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,
    Asserts 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.] [Footnote B:  Alluding to his dress, as described by Mr. Boswell.]

LINES

WRITTEN UPON A HILL,

On leaving the Country.

Ah! sweet romantic spot, adieu! 
Ere your green fields again I view,
These looks may change their youthful hue.

Dependence sternly bids me part
From all that ye, lov’d scenes! impart,
Far from my treasure and my heart.

Tho’ winter shall your bloom invade,
Fancy may visit ev’ry shade,
Each bow’r shall kiss the wand’ring maid.