grace sits trembling in her eye,
        As both to meet the rudeness of men's sight,
        Yet shedding a delicious lunar light,
        That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy
        The care-crazed mind, like some still melody:
        Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess
        Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness,
        And innocent loves, and maiden purity:
        A look whereof might heal the cruel smart
        Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind;
        Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart
        Of him who hates his brethren of mankind.
        Turned are those lights from me, who fondly yet
        Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.

(End of 1795. Text of 1818)

        If from my lips some angry accents fell,
        Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,
        'Twas but the error of a sickly mind
        And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well,
        And waters clear, of Reason; and for me
        Let this my verse the poor atonement be—
        My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined
        Too highly, and with a partial eye to see
        No blemish. Thou to me didst ever shew
        Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend
        An ear to the desponding love-sick lay,
        Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay
        But ill the mighty debt of love I owe,
        Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.

(1795. Text of 1818)

        We were two pretty babes, the youngest she,
        The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween,
        And INNOCENCE her name. The time has been,
        We two did love each other's company;
        Time was, we two had wept to have been apart.
        But when by show of seeming good beguil'd,
        I left the garb and manners of a child,
        And my first love for man's society,
        Defiling with the world my virgin heart—
        My loved companion dropped a tear, and fled,
        And hid in deepest shades her awful head.
        Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art—
        In what delicious Eden to be found—
        That I may seek thee the wide world around?

CHILDHOOD

(Summer, 1796. Text of 1818)

        In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse
        Upon the days gone by; to act in thought
        Past seasons o'er, and be again a child;
        To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope,
        Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay flowers,
        Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand,
        (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled,)
        Would throw away, and strait take up again,
        Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn
        Bound with so playful and so light a foot,
        That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head.

THE SABBATH BELLS

(Summer, 1796. Text of 1818)

        The cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard,
        Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice
        Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims
        Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when
        Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear
        Of the contemplant, solitary man,
        Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure
        Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft,
        And oft again, hard matter, which eludes
        And baffles his pursuit—thought-sick and tired
        Of controversy, where no end appears,
        No clue to his research, the lonely man
        Half wishes for society again.
        Him, thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute
        Sudden! his heart awakes, his ears drink in
        The cheering music; his relenting soul
        Yearns after all the joys of social life,
        And softens with the love of human kind.

FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS

(Summer, 1796. Text of 1818)

        The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever,
        A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk
        In the bright visions of empyreal light,
        By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads,
        Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow;
        By chrystal streams, and by the living waters,
        Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree
        Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath
        Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found
        From pain and want, and all the ills that wait
        On mortal life, from sin and death for ever.

              THE TOMB OF DOUGLAS
        See the Tragedy of that Name

(1796)

        When her son, her Douglas died,
        To the steep rock's fearful side
        Fast the frantic Mother hied—

        O'er her blooming warrior dead
        Many a tear did Scotland shed,
        And shrieks of long and loud lament
        From her Grampian hills she sent.

        Like one awakening from a trance,
        She met the shock of[1] Lochlin's lance;
        On her rude invader foe
        Return'd an hundred fold the blow,
        Drove the taunting spoiler home;
          Mournful thence she took her way
        To do observance at the tomb
          Where the son of Douglas lay.

        Round about the tomb did go
        In solemn state and order slow,
        Silent pace, and black attire,
        Earl, or Knight, or good Esquire;
        Whoe'er by deeds of valour done
        In battle had high honours won;
        Whoe'er in their pure veins could trace
        The blood of Douglas' noble race.

        With them the flower of minstrels came,
        And to their cunning harps did frame
        In doleful numbers piercing rhymes,
        Such strains as in the older times
        Had sooth'd the spirit of Fingal,
        Echoing thro' his father's hall.

        "Scottish maidens, drop a tear
        O'er the beauteous Hero's bier!
        Brave youth, and comely 'bove compare,
        All golden shone his