TO

WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.

LIKE April morning clouds, that pass,

With varying shadow, o’er the grass,

And imitate, on field and furrow,

Life's chequered scene of joy and sorrow;

Like streamlet from the mountain north,

Now in a torrent racing forth,

Now winding slow its silver train,

And almost slumbering on the plain;

Like breezes of the autumn day,

Whose voice inconstant dies away,

And ever swells again as fast,

When the ear deems its murmur past;

Thus various, my romantic theme

Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.

Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace

Of Light and Shade's inconstant race;

Pleased, views the rivulet afar,

Weaving its maze irregular;

And pleased, we listen as the breeze

Heaves its wild sigh through autumn trees.

Then wild as cloud, or stream, or gale,

Flow on, flow unconfined, my tale.

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell,

I love the license all too well,

In sound now lowly, and now strong,

To raise the desultory song?—

Oft, when mid such capricious chime,

Some transient fit of loftier rhyme

To thy kind judgment seemed excuse

For many an error of the muse;

Oft hast thou said, “If still mis-spent,

Thine hours to poetry are lent,

Go, and, to tame thy wandering course,

Quaff from the fountain at the source;

Approach those masters, o’er whose tomb

Immortal laurels ever bloom:

Instructive of the feebler bard,

Still from the grave their voice is heard;

From them, and from the paths they shew’d,

Chuse honoured guide and practised road;

Nor ramble on through brake and maze,

With harpers rude of barbarous days

“Or deem’st thou not our later time

Yields topic meet for classic rhyme?

Hast thou no elegiac verse

For Brunswick's venerable hearse?

What! not a line, a tear, a sigh,

When valour bleeds for liberty?—

Oh, hero of that glorious time,

When, with unrivalled light sublime,—

Though martial Austria, and though all

The might of Russia, and the Gaul,

Though banded Europe stood her foes—

The star of Brandenburgh arose!

Thou could’st not live to see her beam

For ever quenched in Jena's stream.

Lamented Chief!—it was not given

To thee to change the doom of heaven,