PROGRESS OF A NATURALIST. 



Some ancient volume poring o'er, 

 A dark bound herbal on the floor. 

 The tawny page he reads with care, 

 Yet finds a something wanting there ; 

 Then lifts his face with thoughtful look, 

 And calmly shuts his musty book. 



I trace him still on Scotia's hills, 

 By craggy steeps, by mossy rills, 

 In heathy vale, o'er ferny lands, 

 'Long dusky shelves, on granite bands 

 Each nook, each cranny, close explore, 

 And half the island's sandy shore ; 

 The mead, the woodland, and the plain : 

 And now the wand'rer 's home again. 



. I see, upon a wide-spread board, 

 This rambler's rare and cherish'd hoard : 

 Mysterious grasses scatter'd o'er, 

 A glass, a press, and books of lore ; 

 With grave, consid'rate care and thought, 

 Compares the species he has brought ; 

 Then, ranging out each sep'rate race, 

 He bids their form the pencil trace. 



Ah, Vulcan ! that thy hateful rage 

 Should moulder half his studious page. 



How wavTing is the mind of man ! 

 A fickle thing since time began 

 Hates this to-day, to-morrow loves, 

 Neglecting what he most approves 



