CONTENTS.

THE MINSTREL.-Beattie,

"Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb."

THE GRAVE.-Blair,

"Whilst some affect the sun, and some the shade."
ELEGY, On the Death of Lady Coventry.-Mason, 80
"The mid-night clock has toll'd-and, hark, the bell."
HYMN, from Psalm 148.-Ogilvie,

66

Begin, my soul, the exalted lay."
THE FIRE-SIDE.-Cotton,

DEATH.-Dr. Porteus,

"Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd."

"Friend to the wretch whom every friend forsakes."
THE PASSIONS.-Collins,

"When Music, heavenly maid, was young."

DESPONDENCY.—Burns,

"Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care."?
ON SLAVERY.-Cowper,

"But, ah! what wish can prosper, or what prayer."
HYMN ON SOLITUDE.-Thompson,

Hail, mildly pleasing Solitude."
HYMN TO DARKNESS.-Yalden,

"Darkness, thou first great parent of us all."
STANZAS ON WOMAN.-
1.-Goldsmith,

Page

13

"When lovely woman stoops to folly."
EDWIN AND ANGELINA.-Goldsmith,
"Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale."

55

85

89

93

104

109

112

114

116

119

120

Page

ELEGY, written in a CountryChurch-yard. Gray, 127

"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day."

ODE TO LEVEN WATER.-Smollet,

"On Leven's Banks, while free to rove."

BEAM OF TRANQUILLITY.-Moore,

"A beam of tranquillity smil'd in the West."

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.-Moore,

"Faintly as tolls the evening chime."

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.-Burns,

"When chill November's surly blast."

O'CONNOR'S CHILD, or the Flower of love lies

bleeding.-Campbell,

"Oh! once the Harp of Innisfail."

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM,-Campbell.

"Arm'd with thy sad last gift-the power to die."

HYMN ON THE SEASONS.-Thomson,

151

"Our bugles sang truce-for the night cloud had low'r'd."

THE DYING NEGRO.-Day,

153

"These, as they change, Almighty Father!"

THE HERMIT.-Parnell, .

"Far in a wild, unknown to public view."

THE TRAVELLER, or a Prospect of Society.-

Goldsmith,

"Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow."

THE HERMIT.-Beattie,

"At the close of the day when the hamlet is still."

BOAT SONG.-Scott,

"Hail to the chief who in triumph advances."

THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.-Thomson,

"O mortal man, who livest here by toil."

133

134

136

137

141

169

173

181

196

199

201

The Wreath.

THE MINSTREL;

OR,

THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS.

BOOK I.

AH! who can tell how hard it is to climb
The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar!
Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime
Hath felt the influence of malignant star,
And wag'd with Fortune an eternal war;
Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,
And Poverty's unconquerable bar,

In life's low vale remote hath pin'd alone,

Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown.

And yet, the languor of inglorious days
Not equally oppressive is to all.

Him, who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise,
The silence of neglect can ne'er appal.

There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call,
Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump of

Fame;

Supremely blest, if to their portion fall

Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim Had He, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim.

B

The rolls of fame I will not now explore;
Nor need I here describe in learned lay,
How forth The Minstrel far'd in days of yore,
Right glad of heart, but homely in array;
His waving locks and beard all hoary gray:
And from his bending shoulder decent hung
His harp, the sole companion of his way,
Which to the whistling wind responsive rung:
And ever as he went some merry lay he sung.

Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride, That a poor villager inspires my strain; With thee let Pageantry and Power abide : The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign; Where thro' wild groves at eve the lonely swain Enraptur'd roams, to gaze on Nature's charms. They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain, The parasite their influence never warms, Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms.

Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn,
Yet horror screams from his discordant throat.
Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,
While warbling larks on russet pinions float:
Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote,
Where the gray linnets carol from the hill.
O let them ne'er, with artificial note,
To please a tyrant strain their little bill,

But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they

Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand;
Nor was perfection made for man below.
Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd,
Good counteracting ill, and gladness wo.

With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow,
If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise;
There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow;
Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies,
And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes.

Then grieve not, thou, to whom the indulgent Muse Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire;

Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse The imperial banquet and the rich attire. Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. Wilt thou debase the heart which God refin'd? No; let thy heaven-taught soul to heaven aspire, To fancy, freedom, harmony, resign; Ambition's groveling crew for ever left behind.

Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul,
In each fine sense so exquisitely keen,
On the dull couch of luxury to loll,
Stung with disease and stupified with spleen;
Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen;
Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide,
(The mansion then no more of joy serene,)
Where fear, distrust, malevolence, abide,
And impotent desire, and disappointed pride?,

O how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields;