“Some, bounded to a district-space
     Explore at large man’s infant race,
     To mark the embryotic trace
     Of rustic bard;
     And careful note each opening grace,
     A guide and guard.

     “Of these am I—­Coila my name: 
     And this district as mine I claim,
     Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame,
     Held ruling power: 
     I mark’d thy embryo-tuneful flame,
     Thy natal hour.

     “With future hope I oft would gaze
     Fond, on thy little early ways,
     Thy rudely, caroll’d, chiming phrase,
     In uncouth rhymes;
     Fir’d at the simple, artless lays
     Of other times.

     “I saw thee seek the sounding shore,
     Delighted with the dashing roar;
     Or when the North his fleecy store
     Drove thro’ the sky,
     I saw grim Nature’s visage hoar
     Struck thy young eye.

     “Or when the deep green-mantled earth
     Warm cherish’d ev’ry floweret’s birth,
     And joy and music pouring forth
     In ev’ry grove;
     I saw thee eye the general mirth
     With boundless love.

     “When ripen’d fields and azure skies
     Call’d forth the reapers’ rustling noise,
     I saw thee leave their ev’ning joys,
     And lonely stalk,
     To vent thy bosom’s swelling rise,
     In pensive walk.

     “When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong,
     Keen-shivering, shot thy nerves along,
     Those accents grateful to thy tongue,
     Th’ adored Name,
     I taught thee how to pour in song,
     To soothe thy flame.

     “I saw thy pulse’s maddening play,
     Wild send thee Pleasure’s devious way,
     Misled by Fancy’s meteor-ray,
     By passion driven;
     But yet the light that led astray
     Was light from Heaven.

     “I taught thy manners-painting strains,
     The loves, the ways of simple swains,
     Till now, o’er all my wide domains
     Thy fame extends;
     And some, the pride of Coila’s plains,
     Become thy friends.

     “Thou canst not learn, nor I can show,
     To paint with Thomson’s landscape glow;
     Or wake the bosom-melting throe,
     With Shenstone’s art;
     Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow
     Warm on the heart.

     “Yet, all beneath th’ unrivall’d rose,
     T e lowly daisy sweetly blows;
     Tho’ large the forest’s monarch throws
     His army shade,
     Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows,
     Adown the glade.

     “Then never murmur nor repine;
     Strive in thy humble sphere to shine;
     And trust me, not Potosi’s mine,
     Nor king’s regard,
     Can give a bliss o’ermatching thine,
     A rustic bard.

     “To give my counsels all in one,
     Thy tuneful flame still careful fan: 
     Preserve the dignity of Man,
     With soul erect;
     And trust the Universal Plan
     Will all protect.