180° 
Ty 
poetry. Dec. §- 
Hew often, Mary ! has my heart 
With secret rapture beat thy praise, 
While on your breast our infants hung, { 
I mark’d their mother’s tender gaze 5 
And still, my love, thy lad is proud, 
Old as he is, he’s proud to see 
The younkers anxious for thy love, 
Come fondling round their Gran’am’s knee, : 
O blefs the day you did approve, 
And bade me hope, and bade me love! | 
O Mary! much I owe thy care: 
Life’s best of blefsings still you-gave 5 
Bur now our various duties past, 
Our nearest prospect is the grave : 
Yet conscious of a.virtuous lite, 
We fhrink not from the solemn scene 
Sigh, sigh we must that we fhall part, 
But soon, my love! we'll méet again, . 
Where endlefs pleasures we fhall prove, 
Nor ever, ever cease to Jove. 
Edinburgh, New. 26. 20 TNE ee 4 
a‘ ’ 
SONNET TO THE MOON, 
Benp from thy throne, fair emprefs of the night! 
Ané as thou lJook’st o’er earth with eye serene, 
Marking thy fhadowy paintings on the green, 
An4 bright’ning heav’n with silver streaming light 5 
Q! ifin all thy course, divinely bright, 
Thou see’st one wretch in felon malice mean, 
Debase the varied beauty of the scene, 
Or one fell murd’rer burst the bands of night, 
Dart through his soul, severely bright, a ray 
Whose living splendor fhal! his hand arrest 5 
And to his guilty conscious spirit say, 
«« Though thou may’st live unknown to law’s behest, | 
«¢ And hide thy deeds from mortals and the day, | 
«¢ Yet conscience’ worm fhall rankle in thy breast.” 
