Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
Poetry.
TO THE SUN FLOWER . FROM POEMS BY CHARLES FOX . WHERE is the man who thus can nobly say : I hail brig ht Truth in her eternal source ; Pursued her flight thro' all the realms of day , Nor ceas'd to follow her celestial course
, Till that Almighty Power , who rules the sphere , [ inv bold career ? Spread wide the mental night , and check'd If on ihe earth that man sublime . there be , That-man , O lovely Flower ! resembles thee , The breeze that wakens with the orient dawn [ ring dew :
, Scarce from thv bosom shakes the quiv ' - Scarce is the dusk ' v veil of night withdrawn , Ere thv fond eye , expanding to the view , With kindling rapture meets the golden gleam , [ the stream . That now ascends the sky , now floats along And when the burning blaze of summer noon [ rial height ;
Darts from the mid-way heaven ' s ethe-Thy daringeve , broad as tlie rising ' moon , With transport gazes on the king of light ; Tho' all around thee droop the languid head , And all the energies of life are lied . And oft as evening sheds the dewy tear , O ' ei the pale relicts of departed day , And in the blue expanse of heaven , appear
The first faint gleams of many a starry ray , Dost thou responsive to the zephyr ' s sigh , Mourn the past radiance ofthe western sky . Thus , thus , may Nature ' s more than magic charm , Attract for ever my admiring gaze ; Her dictates all my bosom warm
purer , And guide me far from Superstition ' s maze . Tho' lost to you , vain World , may Achmed prove [ Faith , and Love . True to the last faint gleam of Reason ,
INSCRIPTION , In the Cburcb-yard ofGlammis , Forfar , on a Mo nument erected to perpetuate the Memory of ANDREW CHALMERS , Musician to the noble Family of Stratbmore .
THOUSANDS tha ! play on instruments With reverence might bow To such a man , whose violin Could savages subdue . His rowerful and his charming notes So sweetly did constrain ; That to resist-, and rKjt to dance , Was labrfur all in vain . Yea , wheij he touch'tl the tuneful strings , Such melody ran round The room , tiiat-s ' en the very brutes Stood listening to the sounit .
He play'd with such dexterity , By a " U il is contest , _ _ . That in this grave interred is Of vioiers the best . HAWKSTONE PARK . [ CONCLUDED FHOM our . LAST . 2
LONG unmolested in his sport , . Here Reynard held his festive court , While scatter'd turkieyducks . and chickens , Proclaim'd bold Reynard's dainty pickings . Thus thieves ofi' times most nicely feed , Whilst honest men are left in need .
REYNARD'S REPLY . HATED bv all , what can I do ? Sure , I must eat , as we !! as you . Instinct ; not vice , points out my food , And tells poor Reynard what is good . Can I the laws of Nature change
, Which force me out by nighi t ' o range ? Doom'd to defy the Farmer ' s ire , ( When oft his rusiy gun miss'd fire ) , Can I the force of hunger stay , No more eai fowls , or feed ori hay ? ¦ Behold me , at the risk of life , Evade the watchful Farmer ' s wife ; With pitchfork arm'd , ( I own the fact , Old ret htme in the
Marg'caug act ) . Mot nted she stood on ladder ' s height , Resolv'd to see , one moonshine night , What thief with two legs , or with four , Had stole of chickens half a score ; Whilst of her family bereft , The ancient hen alone was left . . Instant upon the roost I sprung , Whilst Marg ' ret to her ladder cluiio-.
Then hurl'd her pitchfork at my head , And cried , 'I've kill'd the villain dead !' But while she spoke , down slipp'd old Peg , And by good luck she broke her leg . But there's acharge I can't endure , Why am I deem'd an Epicure , When an old turkey from her nest , Of all my meals is oft' the be-t ? So hard , so tough , so out of season ,
To call me nice shews want of reason . Once when I gnaw'd'John Dobson's goose , My jaws were tir'd , my teeih were loose : No wonder- —when I understood She just had hatch'd her twentieth brood ; But iruly , if I might presume , The cack'lingdame had serv'd old Rome . It is my crime ; oeat , undress'd , What ' s tortur'd by your Cooks profess'd ?
What , though I neither roast nor boil , I nought by pamp'ring sauces spoil ; Anchovy , cayan , Cherokee , Are all alike unknown tome : And 'tis a truth by all contest , That of all sauces hunger ' s best . But hark , each cens ' ring child of man , . Then blame poor Reynard if you can ;
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
Poetry.
TO THE SUN FLOWER . FROM POEMS BY CHARLES FOX . WHERE is the man who thus can nobly say : I hail brig ht Truth in her eternal source ; Pursued her flight thro' all the realms of day , Nor ceas'd to follow her celestial course
, Till that Almighty Power , who rules the sphere , [ inv bold career ? Spread wide the mental night , and check'd If on ihe earth that man sublime . there be , That-man , O lovely Flower ! resembles thee , The breeze that wakens with the orient dawn [ ring dew :
, Scarce from thv bosom shakes the quiv ' - Scarce is the dusk ' v veil of night withdrawn , Ere thv fond eye , expanding to the view , With kindling rapture meets the golden gleam , [ the stream . That now ascends the sky , now floats along And when the burning blaze of summer noon [ rial height ;
Darts from the mid-way heaven ' s ethe-Thy daringeve , broad as tlie rising ' moon , With transport gazes on the king of light ; Tho' all around thee droop the languid head , And all the energies of life are lied . And oft as evening sheds the dewy tear , O ' ei the pale relicts of departed day , And in the blue expanse of heaven , appear
The first faint gleams of many a starry ray , Dost thou responsive to the zephyr ' s sigh , Mourn the past radiance ofthe western sky . Thus , thus , may Nature ' s more than magic charm , Attract for ever my admiring gaze ; Her dictates all my bosom warm
purer , And guide me far from Superstition ' s maze . Tho' lost to you , vain World , may Achmed prove [ Faith , and Love . True to the last faint gleam of Reason ,
INSCRIPTION , In the Cburcb-yard ofGlammis , Forfar , on a Mo nument erected to perpetuate the Memory of ANDREW CHALMERS , Musician to the noble Family of Stratbmore .
THOUSANDS tha ! play on instruments With reverence might bow To such a man , whose violin Could savages subdue . His rowerful and his charming notes So sweetly did constrain ; That to resist-, and rKjt to dance , Was labrfur all in vain . Yea , wheij he touch'tl the tuneful strings , Such melody ran round The room , tiiat-s ' en the very brutes Stood listening to the sounit .
He play'd with such dexterity , By a " U il is contest , _ _ . That in this grave interred is Of vioiers the best . HAWKSTONE PARK . [ CONCLUDED FHOM our . LAST . 2
LONG unmolested in his sport , . Here Reynard held his festive court , While scatter'd turkieyducks . and chickens , Proclaim'd bold Reynard's dainty pickings . Thus thieves ofi' times most nicely feed , Whilst honest men are left in need .
REYNARD'S REPLY . HATED bv all , what can I do ? Sure , I must eat , as we !! as you . Instinct ; not vice , points out my food , And tells poor Reynard what is good . Can I the laws of Nature change
, Which force me out by nighi t ' o range ? Doom'd to defy the Farmer ' s ire , ( When oft his rusiy gun miss'd fire ) , Can I the force of hunger stay , No more eai fowls , or feed ori hay ? ¦ Behold me , at the risk of life , Evade the watchful Farmer ' s wife ; With pitchfork arm'd , ( I own the fact , Old ret htme in the
Marg'caug act ) . Mot nted she stood on ladder ' s height , Resolv'd to see , one moonshine night , What thief with two legs , or with four , Had stole of chickens half a score ; Whilst of her family bereft , The ancient hen alone was left . . Instant upon the roost I sprung , Whilst Marg ' ret to her ladder cluiio-.
Then hurl'd her pitchfork at my head , And cried , 'I've kill'd the villain dead !' But while she spoke , down slipp'd old Peg , And by good luck she broke her leg . But there's acharge I can't endure , Why am I deem'd an Epicure , When an old turkey from her nest , Of all my meals is oft' the be-t ? So hard , so tough , so out of season ,
To call me nice shews want of reason . Once when I gnaw'd'John Dobson's goose , My jaws were tir'd , my teeih were loose : No wonder- —when I understood She just had hatch'd her twentieth brood ; But iruly , if I might presume , The cack'lingdame had serv'd old Rome . It is my crime ; oeat , undress'd , What ' s tortur'd by your Cooks profess'd ?
What , though I neither roast nor boil , I nought by pamp'ring sauces spoil ; Anchovy , cayan , Cherokee , Are all alike unknown tome : And 'tis a truth by all contest , That of all sauces hunger ' s best . But hark , each cens ' ring child of man , . Then blame poor Reynard if you can ;