Now fprings the yellow corn enrich'd with blood,
Where once the cloud-capp'd tow'rs of Ilion food.
Half-buried bodies our rough ploughshares break,
The waving grafs conceals the bulky wreck;
From Troy a conqueror you bent your way,
Nor can we guefs the cause of your delay;
Nor may I know what region is fo bleft,
As to enclose my hero in its breast.
No fhip has landed on our friendly coaft,
But with your fate each moment was engross'd.
When you return, my fears that you are ill,
To wake your love I prefs'd the downy quill;
To Neftor's realms my meffengers repair,
Search every nook, but no Ulyffes there.
The Spartan regions next my spies explore,
But foon return uncertain as before.

I had been bleft, had Ilion's facred tow'rs
Still rofe protected by th' immortal pow'rs.
I may be angry, childish in my fears,
But war alone had then engag'd my cares ;
But now, unknowing what I moft fhould fhun,
A thousand different evils raise from one ;
A vaft expanse of forrow greets my fight,

* Earth fea and air give equal cause of fight.

*The anxiety of a lover in the abfence of the object of one's affec

tions, Ovid here pathetically describes.---

Quæcunq; æquor habet quæcunq; pencula telus,

Tam longe caufas fufpicor effe moræ.

But ah! whilft I in filent anguish mourn,

And

pour forth pray'rs and tears for your return;
You may, perhaps, forgetful of my name,
To fome fuperior firanger yields my claim :
Or if a thought of me fhould reach your mind,
You jeer the ruftic wife you left behind,
Whofe humbled diftaff is her greatest care;
This you relate to your exulting fair.

O may thefe thoughts deceive my jealous eye!
They do, they do, and like the winds they fly.

By thirst of lucre, now my father led,
Commands me to defert my widow'd bed;
Still let him chide, Ulyes is my life,

And while I breath 1 must be call'd-his wife.
With pray'rs and fobs my melting fire I move,
Who curbs the zeal of those who seek my love;
Dulichians, Samians, and Zacynthians crowd,
All breath their impious vows of love aloud;
With noify revelry your roofs profane,
And in your caftle, unmolefted reign.
Why fhould I tell you of Pifandrus bold,*
Medon, and Polybus, to pity cold;
Eurymachus, and all th' infernal brood,

Who wafte your flores, and feed upon your blood:

The ftory of Penelope's undoing by night the work fhe had performed by day, is a flory fo well known, that it would feem tedious to repeat it here. Pifandrus, &c. are thefe fuitors.

E'en

E'en Irus, once the meanest of our slaves,
Uiges his paffion, and my anger braves;
The Goatherd too, to finish your difgrace,
Immenfe Melanthius, holds a foremost place:
Three helpless wretches, here we drag our lives,
And first myself, most destitute of wives;
Laertes, and Telemachus, our joy,

But fome dark scheme has robb'd me of my boy.
To ancient Pylos now his courfe he bends,
Far from thefe walls and his unwilling friends.
Grant this, ye pow'rs, may fate in order run,
And give to close our eyes the darling fon;
This each domeftic of the castle craves,

The ancient nurfe, his fhepherd, and his slaves.
Your fire Laertes, haft'ning to his end,
No longer can by arms his rights defend:
His foes, his threats and impotence defpife,
And waste his precious stores before his eyes.
O may Telemachus, if yet he live,

Blooming in health the needed fuccour give!
I have not frength to force them back again,
Come, my Ulyffes, cafe me of my pain:
Drive these devouring bloody Sporters hence,
Thou art our prop, our altar, and defence.
You whom our youthful progeny may claim,
To point him early to the road of fame ;
View your poor fire, Laertes, ere he die,
Who treads the utmoft verge of deftiny.
L. 4

I, who

I, who when laft you clafp'd me in your arms,

(So time can change us) warm'd you with my charms; Yet when returning, for those charms you feek,

Old age's wrinkles may deform my cheek.

SONG,

WRITTEN BY JAMES THOMSON,

IN HIS EARLY YEARS, AND AFTERWARDS SHAPED
FOR HIS AMANDA.”

From a MS. in the Collection of the Earl of Buchan.
FOR ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove

An unrelenting foe to love;

And when we meet a mutual heart,
Come in between and bid us part;
Bid us figh on from day to day,
And with and with the foul away;
Till youth and genial years are flown,
And all the life of life is gone!
But bufy, bufy ftill art thou,
To bind the lovelefs joyless vow,
The heart from pleasure to delude,

And join the gentle to the rude;

*Extracted from the Earl of Buchan's Lives of the Poets, Thomfon, and of Fletcher of Saltoun. Printed for J. Debrett.

For

For pomp, and noife, and fenfeless show,
To make us nature's joys forego,
Beneath a gay dominion groan,

And put the golden fetters on!

ADDRESSED TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,

On crowning his Buft with a Wreath of Bays, 179.

BY ROBERT BURN,

(FROM THE SAME.)

I.

WHILE virgin fpring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green;
Or pranks the fod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian ftrains between.

II.

While Summer with a matron grace
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling fhade,

Yet oft delighted stops to trace

The progrefs of the spiky blade.

III.

While Autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects her aged head,
And fees, with felf-approving mind,
Each creature on her bounty fed.

L5

IV.