“The summer blooms, let us a while exchange

Lerwegian scenes for rural, calm delights:

Come, let us skim the undulating wave,

Inhale the balmy breeze from yonder mead,

Which, gilded by the cheering sunny ray,

Across the silvery bay allures the eye.”

While Tweed’s fam’d stream in numbers rolls along,

And Tay’s meanders sweetly glide in song;

Thy windings Esk, in silence should not flow,

If the coy Nine would numbers fit bestow;

Fain would my humble muse thy beauties sing,

Would sing thy banks, thy groves, and silver spring;

Thy nymphs and swains, whose social converse gay

Beguil’d the winter’s night, the summer’s day.

Here hath kind heaven a chosen agent plac’d,

Noble Buccleugh, with every virtue grac’d,

Who, on exalted rank, a lustre throws

Brighter, than or from wealth or title flows.

Sorrow from thee full oft relief hath found,

While aid and comfort wide are spread around.

Thy dome, well known to all the wand’ring poor,

Who dread not being driven from thy door.

Approving angels on thy steps attend,

And round thy couch their sheltering wings extend,

Drawn from their skies by prayers of the distrest,

Whose griefs by thee have often been redrest.

Hail happiest spot of Caledonia’s coast!

Is not fair StuartOpen note 9Back to note ⁹ “and nature’s boast?”

And doth not lovely ScottOpen note 10Back to note ¹⁰ thy bowers grace

Whose gentle virtues with delight we trace?

How oft, sweet friend, would we together stray,

Where Pinkie’s milky turrets mark the way;

Or wander by the margin of the stream,

Through scenes which well might form Elysian dream,

While still by thee was fram’d each varying theme.

O say, Helena say, when thou art by,

How dost thou teach the rapid hours to fly?

What rosy pinion dost thou lend the night

When each new moment brings some new delight?

’Tis Friendship’s charm, exprest by lively sense,

Kindly uniting with benevolence;

These thro’ thy converse reign, and round thee throw

Peace, pleasure, joy, and make a heaven below.

How swiftly wheels the social hour along,

If SmithOpen note 11Back to note ¹¹ consent to crown it with a song;

In soothing strains he softly sings of love,

Quick to the sound th’obedient feelings move:

Now fairer blooms the Broom when sung by thee,

And gliding thro’ its birks sweet Yarrow’s stream
see.

Anon! aloft the dancing spirits soar,

While we Lunardi’s airy course explore;

His rapid progress we attend, and soon

With him arrive in safety at the moon.Open note 12Back to note ¹²

Fain would I sing the praise of gallant Hay,Open note 13Back to note ¹³

Did not the timid muse forbid th’ essay,

Nor cross th’ Atlantic dare to trust her way;

Unequal she to sing of camps and wars,

Or thee, the son of Neptune and of Mars.

And thou, O Wemyss,Open note 14Back to note ¹⁴ the generous and the brave,Open note Back to note

Who, when attack’d upon the eastern wave,

By bands of swarthy pirates, fierce and strong,

To whom superior numbers did belong,

Thy steady courage and thy dauntless crew

Did soon the daring savages subdue.

The Northern muse now feels a pleasing pride,

While she declares herself to BoyleOpen note 15Back to note ¹⁵ allied,

By ties of blood; ah, could she also claim

As kindred virtues those which grace his name.

Here, as I stray, fann’d by the evening breeze,

The spire arises, pointing o’er the trees,

Where Inveresk’s time-shatter’d hallowed fane

“With venerable grandeur marks the scene;”

Where Carlyle,Open note 16Back to note ¹⁶ graceful ’midst the load of time,

Demonstrates moral truth in style sublime.

The ascending and descending crowds impart

Reflections various to the musing heart,

Each rising step seems nearer heaven to draw,

And strikes the advancing worshipper with awe;

Saying to worldly cares, “Remain below,

While to God’s hill and to his house we go.”

And, in descent, the strengthen’d lighten’d mind

Feels, (by Devotion’s exercise refin’d)

More apt in social duties to engage,

And meet the cares of life’s still varying stage.

Here has full many a race successive rose,

In life they worshipp’d, and in death repose;

Sons o’er the ashes of their slumb’ring sires

Their homage pay to heaven, — the thought inspires.

Solemnity, and gives devotion aid,

Drawn from the sacred relics of the dead.

The spot whereon this sacred pile is plac’d,

Is by the landscape’s fairest features grac’d;

The view of such a structure, mark’d by time,

Awakes to contemplation all sublime!

Imagination traces with delight,

(As back it wanders thro’ with rapid flight,)

The unnumber’d multitudes who did resort

To worship God, in this his outer court,

Now in the heavenly temple sing his praise,

And bear a part in everlasting lays.

Farewell, sweet Esk! thy lovely varying scenes

Demand the meed of higher warbled strains,

Than the weak effort of my untaught lyre,

Urg’d by the pleasure of thy lov’d banks inspire;

Farewell, dear scenes! peace dwell amid your bowers,

And stamp’d with social comfort roll the hours;

May innocence and joy maintain their reign,

And Ceres’ smiles adorn the happy plain;

And still to bless the country far around,

May Virtue’s temple at Dalkeith be found!

O Ye, who bask where smiling nature pours

Her bounty, and with plenty crowns the hours;

Receive with gentle, kind humanity,

The famish’d woe-worn wanderers of the sea;

Forc’d from their sterile home, by Want’s command,

They seek relief, even in a hostile land,

Driven to accept it from the enemy’s hand.

All enemies their piteous state disarms,

Subdues each heart, and gives a truce to arms.

Dire famine! how imperative thy call;

They leave their homes, their wives, their babes, their all,

And trust, in slender bark, the dangerous main,

In hopes some general succor to obtain;

Assail’d by want, they war and tempests brave,

Almighty Power! these struggling heroes save,

And land them safely on the British strand,

Where gladly opens every liberal hand,

As instruments, which Providence employs,

To bid these tenants of the rock rejoice.

To her, how tedious creeps the anxious day

At home who watches their uncertain stay;

Flung on the homely couch, she late repairs,

To court some respite from distracting fears.

If friendly slumber hover o’er her eyes;

Lo! terrifying visions round arise.

Her absent husband captive now appears

Amid the foes, and chains and fetters wears;

For ’tis the doom of human nature still

To weep the fancied as the real ill.

But, O! sad dame of Faro’s lonely rock,

While thee vain images of horror shock,

Safe, cherish’d is the object thou dost mourn,

And fondly meditates a quick return.

Let not thy started fancy Britain wrong,

Thou and thy joyful children shall, ere long,

And all the inhabitants of those bleak isles,

With countenances drest in sudden smiles,

Bless Albion’s natives, bless her fertile fields

Which, to the miserable, succour yields.

Mutual anxieties the heart invade

Of him, who pants to view his lowly shed.

Who, like a wand’ring bird in quest of food,

Seeks succour to relieve the tender brood

By fancy wafted, every danger past,

He tread his dear, his native shore at last,

With eager hands he opes the treasur’d hoards

Which British liberality affords;

O, blissful vision! feeds his darling child,

Each toil forgotten, every care beguil’d.

But, ah! awakening reason rallies all

Sad possibilities which may befal;

Impatient does imagination sweep,

Wafting the ample treasure o’er the deep,

Stung with the dread, (but O, forbid it Fate!)

The generous supply may reach too late.

O may this Ark, form’d in far slenderer mould

Than that which first essayed the deep of old;

Although the branch of Peace does not appear,

Yet may it home the Horn of Plenty bear!

But, soft—Britannia asks, where is the need

To prompt her children to the generous deed?

Not yet seven weeks, their anxious cares had roll’d,

Ere travellers, from sea, the news unfold;

“A British vessel, bounding o’er the main,

Seeks Faro’s Islands, richly lade with grain.”

What sudden transport vibrates through the heart,

While the delightful tidings they impart!

Well might the Thulian natives sympathize,

Well might our bosoms beat with heartfelt joys;

Our captur’d seamen, when to Norway bore,

Met generous treatment on the hostile shore.

Now borne on fleet imagination’s wing,

The Muse, of Faro’s lonely Isles would sing;

Where nigh extinguish’d Hope, quick at the sight

Of an approaching sail, rekindles bright.

Towards the shore the thronging natives pour,

To wait the issue of th’ eventful hour.

The British ensigns, waving now appear,

Uncertain yet, if friendly terms they bear;

The mind still fluctuates ’twixt joy and grief,

This points to ruin, that toward relief.

With heightened tenderness is ardent prest

The infant to the mother’s throbbing breast.

The British ensigns, as they nearer draw,

Steal strength from hope, and shed an anxious awe.

What renovation doth the sight induce,

When view’d, attemper’d, under sign of Truce!

Now grateful thanks in every bosom springs,

First to the Power who rules the heart of Kings,

Then to great George, the delegate of Heaven,

Whose generous aid, no sooner ask’d than given;

Favour’d by Him, whom winds and waves obey,

Had o’er the ocean quickly found its way.

The echoing caverns of the rocks around

With British generosity resound.

The new-born joy expires, a transient guest,

Sudden admitted and as soon represt,

Quick, on the varying cheek, the change appears,

Late flush’d with joy—now pale with ghastly fears;

For in the skiff advancing to the shore,

The eye, the well-known forms, fail to explore:

Wives, parents, children, through the crowded strand

Rush eager, and their relatives demand—

As when the brothers from the Egyptian road

Their asses led sore bent beneath the load

Of dearly purchas’d, life-sustaining grain,

The Patriarch’s eyes his darling sought in vain.

Such anguish now their care-worn bosoms rends,

“Here is relief—but where—oh where our friends?”

Some welcome hand straight to their sight reveals

The silent messengers—quick fly the seals;

The thought imparting page delight inspires,

“Warm from the heart, and faithful to its fires.”

By these inform’d, their fears are soon assuag’d,

The objects, who their tender cares engag’d,

Only remain till the NecessityOpen note 17Back to note ¹⁷

Refits, and is prepar’d to trust the sea.

O may they, safely, their lov’d home regain,

Ere wintry storms embroil the angry main;

Then, when the waning year, on ebon wings,

The Christian Festival returning brings,

While jocundly they sport, and laugh, and sing,

Fain would they drain a cup to Britain’s King,

Though, by the pledge, their wish they must not show,

The grateful impulse, in the heart, will glow.

But to return—A busy scene takes place,

Activity doth listless languor chase;

The flitting skiffs unload the welcome hoard,

The vacant granaries are amply stor’d;

Anticipated plenty, even beguiles

The present moment, sighs give way to smiles.

No more the heart-wrung mother, steep’d in tears,

Her infant’s calls for food, in anguish hears.

What beauteous form on yonder cliff is seen

Bending, in fond attention, o’er the scene?

Britannia’s Genius, full confest, appears,

Her cheek bedew’d with pleasure’s precious tears,

And whispers, in self-gratulating meed,

“How prompt my children to the generous deed!”

Let this acquaint my dearest friend,

That I to make a glove intend,

Or pair of gloves; and, therefore, I

For your directions must apply,

Hoping, you will to me impart

Some portion of your far-fam’d art.

Your charitable disposition,

I trust, will favour my petition.

You have been told it over and over,

Charity doth much evil cover;

And, where no virtue is amissing,

It surely is a double blessing.

Besides, what pleasure ’twill supply

To favour honest industry.

If fair Eliza do consent

Her aid, she shall it not repent,

For ’tis my wish and warm desire

To let my quill requite her wire,Open note 18Back to note ¹⁸

And, in the deathless rolls of fame,

Inscribe her merits and her name.

You startle at my enterprize,

Thinking, beyond my reach it lies;

Yet, in my plan, I will persist,

Wiles sometimes do the weak assist.

A favouring moment I will watch,

Some stray poetic spark to catch,

Which, when I feel begin to glow,

My tuneful pilgrimage I’ll go.

And I intend, before I stop,

To climb renown’d Parnassus’ top;

How many authors are, alas!

Content with visiting its base;

When to a point I set my face,

I love to do it with a grace.

I’ll gather all choicest flowers

Which bloom in the Parnassian bowers.

I’ll drain Pieria’s sacred spring,

(By halves I hate to do a thing,)

What, though it leave the channel dry

To the next corner, what care I;

We must our own occasions catch,

Let them look out who have the watch.

And while my flowery search thus leads

Amid the verdant, fragrant meads;

To you, I frankly do confess

(Friendship should mutual trust possess)

I’m not without a secret hope,

Which will my grateful efforts prop,

That, if in luck, chance in my way

May throw some struggling sprig of bay;

This for my own account I mean,

To show the world where I have been.

This gain’d, I may with you advise,

(You know I your opinion prize)

Whether you think it most becoming

(If that would not be too assuming)

Around the temples ’twere entwin’d;

Yet this, to those who are inclin’d

To censure, might a field present;

I, therefore, should be quite content

To give it o’er to time and chance,

Who often do the weak advance,

And may, the triumph to complete,

Yet bid it grace my statue’s feet.

But here your prudence will suggest

Our native adage, that ’twere best

To let be fairly caught the fish,

Ere we divide it in the dish.Open note 19Back to note ¹⁹

It so may happen, that the Nine

To favour me may not incline,

For, I am told, they do not chuse,

At least none but the comic muse,Open note 20Back to note ²⁰

To part with any of their skill,

I’ll therefore lurk about the hill,

Until some fair occasion chance,

When, warily, I shall advance,

And, of their art, pick some small share,

’Tis what I want, and they can spare.

Could I a happy moment catch,

Apollo’s Lyre I fain would snatch,

And if I could my fear surmount,

Pegasus gladly would I mount;

But, being of a timid nature,

I do not chuse to trust this creature,

Who is, I’m told, a fiery steed,

And should he take it in his head

Adown the steepy hill to fly,

’Tis ten to one but I should cry,

Which might, perhaps, alarm Apollo,

Who, missing of his Lyre, would follow;

And should it rouse the angry Nine,

’Twere to be fear’d the worst were mine.

Melpomene takes back her tears,

Urania her right avers,

And Thalia, tho’ a lively lass,

I dont expect would let me pass,

But would re-take her sports and smiles,

With all her store of comic wiles;

And thus, when each their skill withdraw,

Your Poetess, like Æsop’s daw,

Is left; unsung Eliza’s praise

Remains, though claiming choicest lays;

My ardent gratitude represt,

To glow, in silence, in my breast;

And hence, apparently, ensues

Fit subject for the tragic Muse.

A Theme, as yet unknown to poet’s lay,

Rises to memory, and demands my song;

But how shall I the motley scene attempt,

The Aonian Maids no favouring ear incline,

Commercial interests, they all declare,

Are subjects “lying quite out of their way;”

Shall I, unaided, dare the bold essay?Open note 23Back to note ²³

When in the golden chains of smiling Peace,

Britannia and Batavia’s sons are link’d,

’Tis given the latter from the British seas

To draw the finny treasure; but when war,

Between these nations, her dread trumpet sounds,

The lucrative indulgence is withdrawn,

Much injury thence do Thulian interests feel,Open note 24Back to note ²⁴

And an important feather from the wing

Of female labourOpen note 25Back to note ²⁵ and of commerce, drops.

Advertive nature, as the climate cools,

Softens the fleece, imparting kindlier warmth,

First to the natural wearer, then to man,

“To needy man, that all dependent lord.”

In this advantage Thulè liberal shares,

Nature the fleece affords, and industry

A ready purchaser was sure to find

(Brisk spur to useful toil) from the Dutch fleet.

A kind reception did the traveller meet,

Whose course, conducting over Southern hills,,Open note 26Back to note ²⁶

Made him the welcome herald to the town

Of the Baravian vessels’ wish’d approach;

“The fleet’s in sight,” each joyful voice exclaims,

Bright sparkle infant eyes, while lisping tongues

The fleet in sight announce, unconscious why

The general holiday. Even amongst those

Whom no pecuniary motives sway

“From heart to heart the sympathetic joy

Flies rapid.” Now the rural dwellings, quick

Deserted of their active inmates, stand,

While age and childhood hold their feeble reign,

And (as they can) domestic interest guide.

Along the hills the gathering groupes are seen,

Hope is in motion, and exertion prompts;

The young hope pleasure, and the old hope gain.

The trim-built barks, from points far distant seen,

Bounding the azure wave the harbour seek,

Spreading the swelling canvass to the breeze,

Exhibiting a beauteous spectacle,

Which every momonet varies. Now arriv’d,

The native and foreign travellers

Mingle on Lerwick’s sudden crowded street.

Resolv’d on being pleas’d, all pleasure find,

Long absent friends from different quarters meet

In heartfelt greetings, at this general mart,

And gayly circulates the simple joke;

The merchant shows his gaudy tempting wares,

With cheerful glee, unto the rural maid,

In hopes her purse with guildersOpen note 27Back to note ²⁷ well is lin’d,

While oft around is heard, is seen, is felt,

The voice, the look, in admiration’s guise,

In every language understood, nor needs

Interpretation to the female heart.

Now busy traffic animates the scene,

Quickly the new imported cash wheels round;

From the Dutch purse it slowly drawn is given

In lieu of articles spun from the fleece,

To the blithe dame, whose winter eves were spent

Assiduous, at the hope inspiring task.

With her short pause it makes; the well—stor’d shop

Receives the circulating benefit.

The crowded Bay a prospect now presents,

Which gaiety and admiration wakes;

The various flags, suspended, lend their aid,

Batavia’s three-strip’d colours far exceed

In number, all that deck the silver wave.

DenmarkOpen note 28Back to note ²⁸ displays a cross of purest white

On flaming red. The Prussian Eagle spreads

On snow-like field, his ample, sable wings;

While, from the warlike or commercial bark,

Britannia’s waving ensigns float around,

And seem to wear an hospitable air

Of welcome to those useful visitants,

’Midst whom she sits as Hostess of the rest.

The harbour view’d, from where obstructing heights

Conceal the vessels’ hulks, yet show the masts,

Mimics a wintry forest stript of leaves,

A floating forest Thulè only boasts.

Why partial Nature, dost thou now deny,

With wood more permanent, to grace our coasts,

Since erst thou more indulgent far didst prove?

Say, wherefore wert thou to our sires of oldOpen note Back to note

More bountiful, than now thou’rt to their sons?

The school shut up, its glad inhabitants

Range o’er the scene, as novelty impels

Their restless steps. To see the Johnsmas, those

Whose infant feet cannot conduct themselves,

Must to the general resort be borne.

Happy the child, whose features or whose form,

Brings to the memory of some Dutch sire

His absent kinder;Open note 29Back to note ²⁹ from his sackOpen note 30Back to note ³⁰ he draws

The cake, bak’d with the produce of the bee,

With orange and with citron high enrich’d,

And treats the dear resemblance, over whom,

Touch’d with parental tenderness, he hangs.

Summer in full meridian splendour glows;

To grace this day, in blooming verdure drest,

Nature and art united in jubilee;

But pleasure must experience alloy,

And when the youthful heart, in unison

With nature’s loveliest charms, is suddenly

With the unwelcome recollection struck,

“This is the longest day,” at once is felt

The chill idea of the longest night,

When lost the zephyr in the tempest’s roar,

And icicles succeed to blooming flowers,

Intruding on the mind, as thoughts of age

On youthful beauty, in the hour elate.

Varying the motley and commercial scene,

Which noisy reigns along the crowded street,

Towards the fields the Dutchmen bend their course,

In groups detach’d, the benefit to reap

Of riding, purchas’d at an easy rate;

This, as an healthful exercise they ply,

Taught by their Æsculapian Oracle.Open note 31Back to note ³¹

The hope of gain inspiring every heart,

Each urgent for precedence in employ,

The peasant leads his destin’d poney on,

Whose size diminutive, oft ill accords

With that of him who rides, but what he lacks

In stature, amply doth his mettl’d strength

Atone. As on he trots, his motion suits

Itself, to aid his temporary master,

Demonstrating the strong, instinctive power.

Oft Hollanders of tender years are here,

Who six or seven annual solar rounds

Have only seen, brought hither by their sires,

In Neptune’s nursery early introduc’d.

Timid and shy, they fearful look around,

And even away from proffer’d kindness shrink.

These, lately drawn from fond maternal care,

Quick wafted o’er the main, surrounded now

By stangers and strange scenes, cling to their sires,

From whom nought but a poney can them part;

Eager to ride, yet timorously withheld,

Irresolute they linger; but, at length,

Fear yields to novelty’s persuasive charm,

While emulation joins her powerful voice.

And now a scene succeeds, resembling that

Sung by the Scottish Bard, who Nature paintsOpen note 32Back to note ³²

In all its force. Close to the poney’s side

The father stands, in every look confest;

He “chides, exhorts, commands” the fearful boy

To this his first adventurous essay,

Whose cheek now pale, now flush’d, and varying eye

Bespeak the changeful mood which sways his mind.

Full oft, when exhortation and command

Of success fail’d, the inspiring voice of praise

Has gain’d the day, and sent th’ exulting youth,

In cautious vict’ry, o’er the riding path,

Combating fear, and trusting to his guide,

Who follows close, breathing encouragement.

Between the riders and attendant guides,

Who own the poneys, keen disputes arise.

On every side the angry passions swell,

And, in a jargon unintelligible,

Mix with the general clamour thro’ the air.

Altho’ the language foreign, yet the guise

Of anger misses not, nor eye, nor ear.

Now evening’s hour, without her dusk, draws on;

Light’s radiance seems to contradict the knell,

Which quick surprises from the solemn clock,

And whispers, “Even the longest day must end,”

As life, protracted to the latest verge.

The flagging spirits long upon the wing

Of business or of pleasure, borne aloft,

More with time’s monitor then with the light

Keep pace, and hail the appointed hour of rest.

Now to the dance the Dutchmen all repair;

The motion gestic, and the heavy strain,

Wide differ from the heart-enlivening reels

Of Caledonia. Coffee’s fragrant steam,

Tobacco’s stifling fumes are felt around;

Inebriating draughts are sparingly indulg’d

Amongst the wary Dutch.

Phœbus short respite gives his way-worn steeds,

Whose longest journey gets the shortest rest,

So close the rising to the setting rays

Succeed; the glory rather veil’d than lost,

Through crimson clouds, glows thro’ the eastern sky,

And soon Aurora, drest in saffron robe,

Bids Phœbus re-ascend his circling car.

Throughout the course of this revolving day,

The busy Dutch prepare to wet their nets,Open note 33Back to note ³³

For the first time. Anon, the harbour thins,

Each parting bark some pleasure seems to steal

From the spectators of the transient scene.

While by the sea the foreigners depart,

By land the rustic strangers take their way,

Fatigued, out-worn, they seek their different homes;

Now silent, dull, and blank the town appears,

As suddenly deserted as ’twas fill’d.

The scatter’d thoughts now strive to re-assume

Their wonted tone, but vain at first the essay.

Shall the reflective mind a moment stop,

And contemplate the feelings various,

Which, peradventure, may be trac’d to fill

The hearts of a returning rural group,

While they repass the grassy knoll, which points

Through flowery tracks toward their humble cot.

Hope, gay companion, led their outward steps

On to the goal, where center’d every wish,

Strew’d roses on their path and slop’d the way.

But now the verdant rememberancer tells,

In pathos apt, that vanity’s inscrib’d

On every human aim, by calling straight

To mind the train of thought in which they last

Beheld this silent monitor: convinc’d

Reality by fancy is surpass’d.

They, who on expectation’s buoyant wing

Were forward borne, lo! now their ardour damp’d,

Return on disappointment’s drooping pinion.

Some of the travellers had fondly hop’d

A higher value for the fleecy prize;

Youthful imagination had outrun

The real joys which even a Johnsmas yields;

While the tir’d poney, could he tell his mind,

Seeks home least disappointed of the train.

How strange appear the effects of memory,

And of anticipation on the mind;

The past and future in unreal hues

Arise to view, and from the present steal

The due enjoyment. Yet I would retract,

For oft the present borrows from the past

And future its best relish’d joys.

The mind reflecting on a former scene,

With roses and with thorns promiscuous strew’d,

Forgets the thorn, but lingers o’er the rose;

While in the present the reverse is seen.

Anon, when in the gliding lapse of time,

The present now shall mingle with the past,

And form a part of mem’ry’s treasur’d hoard,

Cherish’d again the rose, the thorn forgot.

Yet not forgot, for faithful memory,

Deep in her numerous cells, each circumstance

Doth strict retain: yet still a softening shade,

O’er former pains, the mind inclines to throw,

If mingling pleasures with them did unite.

If strange the power of memory o’er the mind,

Its force astonishing, when magic sounds

Of melody connect with recollection,

Ideas numberless, which dormant lay,

Are quickly rous’d, each actor re-assumes

His former part, nor word nor look forgot.

But I digress. The home returning group,

By whom this brief analysis was inspir’d,

Ere long, shall prove the observation true,

That when the present shall become the past,

And dissipated disappointments tinge,

This Johnsmas shall beguile some winter’s eve,

While round the blazing fire the happy band

Enjoy the hour, and to th’ adventures list,

The jokes and profits of this Johnsmas day;

Recounted in such sort, as in the breast

Of those who only by description know

The scene on which description loves to dwell,

Anticipations pleasure shall excite,

O’er which still hovers the sweet syren Hope.

Angelic Hope! though thy bright phantoms fly

Our fond embrace, I term thee not, as some,

A faithless cheat, thy self enkindling torch

Still chears the toilsome rugged path of life,

“And makes our happiest state no tedious thing;”

And tho’, in time, thou shouldst not realize

Thy promise, still thou pointest to Eternity,

Where virtue shall not miss thy choicest boon.

But my enraptur’d fancy devious strays,

The copious themes of Mem’ry and of HopeOpen note 34Back to note ³⁴

Tho’ unexhaustible) are sweetly sung,

In loftier strains, than my weak lyre may boast;

Let me then straight resume my simple lay.

A century back, when hostile feuds prevail’d

’Twixt France and Holland; while neutrality

Britannia held to both; the Dutch had gain’d

High eminence in the important branch

Of finny treasure, drawn from British seas;

Sol near approaching full meridian height,

From his bright throne the dazzling summons throws,

Which to this summer enterprize invites.

’Tis active life and busy bustle all,

Preparative to launching off the fleet;

Now the throng’d temples ardently resound,

The general orisons of each class

Committing to the favouring care of Heaven

The useful undertaking. See now launch’d

All on the gently undulating wave

The well-built barks; the snow-like canvass spread;

Crowd urges crown towards the teeming shore,

With many a feeling, many an interest prest;

Gain or affection occupy each heart;

Here stands the wife with humid streaming eyes,

Following the swift departing sail, which bears

Far hence her mate. While there, in gilded car,

Sit those who on anticipation’s wing

Eagerly borne, forestal the lapse of time,

And in idea tough the precious ore.

Æolus’ fav’ring breezes aid acquire

From heart-breath’d sighs of those, who, left behind,

Each morn and night solicit Providence,

In their behalf who plough the dang’rous main;

Propitious nature prosperous gales bestows,

But Mars’ fell purposes the hopes defeat

Of industry and patient enterprize;

For while they now approach the Thulian shores,

An intercepting fleet, by Gallia sent,Open note Back to note

Engage in furious fight the warlike ships,

Appointed convoy of the Hollanders.

What thought thy simple people then, Fair Isle!

When martial thunder shook thy lonesome caves;

And when aghast they view’d thy dark green waves

Blood-stain’d, roll crimson to the rocky shore?

The Gallic squadron won the bloody day;

Then on to Bredyaur SoundOpen note 35Back to note ³⁵ pursued their course,

Where, in the wonted rendezvous, they find

Batavia’s fishing fleet collected lye,

Across the bay are moor’d the social barks,

And side by side a floating bridge supply.

Then Bressa, was thy beauteous liquid arch

Seen blazing in the opposing element

Of fire, quick kindled from the shrine of Mars,

By boats mann’d from proud Gallia’s conqu’ring ships.

What alter’d aspect wore the scene around!

One changful hour the wat’ry mirror shews,

Reflecting clear along the opposing banks,

Nature in all her summer pride array’d

Of vivid green, diversified by cots,

By rural hamlets, rural imagery;

While in the midst it gives a double fleet,

Each cord, each sail, each flag, inverted seen.

Anon, behold the glaring flame at once,

As in the air it awfully ascends

In shadowy rage, prone darting on the deep;

While piercing shouts of horror pour around,

Cries and lamentations mix’d with the sound

Of contrast crackling, and the sudden plunge

Of falling masts, from their deep sockets thrown

Amid the tranquil flood.

Wild consternation mark’d the dismal scene,

While the Batavian fishers all untrain’d,

All unprepar’d for war, affrighted flee;

Nor did the foe attempt their flight to stop,

No deadly bolt was hurl’d, no captive seiz’d;

Crowned in their own barks they homeward trace

The wat’ry way, with “other beat of heart,”

Than when so late they skimm’d it on Hope’s wing.

Thus, direly, broke this happy Johnsmas day;

Then art and war oppos’d kind nature’s plan,

Giving what in these regions nor before,

Nor since was seen, Night, at the Summer solstice,

A partial horrid reign extending round,

From darkening columns of ascending smoke

That ’clips’d the vivid, ruddy evening sky.

Mars and Bellona hovering o’er the scene,

Their floating flaming altars view’d with joy;

While meek-eyed Peace and active Commerce fled,

Joining the frighted Sea-nymphs in their wail,

“These are thy triumphs, these thy trophies, War!”

The hallowed morn faint glimmering in the East,

Dawns on a slumb’ring and a ransom’d world;

How dearly ransom’d! wonderful the price

By which the great Redemption was obtain’d.

Sleep on, and take your rest ye rescued tribes,

For your Redeemer slumbers not, nor sleeps.

Yet, let not the enlighten’d Christian world

This morn too long indulge oblivious sleep,

And rob themselves of “sacred, sure delights,”

With which these precious, fleeting moments teem.

The Sabbath morn, still with salvation fraught,

Returns; and, with persuasive force, recals

The mind to thoughts which to its peace belong.

’Twas early in the morn, as dawning light

On the first Christian Sabbath shed its ray,

That they, whose steps impell’d by sacred love,

Sought the Lord’s tomb, met heavenly messengers;

Deem these not absent, though invisible;

Round the awakening Christian’s couch they wait,

To prompt and lead the first returning thoughts.

Come with the eye of Faith—Behold, the place

Where the Lord lay, the stone is roll’d away.

Yet, should the sons of care and labour steal

An hour of slumb’rous respite from this day,

Forgiveness will the needful fraud obtain

From him who knows the feelings of the weary.

But let not those, whom more indulgent fate

Entrusts with the disposal of their hours,

Ah! let not those rob heaven and themselves

Of serious intercourse on Sabbath morn;

When the Redeemer triumph’d o’er the grave,

Hallow’d by him—He burst the bands of death!

He burst the sepulchre of massy rock!

O break the soft, the downy bands of sleep

To think of him who gave his life for you.

Let not the conscious sense of guilt deter;

The blood that flow’d on Calvary, hath power

To wash the deepest stain. When on the morn

Of Resurrection, led by pious zeal,

The friends of Jesus hasten’d to the tomb,

Did Mary Magdalen less welcome meet

Or from the heavenly messengers, or from Him

Whom all the glorious hosts of heaven adore

Than did the partners of her way, whose lives

Apparently less guiltless had been spent?

Such welcome still returning sinners find,

If, with their sins, her penitence they bring.

What solemn, sacred sound floats thro’ the air,

And gently dissipating slumber, calls

To recollection all the dormant powers?

The earliest summons to the sacred courts

The way towards the gate of mercy points,

Open on earth and heaven, inviting all.

Complex emotions in the mind arise,

Rousing, accusing, comforting at once.

O let us hear it as the call of heaven,

And seize the precious opportunity

Offer’d to day, while it is call’d to day!

The night approaches fast when none can work;

The living only hear the Gospel Call,

It reacheth not the mansions of the tomb.

The morning sun, bright gilding every hill,

Beams gladness into the beholder’s heart.

Each various object which salutes the eye,

Seems stamp’d with the impression of the Sabbath.

Shall we impute the livelier melody

This day observ’d amongst the feather’d choirs,

Or to the favouring stillness which prevails;

Or grant the notion entertain’d by some,

That taught by instict, they can safely trust,

And nearer wing into the haunts of man,

In serenade uniting? If we this

Call “vulgar”, term it also “pious error”.

Where’er we turn, each view presents a fane,

Inspiring homage to the Deity,

Smiling around in all his glorious works

Complete. On this blest day of general rest,

Which respite brings to those by toil hard prest,

The great Creator all his works survey’d,

And with approving voice pronounc’d them good.

What God calls good, let favour’d man enjoy,

For whom these beauteous scenes from nothing sprung.

Man does enjoy, as tells that humble voice

Solemnly issuing from yon hillock’s side,

Where seated on the grass, a rural swain

Surrounded by his family, enjoys

Repose, peculiarly welcome now;

For thro’ the summer weeks he ardent ploughs

Th’ inconstant seas, luring the finny tribes.

This day from contrast heighten’d comfort gains,

And to domestic peace and piety

Devoted, give a taste of heavenly joys.

Now in a double volume doth he trace

The Almighty, in his work and in his word,

Each powerful commentary on the other.

The infant auditors, whose ductile minds

To each impression, as it passes, yield,

Catch in this scene the early rudiments

Of pleasure, drawn from pure religion’s source.

The sweetness of the scene thro’ which I stray

Arrests my wand’ring steps, whose course have led

Towards a spot with fragrant verdure crown’d,

Whose site commands a heart-delighting view

Of the surrounding objects. All combine

To pour serenity into the mind.

Behind (inspiring thankfulness and hope,)

All teeming stand the loaded fields of corn,

Smiling around in robe of brightest green.

O, may the joyful whisper they convey

Into the heart of the hard labour’d swain,

Anticipating plenty to his babes

Amid the wintry rigours, be fulfill’d!

And may the power, who bids the vallies sing

Under their precious burthen, kindly stay

The direful force of shaking Equinox,

Oft fatal to the husbandman’s fond hope.

How apt the emblem of a tranquil mind,

Which Bressa Bay’s unruffled surface yields!

Tho’ far more calm than even most virtuous mind,

Or happiest state of human life admits.

Reflected by the liquid mirror, see

The scenery of the adjacent Isle,

Whose black’ning hills, and scatter’d hamlets green,

Form gay diversity. Across the sea

The rural groups in various tracts appear,

But bending all towards one general goal,

The house of God; O, may they also find

Admission to his heavenly temple, where

Perpetual Sabbath holds a blissful reign.

Silence her empire gradually resigns,

“Pleas’d to be so displac’d,” to solemn sounds,

In unison ascending thro’ the air,

Symphonious issuing from the assembled throng;

Whose voices, tun’d by pure devotion’s force,

Unite in chaunting forth a sacred strain,

Which borne, and soften’d by “the vocal air,”

Reaches the spot where I delighted sit,

In hearing losing every other sense,

Sweetly absorbt. My passive mind is borne

Upon th’ exalting wing of sound sublime

Towards that Heaven, where Hallelujahs sound

The praise of the Almighty. O may he

A favouring ear lend to his worshippers,

And that acceptance grant, promis’d to those

Who worship him in Spirit and in Truth.

“Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around,”

From the steep eminence whereon I stand;

Summer meridian beauty widely pours

On the delighted eye, where’er it turns

It meets creative goodness, all conspires

To lift the soul from nature to its God.

Here might the poet, or the painter find

Field for the pencil or descriptive art.

O! would some Muse the pleasing theme attempt,

Who should with candour, fearless of charge

Which to a partial native may belong,

To truth and poesy give all the reins;

Yet why, lov’d Thulè, should thy daughter dread

To sing her natal scenes, while justly sung;

Come, Muse, we’ll to the task, let who will frown.

Let us impartiality evince,

By owning, that the wide surrounding view

No envious (envy’d) forests intercept,

Waving in boastful pride, to mar our plan;

Yet, who that looks around, but must confess

A crown of British oak would well become

Bressa’s majestic Ward Hill. Pines and elms

Would with superior beauty grace these shores,

Would grace them twice, for liquid groves would wave,

In soften’d foliage, in the crystal flood.

Some say, who soothe our humbled pride, that when,

In former ages, wood adorn’d our isles,

The trees which bloom’d on the opposing banks

Of narrow Voes,Open note 44Back to note ⁴⁴ their branches high in air

United, forming cool umbrageous shade;

While in the skiffs the travellers underneath,

As on them dropp’d the odoriferous gum,

Rowed under the green canopy, enjoy

Such beauty as fam’d Tiber well might own.

But now I ween such censure I incur,

As they who of departed beauty boast.

Full oft the intersecting sea appears,

And leads its azure course along the shores

Of distant misty hills and scatter’d isles.

Lerwegia’s suburbs come in nearer line,

And partially beheld, her Fortress stamps

One martial feature on the varied scene.

Toward the North, in tranquil beauty, see

A Loch her silver surface wide extend,

And give in deep’ning shade the adjacent hill.

Still on a Holm,Open note 45Back to note ⁴⁵ amid the water, stands

A Pictish ruin; yet these ruins give

Vestige of and purposes of old.

Nor shall yon wild, bleak hill remain unsung;

For what were painting, but for stroke of shade,

Or beauty’s heighten’d lustre, but from foil?

But chiefly through thy beauteous limits, Sound,

Fain would I wander, and attempt to sing.

Still seems the landscape incomplete and tame,

That lacks result which hill and dale bestow;

Though Flora and Pomona, emulous

Each other to outvie, should deck the scene;

Here sports that gay diversity at will,

The corn fields sweep not here in wide extent,

But portion’d into rigs varying in shape and size;

While fallow ground, meadow and pasturage,

Irregularly interspers’d between,

In chequer work, please fancy and the eye.

Ye who inhabit yonder humble cots,

If Art in sparing measure lend her aid

To grace your dwellings, nature makes amends,

By pouring beauty lavishly around.

Down in the centre of a verdant vale,

A scene of general interest attracts

My eyes, and solemnizing every thought,

Rivets them on the peaceful mansions where

“The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep;”

And who can tell but this sequester’d spot

Might guiltless Cromwells, and mute Miltons boast,

Had culture rear’d the seeds by nature sown.

This church-yard hallowed by a Popish fane,Open note 46Back to note ⁴⁶

Which, though in ruin, whispers to the mind,

That to the worship of Heaven’s Almighty King

Its wall were dedicated. I descend,

And nearer view the deposit of dust,

Erewhile inform’d with vital spark divine.

Solemn ideas rush upon the mind;

Though solemn, yet not sad; sweet nature’s smile

Even from the land of death steals wonted gloom.

Silence would hold uninterrupted reign

Save for the sound of a near murmuring rill,

Which tends to strenghten Fancy’s abstract range;

She, mingling with the dead of ages past,

Beholds the train of worshippers! beholds

The sacred rite,—now listens to the chaunt

Arising from the full assembled choir,

Until the holy vision quick dissolv’d,

Reality again assumes her sway.

What though nor weeping yew, nor cypress wave

In mournful shade, and o’er these ashes sigh;

What though forbidding nettles through the walls

Aloft in air their bristled tops erect;

Though deadly hemlock spread its leaves around;

Yet fragrant herbs and flowers their beauty lend,

Ambitious to adorn the vale of death.

Thus in the minds of those who sleep below,

The flowers of virtue with the weeds of vice,

In human frailty, undivided grew;

Let us not as the censure-loving crowd

Dwell on the weeds, yet overlook the flowers.

So thick the verdure, vain were the attempt

To trace the tribute of “the unletter’d Muse,”

Each lonely vestige undistinguish’d, hid,

Save here and there a new made grave, which tells

Death’s arrows recently were flying nigh.

Now let me wander by the tinkling rill,

Which widens as it winds. Here might the Muse

Forget the inspiring streams of Helicon,

Nor miss ideas for the sylvan dream.

As up the gentle eminence I stray,

Each step I take a new recess presents.

Embower’d in fragrance let me list a while

The concert mingling from the murmuring brook,

Exhilarating harmony of birds,

And lulling hum of busy wand’ring bee,

Sipping from every flower the nectarous store,

For wintry rigours carefully prepar’d.

Thou provident, industrous insect, how,

How canst thou think of winter in such scene?

With what profusion, Nature, dost thou here,

Upon the gay variety of flowers,

Shower every tinge which in the rainbow glows.

Bright peeps the pure ethereal azure through

Curtains of verdure on the farther bank.

The primrose ling’ring on the fountain brink,

Kindly protracts her balmy visit sweet.

A cataract of infant size, yet loud,

Abrupt, impetuous dashes o’er the rock;

And though on scale of miniature, the mind

Might the image form of Niagara.

Sweet rill! while thou pursuedst the prosperous course

I tarry’d by thy side, thy beauty prais’d,

Bask’d on thy banks amid the sunny gleams.

But now I see that through yon gloomy dell,

As bleak and stunted as thy former bounds

Were verdant, I must keep thee company,

Or take my leave; I, like a venal friend

Withdraw, and wishing that thou mayst fare well,

Leave thee to make the best of thy drear way,

Whilst I another pleasing tract pursue,

Which leads me to the flowery western banks,

Stretching along the margin of the main.

The mead her glowing pomp displays to view,

And loudly boasts of summer’s kindest smile.

“Ye flowery nations, must ye all decay?”

Not Solomon in all his glory drest

Could with you vie; nor your most puny leaf

Could Solomon in all his might have form’d.

Here sits the meadow’s all-acknowledg’d Queen,Open note 47Back to note ⁴⁷

Whose claim to royalty I ne’er could trace;

For, as I deem, she’s often far out-shone

By her surrounding subjects, honour’d less;

But soft! forgiveness here I must implore

Her fragrant majesty, whose right’s no doubt

Establish’d on sure claim, although it lie

Beyond my superficial inquiry.

Wild Pink, I fancy thee most delicate

Of all the flowers which grace this lovely scene,

Unless the beauteous violet of the vale

With thee dispute the sweet pre-eminence.

How bright thy red, thou William sweet, though wild;

O! for the botanist’s or florist’s skill,

To teach me to salute you by your names,

Ye blooming tribes; I only can admire,

In simple ignorance, your varied tints.

Indulge! indulge the fond egotic tear,

Shed o’er the ruins of yon ancient hall,

Which wakes remembrance “with her busy train.”

Ere while these walls beheld the rural life,

Here did a kind and hospitable pairOpen note 48Back to note ⁴⁸

Enjoy the summer months, while round them bloom’d

A numerous offspring, happy, innocent

As were the warblers, who from slumber wak’d

Them to their sports, and lull’d them to repose.

The roofless fabric hastens to decay,

How drear the opposing vacant casements give

The dusky light. The chamber void and waste

Appears, and its mild inmates seems to mourn;

A dame of unassuming, gentle worth,

Of conversation with gay sense inspir’d,

And in whose manners dignity was found

Attemper’d by simplicity. Yet she

Reach’d life’s declining years. Her partner fell

In venerable age, and like ripe fruit

Dropt gently in the peaceful arms of death.

But, ah! the youthful group who trode this green,

’Mongst them are many unexpected blanks;

Some in life’s morn, some in meridian prime

Are call’d, and claim the tribute of a sigh.

Turn we for comfort to the flowery race,

Behold them bright in nature’s fairest bloom;

But soon shall overwhelming torrents pour,

And o’er the plain in desolation sweep,

Leaving no traces of the verdant reign.

Again the voice of Spring shall call them forth,

In renovated beauty bid them glow,

And with their sweets another summer crown.

The voice of the Archangel who arrests

The flight of Time, shall break the bonds of Death,

And wake the Just to everlasting life.

Now to “the violet-embroider’d vale,”

Whose field gives emblem of life’s general field,

Promiscuously with flowers and thistles strew’d,

Where oft the eager hand which seeks the sweet,

Is in the pursuit wounded by the sharp.

Sweet violet, far rather would I vote

To thee allegiance, than to the Queen

Who proudly sits enthron’d in yonder mead.

Thou wear’st the purple robe of Royalty!

Thy beauty well might sovereign honours claim,

Whilst yet thou giv’st a hint to humble life,

Pleas’d with thy lowly state, nor vainly soars.

White clover breathes in frangrance through the air,

And half atones the absence of the rose,

Yellow and red, more showy, but less sweet,

Like characters of superficial stamp.

There wave the fields of vegetable silk,

Whose snowy tufts bend under zephyr’s sigh;

The scarlet poppy scatter’d through the corn

In gay, but transient splendour glows around.

Where partial hidden water flows beneath,

What luxury of beauty marks its course;

Here the charm’d eye a pleasing magnet finds,

The golden yellow glowing on the lap,

the smiling lap “of all refreshing green,”

In streams of verdure winding thro’ the plain;

Ye lowing kine well may your milky store

Be copious and rich from herbage drawn,

Which vegetable nectar might produce.

How sweet at eve to stray amongst these knolls,

Through narrow pathways fring’d with dewy grass;

Yet, sweeter still! to cross fields of green corn,

Rustling tranquillity as it recedes.

The evening hour, and fast declining sun,

Remind me it is time to think of home.

I’ll take my lingering circuit by the East,

And travel round the green Peninsula.

Shall I the North or Southern Isthmus choose?

Both stretch their white and curving arms of beach

To lead me to it by the eastern course.

The opposing Isthmuses, the western knolls,

And the Peninsula a circle form

Around a Loch, whose pure transparency,

Opposing boundaries of white and green,

And site sequester’d, pleasing union form.

Slender these barriers on the north and south,

Which here divide the near approaching bounds

Of Neptune, and the gentle Arethuse;

Who seems as she enjoy’d protection from

The power marine, save when fierce conflicts rise

’Twixt him and Æolus; haply in the strife

The beach’s limits all-unequal prove,

Nor can resist the Sea-god’s powerful sway.

The silver-footed water nymphs forsake,

In dread affright, their crystal sylvan haunts;

And to rude Neptune’s arbitrary force

Their power resign, without increasing his.

But he, though fierce, is also kind of heart;

Anon, repenting of the ruthless shock

His fair and helpless neighbours have sustain’d,

Doffing his trident, quickly he withdraws

His waves intrusive, bidding Arethuse

And her fleet nymphs again assume their right,

Which fears not interruption through the reigns

Of Flora, or Pomona, or of that

Of Ceres when she spreads around her treasures.

Then in harmonious union the sea-god,

And fountain-goddess, o’er each narrow beach

Smile on each other, side by side as now.

Thou traveller, led by design or chance

To Lerwick’s harbour, often visited,

Form not thy notion of the Zetland soil

From the bleak scene that mounts behind the town.

From it no just idea mayst thou draw.

We blazon not our best appearance first;

No! we reserve it to reward the search

Of active visitant. Four miles explore

Westward, and thou shalt find a fertile soil;

But if, may-hap, too limited thy stay

So distant an excursion to indulge,

As from the town thou wanderest by the road

Which winds through tract well term’d the Stony Hill,

Quitting the path, turn down toward the south,

Where shall (if during summer’s smiling reign

Thy visit chance) the blooming devious scenes

Above, but sketch’d imperfectly, repay

Thy travel, though thro’ many a rugged step;

If flowery meads, if fragrant scented gales,

If waving corn-clad fields, if level plains,

If verdant hillocks, melody of birds,

If the unbounded main, or land-lock’d sea,

For thee have charms. Or dost thou rather love

The rush-fring’d Loch, giving a second sky?

If these in fair arrangement can reward

Thy wandering steps, thou pleas’d shalt view the scene,

And quitting, thank the Muse for her advice.

Ah, hapless innocent! early hast thou

Sustain’d the greatest loss thou couldst sustain.

And did thy life cost hers who gave thee birth?

So in sad pathos tells that sable badge,

Which round thy tender temples is entwin’d;

And to the heart more feelingly appeals

Than flowing weeds, or pompous robes of state.

Unconscious mourner, thou hast cause to mourn.

’Tis well thou art unconscious. Not so he

Who to the purifying laver thee presents;

What tender feelings thrill his swelling heart,

While he a twofold duty undertakes.

But how shall he fulfil the various task?

He must incessant toil for thy support:

Alas, poor babe! who shall tend thee the while?

Or substitute the fond maternal care:

What gentle hand shall aid thy feeble frame,

And fondly cherish virtue’s tender bud;

Or carefully extract the weeds of vice

Which in thy ductile mind may soon appear?

Thy helpless state doth to my mind appear

Like to a vessel tost on stormy seas,

Without a helm to guide or stop her course.

Yet, let us list to Hope, which sweetly hints,

“A cloudy morn oft gives a sunny noon.”

Though chill misfortune hover’d o’er thy birth,

The Providence who early thee bereft,

Is kind and powerful to supply the loss.

Under the Christian Banner thou’rt enroll’d,

High privileges, thoughtless babe, are thine.

Thy luckless entrance on the stage of life,

To generous exertion will excite

In thy behalf; not to the higer ranks

Exclusive, is humanity confin’d,

It gilds the humble vale of lowly life,

Where soft commisseration thou wilt find.

And sure thou hast the prayers of all who saw

Thy sad appearance at the Sacred Font.