149 
poetry Nov. 28, 
Here Pentland hills, and the great Authur’s seat, 
Array’din green, nor envy those their jet. 
Green are thy banks, O Forth, and deep thy tides, 
Soft flow thy waves, and sweet are both thy sides; 
But, ah! how chang*d when once the eastern storm 
Tears up thy waves, and all thy sweets deform: 
Loud howls the blast that threats the seaman’s life, 
''Ev'n then there’s fhelter in the ports of Fife; 
Ev’n then, as centinel, stands yon hardy Bafs, na 
Nor foe, nor friend, nor stranger, e’er can pafs 
Without admiring thy unfhaken soul, 
And venerable head, while. ages roll. 
Nor fhall the muse unnotic’d in her lay 
Pats the due honour to thee, verdant *May! 
To thee belongs the tribute of the brave, 
Tis thine-to light them o’er the nightly wave; 
<\nd when compell’d by storms to bear away, 
Direct their safe retreat to Larg» Bay. 
O, Largo Bay! my theme, my chief delight ; 
When I behold thee from this meuntain’s height, 
Thy armas extended to relieve distrefs, 
Thy liquid bosom clear as polifh’d glafs, 
My hear: exults :—Come here, come here, I cry, 
Why, valitudinarians, will ye die? 
1f spleen opprefs thy soul, or bod’!y pain 
Racks every joint, and cramps thy ev'ry vein, 
Here breathe the air which will thy health restore, 
Chear all thy soul, and open ev’ry pore; 
Or if by slow consumption you decay, 
Come here and live, there’s life in Largo Bay ; 
Bathe in the stream which braces ev’ry nerve, 
Goodsir }’ declares this will thy life preserve : 
4A.nd who can doubt what Goodsir doth declare, 
Whose.medicines are always mix’d with pray’r? 
No med’cines here I need, where every breath, 
}raws health and pleasure from the mountain he=ths 5 
Purples and green the velvet carpet spread, 
Bees suck the flow’rs, and fheep the pasture tread. 
‘Thy mountain, Lebanon was not more fair, 
Nor Hermon’s hill breath’d ne’er a sweeter air 5 
Nor lefs the beauties of yon verdant mead, 
Where sporting heifers and huge oxen feed. 
Far in yon vale of Lundin f rearsits head 
An ancient tower ;—three gray stones mark the dead 5 
‘The mighty dead af Scandinavian race, 
Who strove in vain to gain the ancient place; 
They fell, o’ercome by Caledonian pow’r, 
And Scoftith herees still pofsefs the tow’r. 
Still farther west, and tow’ring in the fky, 
The brotker Lomonds litt their heads on high 5 
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# May a beautiful island on which is a lighthouse in the mouth of theForth. 
+ Mr John Goodsir, surgeon in Largo, a gentleman eminent in his profef 
sion andi i every Christian virtue, 
dt An estate belonging to Sir William Erlkiae of Tory. 
