And joy divine inspire!

Thou sacred bard, whene'er I rove
The smiling mead or shady grove,
Shalt entertain my way:

My humble mansion thou shalt grace,
Shalt at my table find a place,
And tune the' ecstatic lay:

When the returning shades of night
My eyes to balmy sleep invite,
Thy sweet angelic airs

Shall warble to my ear, till Sleep's
Soft influence o'er my senses creeps
And buries all my cares.

་

Next comes the charming Casimire ;
Exulting in seraphic fire,

The bard divinely sings :

The heavenly Muse inspir'd his tongue, The heavenly Muse his viol strung,

And tun'd the' harmonious strings.

See on what full, what rapid gales,
The Polish swan triumphant sails!
He spurns the globe behind;
And, mountains lessening to the eye,
Through the unbounded fields, on high,
Expatiates unconfin'd.

Whether 'tis his divine delight
To bear, in his exalted flight,
Some hero to the skies;
Or to explore the seats above,
His kindred seats of peace and love,
His peerless pinious rise-

With what a wing! to what a height ! He towers and mocks the gazing sight, Lost in the tracts of day!

I from afar behold his course,

Amaz'd with what a sovereign force
He mounts his arduous way!

Methinks, enkindled by the name
Of Casimire, a sudden flame

Now shoots through all my soul.

I feel, I feel the raptures rise,
On starry plumes I cut the skies,
And range from pole to pole.-

Touching on Zion's sacred brow,
My wandering eyes I cast below,
And our vain race survey:

O, how they stretch their eager arms
To' embrace imaginary charms,
And throw their souls away!

In groveling cares and stormy strife
They waste the golden hours of life,
And murder every joy ;

What is a diadem, that's tost

From hand to hand, now won, now lost,
But a delusive toy?

From all terrestrial dregs refin'd
And sensual fogs that choke the mind,
Full of the' inspiring God,

My soul shall her sublimest lay
To her Creator! Father! pay,
And sound his praise abroad.

Ye heroes, with your blood-stain'd arms,
Avaunt! the Muse beholds no charms
In the devouring sword:
Avaunt! ye despicable train
Of gods, the phantoms of the brain,
By Greece and Rome ador'd.

Say, what is Wisdom's queen to me,
Or her fictitious panoply,

Or what the god of Wine?

I never will profane this hand
Around his tall imperial wand2

The sacred boughs to twine.

The thyrsus, mentioned by the Doctor in his ode, was a spear twined round with ivy or bay leaves, which the votaries of Bacchus carried about in their hands at his feasts.

'Tis all romance, beneath a thought, How Hercules with lions fought

And crush'd the dragon's spires;

Alike, their thunderer I despise,
The fabled ruler of the skies,
And his pretended fires..
Thy name, Almighty Sire! and thine,
Jesus! where his full glories shine,
Shall consecrate my lays;

In numbers by no vulgar bounds control'd,
In numbers most divinely strong and bold,

I'll sound through all the world the' immeasurable praise!

But in the moment the Muse is promising great things, her vigour fails, her eyes are dazzled with the divine glories, her pinions flutter, her limbs tremble; she rushes headlong from the skies, falls to the earth, and there lies vanquished, overwhelmed in confusion and silence.

Forgive, Reverend Sir, the vain attempt, and kindly accept this poetical fragment, though rude and unpolished, as an expression of that gratitude which has been so long due to your merit.

VOTUM, SEU VITA IN TERRIS BEATA.

AD VIRUM DIGNISSIMUM

JOH. HARTOPPIUM, BARONETTUM.

1702.

HARTOPPI eximio stemmate nobilis

Venaque ingenii divite, si roges

Quem mea Musa beat,

Ille mihi felix ter et ampliùs,

VOL. II.

Et similes superis annos agit

Qui sibi sufficiens semper adest sibi.'
Hunc longè a curis mortalibus

Inter agros, sylvasque silentes

Se musisque suis tranquillâ in pace fruentem
Sol orens videt et recumbens. -

Non suæ vulgi favor insolentis
(Plausus insani tumidus popelli)
Mentis ad sacram penetrabit arcem,
Feriat licèt æthera clamor.
Nec gaza flammans divitis Indiæ.
Nec, Tage, vestra fulgor arenulæ
Ducent ab obscurâ quiete
Ad laquear radiantis aulæ.

O si daretur stamina proprii
Tractare fusi pollice proprio,

Atque meum mihi fingere fatum;
Candidus vitæ color innocentis
Fila nativo decoraret albo

Non Tyriâ vitiata conchâ.

Non aurum, non gemma nitens, nec purpura tela Intertexta forent invidiosa meæ.

Longè à triumphis, et sonitu tubæ

Longè remotos transigerem dies:
Abstate fasces (splendida vanitas)
Et vos abstate, coronæ.

Pro meo tecto casa sit, salubres
Captet Auroras, procul urbis atro
Distet a fumo, fugiatque longè

Dura phthisis mala, dura tussis.
Displicet Bursa et fremitu molesta
Turba mercantum; gratiùs alvear