INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST.

       Table of Contents

      TO WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, ESQ.

      Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

      November's sky is chill and drear,

       November's leaf is red and sear:

       Late, gazing down the steepy linn,

       That hems our little garden in,

       Low in its dark and narrow glen,

       You scarce the rivulet might ken,

       So thick the tangled greenwood grew,

       So feeble trill'd the streamlet through:

       Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen

       Through bush and brier, no longer green,

       An angry brook, it sweeps the glade,

       Brawls over rock and wild cascade,

       And, foaming brown with double speed,

       Hurries its waters to the Tweed.

       No longer Autumn's glowing red

       Upon our Forest hills is shed;

       No more, beneath the evening beam,

       Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam;

       Away hath pass'd the heather-bell

       That bloom'd so rich on Needpath-fell;

       Sallow his brow, and russet bare

       Are now the sister-heights of Yair.

       The sheep, before the pinching heaven,

       To sheltered dale and down are driven,

       Where yet some faded herbage pines,

       And yet a watery sunbeam shines:

       In meek despondency they eye

       The withered sward and wintry sky,

       And far beneath their summer hill,

       Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill:

       The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold,

       And wraps him closer from the cold;

       His dogs no merry circles wheel,

       But, shivering, follow at his heel;

       A cowering glance they often cast,

       As deeper moans the gathering blast.

       My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild,

       As best befits the mountain child,

       Feel the sad influence of the hour,

       And wail the daisy's vanish'd flower;

       Their summer gambols tell, and mourn,

       And anxious ask,--Will spring return,

       And birds and lambs again be gay,

       And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray?

      Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower

       Again shall paint your summer bower;

       Again the hawthorn shall supply

       The garlands you delight to tie;

       The lambs upon the lea shall bound,

       The wild birds carol to the round,

       And while you frolic light as they,

       Too short shall seem the summer day.

      To mute and to material things

       New life revolving summer brings;

       The genial call dead Nature hears,

       And in her glory reappears.

       But oh! my Country's wintry state

       What second spring shall renovate?

       What powerful call shall bid arise

       The buried warlike and the wise;

       The mind that thought for Britain's weal,

       The hand that grasp'd the victor steel?

       The vernal sun new life bestows

       Even on the meanest flower that blows;

       But vainly, vainly may he shine,

       Where Glory weeps o'er NELSON'S shrine:

       And vainly pierce the solemn gloom,

       That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow'd tomb!

      Deep graved in every British heart,

       O never let those names depart!

       Say to your sons,--Lo, here his grave,

       Who victor died on Gadite wave;

       To him, as to the burning levin,

       Short, bright, resistless course was given.

       Where'er his country's foes were found,

       Was heard the fated thunder's sound,

       Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,

       Roll'd, blazed, destroyed,--and was no more.

      Nor mourn ye less his perished worth,

       Who bade the conqueror go forth,

       And launch'd that thunderbolt of war

       On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar;

       Who, born to guide such high emprize,

       For Britain's weal was early wise;

       Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,