The Poetical Works of Beattie, Blair and Falconer | Page 9

with. It allows the sententiousness of the couplet, as well as
the more complex modulation of blank verse. What some critics have
remarked, of its uniformity growing at last tiresome to the ear, will be

found to hold true only when the poetry is faulty in other respects.
BOOK I.
Me vero primum dulces ante omnia Musae,
Quarum sacra fero,
ingenti perculsus amore,
Accipiant--
VIRGIL
1
Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb
The steep where Fame's
proud temple shines afar?
Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime

Has felt the influence of malignant star,
And waged with Fortune
an eternal war--
Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,

And Poverty's unconquerable bar--
In life's low vale remote has pined
alone,
Then dropp'd into the grave, unpitied and unknown?
2
And yet the languor of inglorious days,
Not equally oppressive is to
all;
Him who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise,
The silence of
neglect can ne'er appal.
There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call,

Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump of Fame;
Supremely
blest, if to their portion fall
Health, competence, and peace. Nor
higher aim
Had he whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim.
3
The rolls of fame I will not now explore;
Nor need I here describe, in
learned lay,
How forth the Minstrel fared in days of yore,
Right
glad of heart, though homely in array;
His waving locks and beard all
hoary gray;
While from his bending shoulder, decent hung
His harp,
the sole companion of his way,
Which to the whistling wild
responsive rung:
And ever as he went some merry lay he sung.

4
Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride,
That a poor villager
inspires my strain;
With thee let Pageantry and Power abide:
The
gentle Muses, haunt the sylvan reign;
Where through wild groves at
eve the lonely swain
Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature's charms:

They hate the sensual and scorn the vain,
The parasite their
influence never warms,
Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold
alarms.
5
Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn,
Yet horror screams
from his discordant throat.
Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,

While warbling larks on russet pinions float:
Or seek at noon the
woodland scene remote,
Where the grey linnets carol from the hill.

Oh, let them ne'er, with artificial note,
To please a tyrant, strain the
little bill,
But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they
will!
6
Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand;
Nor was perfection made
for man below;
Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd;

Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe.
With gold and gems if
Chilian mountains glow;
If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise;

There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow;
Here, peaceful are the
vales, and pure the skies,
And Freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in
the eyes.
7
Then grieve not, thou, to whom the indulgent Muse
Vouchsafes a
portion of celestial fire;
Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse

The Imperial banquet and the rich attire.
Know thine own worth, and

reverence the lyre.
Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined?

No; let thy heaven-taught soul to Heaven aspire,
To fancy, freedom,
harmony resign'd;
Ambition's grovelling crew for ever left behind.
8
Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul
In each fine sense so
exquisitely keen,
On the dull couch of Luxury to loll,
Stung with
disease, and stupified with spleen;
Fain to implore the aid of
Flattery's screen,
Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide

(The mansion then no more of joy serene),
Where fear, distrust,
malevolence abide,
And impotent desire, and disappointed pride?
9
Oh, how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which
Nature to her votary yields?
The warbling woodland, the resounding
shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
All that the
genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even,

All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,
And all the dread
magnificence of heaven,
Oh, how canst thou renounce, and hope to
be forgiven?
10
These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health,
And love, and
gentleness, and joy impart.
But these thou must renounce, if lust of
wealth
E'er win its way to thy corrupted heart:
For, ah! it poisons
like a scorpion's dart;
Prompting the ungenerous wish, the selfish
scheme,
The stern resolve, unmoved by pity's smart,
The troublous
day, and long distressful dream.
Return, my roving Muse, resume thy
purposed theme.
11

There lived in Gothic days, as legends tell,
A shepherd-swain, a man
of low degree;
Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell,

Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady;
But he, I ween, was of the north
countrie; [1]
A nation famed for song and beauty's charms;
Zealous,
yet modest; innocent, though free;
Patient of toil; serene amidst
alarms;
Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms.
12
The shepherd swain of whom I mention made,
On Scotia's mountains
fed his little flock;
The sickle, scythe, or plough he never sway'd:

An honest heart was almost all his stock;
His drink the living water
from the rock:
The milky dams supplied his board, and lent
Their
kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock;
And he, though oft with dust
and sweat besprent,
Did guide and guard their