ΤΟ WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ. Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest. LIKE April morning clouds, that pass With varying shadow, o'er the grass, And imitate, on field and furrow, Life's chequer'd scene of joy and sorrow; 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, 6 And ever swells again as fast, When the ear deem's its murmur past; Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream. 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 sounds now lowly, and now strong, Oft, when 'mid such capricious chime, To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse For many an error of the muse, Oft hast thou said, " If, still mis-spent, Go, and, to tame thy wandering course, 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 honour'd 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? Oh, hero of that glorious time, When, with unrivall❜d light sublime,— Though martial Austria, and though all Though banded Europe stood her foes- Thou could'st not live to see her beam To save in that presumptuous hour, When Prussia hurried to the field, And snatch'd the spear, but left the shield! Valour and skill 'twas thine to try, And, tried in vain, 'twas thine to die. Ill had it seem'd thy silver hair The last, the bitterest pang to share, For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven, And birthrights to usurpers given; Thy lands, thy children's wrongs to feel, On thee relenting heaven bestows For honour'd life an honour'd close; And when revolves, in time's sure change, The hour of Germany's revenge, When, breathing fury for her sake, Some new Arminius shall awake, Her champion, ere he strike, shall come "Or of the Red-Cross hero teach, Dauntless in dungeon as on breach: Alike to him the sea, the shore, The brand, the bridle, or the oar; Alike to him the war that calls Its votaries to the shatter'd walls, Which the grim Turk, besmear'd with blood, Against the Invincible made good; Or that, whose thundering voice could wake The silence of the polar lake, |