Mornirigi Mid-day, Landscapes, 
With Hoel’s harp deplor’d. 
While from her eyelids gush’d the soul- 
assuaging tear ! 
And oft, when Caution perm’d the guarded fold. 
Wrapt in his strain I took my lonely way. 
And listen’d pensive as kh “ curfew toll’d 
The dreary knell of the departed day !” 
rth ling’ring step, at midnight’s awful noon, 
I sought the death-bed of the lab’ring 
hind ; 
Explor’d with him the spot with grass o’er- 
grown, 
And the rude stone which rustic skill 
design’d. 
Oft shall his numbers soothe me to repose, 
Oft sh all my besom own their magicpow’rj 
His moral lay the hallow’d truth disclose, 
And oft beguile the solitary hour ! 
TO GOLDSMITH. 
Next hapless Auburn’s friend my bosom 
cheers, 
Whom Nature loves and ev’ry Muse re¬ 
veres ! 
To him was given the high victorious art, 
To gain a conquest o’er the human heart j 
No party-theme his gen’rous bosom fir’d, 
Far other strains his social soul inspir’d j 
In thy blest cause, O Virtue, he engag’d. 
And ’gainst thy foes alone fierce w'ar he 
wag’d ! 
He saw oppression seize the poor man’s soil, 
And bade the tyrant quit the impi us spoil j 
V/ith grief he sav/the dome of pow’r arise, 
With shame he heard the hapless maiden’s 
sighs 1 
He saw the prince, encompass’d by a train 
Of fiatt’ring slaves, who spurn’d the harmless 
swain } 
With weeping eye he view’d the lab’rer’s lot, 
Driv’n, like an exile, from his plunder’d 
spot ! 
Each realm he trac’d, recordingin his strains. 
That land most blest,—where prosper’d most 
the swains ! 
Poet belov’d! my vanquish’d heart is 
thine, 
And beats with transport thus to call thee 
mine! 
TO BURNS. 
And whae is he that syngs sae weel, 
And pens “ Addresses to the Deil ?”* 
Whae gies the sang syke bonny turns ? 
Daft Gowk ! ye ken it’s sonsie Burns 1 
Kie g^bby tales I looe to hear. 
They please sae meikle, run sae clear 5 
That ilka time, good traich, 1 read, 
I’se wiser baith L’ heart an head. 
I wad advise, when runkled care 
Begins to mak ye glow’r and stare, 
■ _ j , _ . . - ■■ — . ■ - ^ 
^ A poem of Burns so callede 
67 7 ■ 
That ye wad furst turn ow’r his leaf, 
’1 will mak ye suon forget ye’r grief! 
And, should auld mokie sorrow freeten, 
Hes bly thesome tale ye’r hearts will leeten^ 
And suor . I am,,ye grief may banter. 
By looking ow’r his “ Tam o’Shanter,”* 
And, while I breatlie, whene’er Ise scanty 
Of cheerfu friends,—and fynde a want 
Of something bly the to cure my glumps. 
And free mefrae the doleful dumps, 
I’ll tak hisbeuk, and read awhile. 
Until he mak me wear a smile j 
And, then, if I hae time to spare, 
I’ll learn his “ Bonny banks of Ayr !”-f“ 
MORNING LANDSCAPE;* 
1805. 
The rural landscapes, entitled Morning, 
Mid-day, Sunset, and Midnight,”' were 
written at seventeen years of age, when the 
author assures me he had not read those of 
Cunningham, called “ Day, Noon, and 
Evening.” It will, therefore, be pleasing’ 
to trace the accidental similitudes and the 
original ideas of two poets, in the most 
pastoral period of their lives, employed 
on the same subjects. The resemblances, 
however, are very few, in comparison with 
the unl)orrowed native touches, which are 
general and appropriate ; and, without at 
ail detracting from the engaging simplicity 
of Cunningham’s sketches, those of Mr, 
Blacket will be found no way inferior. 
It is to be observed, that the ideas of Mr, 
Blacket were not drawn from recollection, 
having' been an eye-witness of the various 
objects powrtrayed.—Mr. Pratt. 
Now the rosy orb of day 
O’er the waves begins to rise. 
Tinging with his glowing ray 
June’s unclouded morning skies j 
With what joy the soaring lark 
Hails him with her matin sons; 
As slie upward soarsj— and, hark! 
How the shepherd pipes along. 
Now the peasant’s door unbars, 
While the liousewife fills his fiask. 
He the ripping scythe prepares, 
Sharpen’d for its daily t3S.k. 
A-nxious, waiting at his feet. 
See poor Tray expectant stands. 
As the homely crust is eat’, 
For the morsel from his hands. 
* A poem of Burns so called. 
-f The title of one of the most beautiful 
songs in the whole collection of the Scot- 
tUh bard, 
4 
WliBe 
