Poems by Sir John Carr Part 12

LINES

ON THE CALEDONIAN HARP BEING SUCCEEDED

BY THE HIGHLAND BAGPIPES.

In days that long have glided by, Beneath keen Scotia's weeping sky, On many a hill of purple heath, In many a gloomy glen beneath, The wand'ring Lyrist once was known To pour his harp's entrancing tone.

Then, when the castle's rocky form Rose 'mid the dark surrounding storm, The Harper had a sacred seat, Whence he might breathe his wild notes sweet.

Oh! then, when many a twinkling star Shone in the azure vault afar, And mute was ev'ry mountain-bird, Soft music from the harp was heard; And when the morning's blushes shed On hill, or tow'r, their varying red, Oh! then the harp was heard to cheer, With earliest sound, th' enraptur'd ear; Then many a lady fair was known, With snowy hand, to wake its tone; And infant fingers press'd the string, And back recoil'd, to hear it sing.

Sweet instrument! such was thy pow'r, 'Twas thine to gladden ev'ry hour; The young and old then honour'd thee, And smil'd to hear thy melody.

Alas! as Time has turn'd to dust The temple fair, the beauteous bust, Thou too hast mark'd his frowning brow; No Highland echo knows thee now: A savage has usurp'd thy place, Once fill'd by thee with ev'ry grace; Th' inflated Pipe, with swinish drone, Calls forth applauses once thine own.

A SONG.

When stormy show'rs from Heav'n descend, And with their weight the lily bend, The Sun will soon his aid bestow, And drink the drops that laid it low.

Oh! thus, when sorrow wrings the heart, A sigh may rise, a tear may start; Pity shall soon the face impress With all its looks of happiness.

VERSES

ON AN AUTUMNAL LEAF.

Think not, thou pride of Summer's softest strain!

Sweet dress of Nature, in her virgin bloom!

That thou hast flutter'd to the breeze in vain, Or unlamented found thy native tomb.

The Muse, who sought thee in the whisp'ring shade, When scarce one roving breeze was on the wing, With tones of genuine grief beholds thee fade, And asks thy quick return in earliest Spring.

I mark'd the victim of the wintry hour, I heard the winds breathe sad a fun'ral sigh, When the lone warbler, from his fav'rite bow'r, Pour'd forth his pensive song to see thee die;--

When, in his little temple, colder grown, He saw its sides of green to yellow grow, And mourn'd his little roof, around him blown, Or toss'd in beauteous ruin on the snow;

And vow'd, throughout the dreary day to come, (More sad by far than summer's gloomiest night), That not one note should charm the leafless gloom, But silent Sorrow should attend thy flight.

SONG.

THE WORDS ADAPTED TO "THE COSSAKA,"

_One of the most ancient of the Russ Airs_.

Has Time a changeling made of thee?

Oh! no; and thou art all to me: He bares the forest, but his pow'rs Impair not love like ours.

Tho' sever'd from each other's sight, When once we meet we shall unite, As dew-drops down the lily run, And, touching, blend in one.

For thee this bosom learnt to grieve, Another never made it heave; When present, oh! it was thy throne, And, absent, thine alone.

Then may my trembling pilgrim feet In safety find thy lov'd retreat!

And, if I'm doom'd to drop with care, Still let me perish there!

TO MISS ATKINSON,

ON THE EXTREME DIFFIDENCE WHICH SHE

DISPLAYS TO STRANGERS.

Just as a fawn, in forest shade, Trembling to meet th' admiring eye, I've seen thee try to hide, sweet maid!

Thy charms behind thy modesty.

Thus too I've seen at midnight steal A fleecy cloud before the wind, And veil, tho' it could not conceal, The brilliant light that shone behind.

LINES

Upon reading the Journal of a Friend's Tour into Scotland, in which the picturesque Scenery and the Character of the People are fairly and liberally stated.

Much injur'd, Scotia! was thy genuine worth, When late the[A] surly Rambler wandered forth In brown[B] surtout, with ragged staff, Enough to make a savage laugh!

And sent the faithless legend from his hand, That Want and Famine scour'd thy bladeless land,

That with thee Nature wore a wrinkled face, That not a leaf e'er shed its sylvan grace, But, harden'd by their northern wind, Rude, deceitful, and unkind, Thy half-cloth'd sons their oaten cake denied, Victims at once of penury and pride.

Happy for thee! a lib'ral Briton here, Gentle yet shrewd, tho' learned not severe.

Fairly thy merit dares impart, a.s.serts thy hospitable heart, Proves that luxuriance smiles upon thy plains, And wit and valour grace thy hardy swains.

[Footnote A: Dr. Johnson, author of the Rambler.]