burnish'd hair;
        Valour and smiling courtesy
        Play'd in the sun-beams of his eye.
        Clos'd are those eyes that shone so fair,
        And stain'd with blood his yellow hair.
        Scottish maidens, drop a tear
        O'er the beauteous Hero's bier!"

        "Not a tear, I charge you, shed
        For the false Glenalvon dead;
        Unpitied let Glenalvon lie,
        Foul stain to arms and chivalry!"

        "Behind his back the traitor came,
        And Douglas died without his fame.
        Young light of Scotland early spent,
        Thy country thee shall long lament;
        And oft to after-times shall tell,
        In Hope's sweet prime my Hero fell."

[Footnote 1: Denmark.]

TO CHARLES LLOYD

An Unexpected Visitor

(January, 1797. Text of 1818)

        Alone, obscure, without a friend,
          A cheerless, solitary thing,
        Why seeks, my Lloyd, the stranger out?
          What offering can the stranger bring

        Of social scenes, home-bred delights,
          That him in aught compensate may
        For Stowey's pleasant winter nights,
          For loves and friendships far away?

        In brief oblivion to forego
          Friends, such as thine, so justly dear,
        And be awhile with me content
          To stay, a kindly loiterer, here:

        For this a gleam of random joy
          Hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek;
        And, with an o'er-charg'd bursting heart,
          I feel the thanks I cannot speak.

        Oh! sweet are all the Muses' lays,
          And sweet the charm of matin bird;
        'Twas long since these estranged ears
          The sweeter voice of friend had heard.

        The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds
          In memory's ear in after time
        Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear,
          And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme.

        For, when the transient charm is fled,
          And when the little week is o'er,
        To cheerless, friendless, solitude
          When I return, as heretofore,

        Long, long, within my aching heart
          The grateful sense shall cherish'd be;
        I'll think less meanly of myself,
          That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.