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Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.

Conscious, blushing for our race, Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. Man, your proud usurping foe, Would be lord of all below : Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels.
But, man, to whom alone is giv'n
A

ray direct from pitying Heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane-
And creatures for his pleasure slain.

In these savage, liquid plains, Only known to wand'ring swains, Where the mossy rivulet strays, Far from human haunts and ways; All on nature you depend, And life's poor season peaceful spend. Or, if man's superior might Dare invade your native right, On the lofty ether borne, Man with all his pow'rs you scorn; Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, Other lakes, and other springs ; And the foe

you

cannot brave, Scorn at least to be his slave.

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOUR

OF THE

INN AT KENMORE,

TAYMOUTH.

ADMIRING nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th’ abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, My savage journey, curious, I pursue, , Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample Th' outstretching lake, imbosom’d ’mong the hills, The eye

sides,

with wonder and amazement fills; The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, The palace rising on his verdant side; The lawns wood-fring'd in nature's native taste; The hillocks dropt in nature's careless haste; The arches striding o'er the new-born stream; The village gilittering in the noontide beam

· Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell:
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods !
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods--

Here poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
And look through nature with creative fire;
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcild,
Misfortune's lighten’d steps might wander wild;
And disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds:
Here heart-struck grief, might heav'nward stretch

her scan,

And injur'd worth forget and pardon man.

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL

STANDING BY

THE FALL OF FYERS,

NEAR

LOCH-NESS,

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream re

sounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, And viewless echo's ear, astonished, rends.

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