POETRT. 



For the Bee. 



VERSES BY THOMSON ADDRESSED TO HIS AMANDA, NEVEK 

 BEFORE PRINTED. 



A" urge too late ! from beauty's bondage free. 



Why did I trust my liberty with the^ I 



And thou, why didst thou, with inhumia art, 



If not resolv'd to take, seduce my heart ? 



Yes ! yes ! you saw, (for lover's eyes speak true,) 



You must have se?n, how fast my pafsion grew ; 



And when your glances chanc'd on me to (hine. 



How my fond soul ecstatic sprung ro thine. 



But mark rae, fair one ! what I now declare, 



A deep attentioi claims a serious care, 



Ic is no common pafsion fires my breast; 



I must be wretclied, or I must be blest ; 



My woes all other remedy deny, 



Or pitying give me hope, or bid me die ! 



For the Bee. 



VERSES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW IN BREADALBANE, 



BV MR ROBERT BURNS, MAY 9. I79O. 



Admiring nature in its wildest grace. 



These norti)crii scenes with weary feet I trace, 



O'er many a winding dell, and painful steep, 



Th' abode of covey'd grouse and timid llieep. 



My sivag<; journey, curious, I pursue, 



Till fam'd Breadalb.ine opens on my view! 



A rifted hill each deep sunk^len divides, 



'I'he wDjdi wild scatter'd clothe their ample sides, 



Th' out-srretching lake embosom'd 'mocg the hill6> 



'i'lic eye with pleaiuie and amazement fills, 



The Tay meand'ring sweet, in infant pride, 



The palace rising on its verdant s'de, 



Ti'.e striking arches o'er the new-born stream. 



The village glitt'ring in the noon-tide beam, 



The lawns wood-fring'd in nature's native taste, 



Noi with one iingle j^oth conceit disgrac'd. 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 

 I.oiie wind'ring by the hermit's mofsy cell, 

 The sweeping theitre of hanging woo^s, 

 Tlr incefsani: r04r of hesdling tumbling floodj. 



VOL. viii. T -f- 



