POEMS.

EGLINTON PARK MEETING.

"If Pindar sung horse races, what should hinder
Himself from being as pliable as Pindar?"

BYRON.

I.

DAWN slowly vanished, and the source of light
Appeared in all his summer glory dressed,
And bade the seas and rivers sparkle bright,

And cheered afar the lonely mountain's breast,
Whose shaggy top was veiled in vapours white,
Where soared, sublime, the eagle o'er her nest,
By haunted cairn the simple lamb and ewe
Grazed 'mong red heath, wild-thyme, and harebell blue.

II.

And on a rock that aged seemed as earth,
Where time had toiled till with his toil turned
The shepherd sat, and eyed, in all her mirth,
Nature rejoice along life's flowery way;
From blossomed thorn the mavis warbled forth,
The linnet from the broom and birchen spray,

grey,

The cushat mourned, and, as the bass to all,
Loud thundered o'er the cliff the mighty waterfall.

III.

Descending thence, along the misty plain,

On wings of thought th' enraptured eye surveyed Rich lawns, extending even to the main,

And groves and vales in verdure's pomp arrayed; And waving woods, now lost, and now again

The broad bright river, in his strength displayed, Proud aristocracy's bedazzling bower,

The lone sad remnants of the feudal tower.

IV.

Far other features showed the city's face-
Buildings on buildings piled unto the sky,
The vagrant curs about the market-place,

The high slow-moving wain, the driver's cry,
The bawling sweep, the tippler on the chase,

Of stunted form, pale cheek, and heavy eye; Toil's various tribes unto their tasks repair, The drunkard to his den of frenzy and despair.

V.

O Heaven! what means this vortex we behold
Of human passions, human joys and woes,
Of vast extremes, and much that is untold

In life's retreats ?-For ever onward flows
Time's tide, on which we rise but to be rolled

As wrecks, with all our transports and our throes,

Down to that deep impenetrable gloom
Which hangs o'er all that lies beyond the tomb.

VI.

But with that god we have begun our song,
Who swept of old the lyre, and strung the bow,
And dealt in pills (if Ovid be not wrong),*

And played the devil 'mong the dames below;
When he had farther sped the heavens along,

Our streets, lanes, highways made a glorious show, With wains, carts, gigs, cars, studded with blythe faces, Still answering to the query-" Are ye for the races?"

VII.

Behold how little lifts the sons of verse!

I fast got breakfast, faster was arrayed-
For Poets' garments, like their pounds, are scarce—
And seldom are on that account mislaid;

I cannot say that mine are the reverse,
And, worse than that, not altogether paid;
But soon I mounted by the turnpike post,
Watching, but not like Hamlet-for a ghost.

*Mine is the invention of the charming lyre;
Sweet notes and heavenly numbers I inspire.
Sure is my bow, unerring is my dart,

But, ah! more deadly his who pierced my heart.
Med'cine is mine, what herbs and simples grow
In fields and forests, all their powers I know;
And am the great physician called below."
DRYDEN'S OVID.

VIII.

A car instanter trundled into sight,

Drawn by a donkey-looking creature vile,
Which in its youth had galloped with delight
On the high hills of some bleak misty isle.
A seat I found, and having sung-" All's right,"
Sober began to measure the first mile ;-

Seat, did I say!—a hanging on the door,
For in the vehicle were already four.

IX.

One was a dominie,* a wag most queer,
As full of mirth as is of meat the egg;
Another was his daughter, and his dear

Partner in care a third, whom he called Meg;
The fourth, of whom you heavily shall hear,
In millstones dealt, and wore a wooden leg,
A namesake of the Macedonian chief,
The past world's greatest murderer and thief!

X.

Little occurred worth noting on the way;
Thronged with all kinds of creatures were the high-

ways.

Of every colour in the light of day,

Crowds still came forth to join them from the bye

ways,

We took in Dreghorn village a short stay;

For having got, as some say, "kin' o' dry-ways;'

*Schoolmaster.