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 gray linnets carol from the hill,
O 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.

Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand;

Nor was perfection made for man below.

Yet all her schemes with nicest art are planned,
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.

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, resigned;
Ambition's grovelling crew forever left behind.

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 stupefied 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?

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,

O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven?

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.

The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made,
On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock;
The sickle, scythe, or plough he never swayed;
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 bespent,

Did guide and guard their wanderings wheresoe'er they went.

To this extract from the 'Minstrel,' we add Beattie's lines on Retirement, written in 1758, and his Hermit, one of the most touching poems in the English language:

RETIREMENT.

When in the crimson cloud of even,

The lingering light decays,

And Hesper on the front of heaven

His glittering gem displays;

Deep in the silent vale, unseen,
Beside a lulling stream,

A pensive youth, of placid mien,

Indulged this tender theme.

'Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piled

High o'er the glimmering dale;

Ye woods, along whose windings wild

Murmurs the solemn gale:

Where Melancholy strays forlorn,
And Woe retires to weep,

What time the wan moon's yellow horn
Gleams on the western deep:

To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms

Ne'er drew Ambition's eye,

'Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms,

To your retreats I fly.

Deep in your most sequestered bower

Let me at last recline,

Where Solitude, mild, modest power,

Leans on her ivied shrine.

How shall I woo thee, matchless fair?

Thy heavenly smile how win?

Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care,

And stills the storm within.

O wilt thou to thy favourite grove

Thine ardent votary bring,

And bless his hours, and bid them move
Serene, on silent wing?

Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind
With dreams of former days,

When in the lap of Peace reclined
He framed his infant lays;

When Fancy roved at large, nor Care

Nor cold Distrust alarmed,

Nor Envy, with malignant glare,

His simple youth had harmed.

'Twas then, O Solitude! to thee His early vows were paid,

From heart sincere, and warm, and free, Devoted to the shade.

Ah why did Fate his steps decoy

In stormy paths to roam,

Remote from all congenial joy !-

O take the wanderer home.

Thy shades, thy silence now be mine,

Thy charms my only theme;

My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine

Waves o'er the gloomy stream.

Whence the scared owl on pinions gray

Breaks from the rustling boughs,
And down the lone vale sails away

To more profound repose.

O, while to thee the woodland pours

Its wildly warbling song,

And balmy from the bank of flowers

The zephyr breathes along;

Let no rude sound invade from far,

No vagrant foot be nigh,

No ray from Grandeur's gilded car

Flash on the startled eye.

But if some pilgrim through the glade

Thy hallowed bowers explore,

O guard from harm his hoary head,

And listen to his lore;

For he of joys divine shall tell,

That wean from earthly woe,

And triumph o'er the mighty spell

That chains his heart below.

For me, no more the path invites

Ambition loves to tread;

No more I climb those toilsome heights,

By guileful Hope misled;

Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more

To Mirth's enlivening strain;

For present pleasure soon is o'er,

And all the past is vain.'

THE HERMIT.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove:
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began:
No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.

'Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe,
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall:
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;
O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away:
Full quickly they pass-but they never return.

Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky,
The moon half extinguished her crescent displays;
But lately I marked, when majestic on high

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again;
But man's faded glory what change shall renew?
Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;

I mourn, but ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew:
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save.

But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn!

O when shall day dawn on the night of the grave!

'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,

That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind;

My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

'O pity, great Father of Light,' then I cried,

'Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee;

Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:

From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free!'

And darkness and doubt are now flying away,

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.

So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.

See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,

And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!

On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending,

And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.'

JAMES MACPHERSON, whose fame rests entirely upon his translation of the poems of Ossian, was born at Kingussie, a village near Perth, in 1738. Being intended for the church he received the necessary education at Aberdeen; but immediately after he left the university he took charge of the school at Ruthven, near his native place, whence he, however, soon removed, to become tutor in the family of Mr. Graham, of Balgowan. While attending his pupil, afterwards Lord Lynedoch, at the spa of Moffat, he became acquainted with Home, the author of Douglas,' to whom he showed what he represented as the translations of some fragments of ancient Gaelic poetry, which he said was still floating in the Highlands. He stated that it was one of the favorite amusements of his countrymen to listen to the tales and compositions of their ancient bards; and he described these fragments as full of pathos and poetical imagery. This statement was so plausible that the patronage of Dr. Blair, Lord Kames, and others, was immediately secured, and Macpherson published a small volume of sixty pages, entitled Fragments of Ancient Poetry; translated from the Gaelic or Erse Language. The publication attracted universal attention; and a subscription was immediately made to enable Macpherson to make a tour of the Highlands to collect other pieces. His journey proved so highly successful that, in 1772, he presented to the world Fingal, an Ancient Epic Poem, in Six Books; and in the following year Temora, another epic poem, in eight books. The success of these publications was immense; but the merits of the works were so fully investigated when we were examining the early poetry of the Island, that any farther notice of them would here be superfluous.

From these translations Macpherson is represented to have realized no less than twelve hundred pounds. In 1764, he accompanied Governor Johnston to Pensacola, as his secretary; but having quarrelled with his patron, he returned to England, settled in London, and became one of the literary supporters of the administration. He published some historical works, was a copious pamphleteer, and, in 1773, sent forth a translation of the Iliad, in the same style of poetical prose, as Ossian. This last performance was a complete failure, and served only as a source of ridicule and personal opprobrium to the translator. As a politician Macpherson was more successful; and a pamphlet of his in defence of American taxation, and another on the opposition in parliament, in 1779, were much applauded. He now obtained a seat in parliament as representative for the borough of Camelford; but with all his ambition and political zeal, it does not appear that he ever attempted to speak in the House of Commons. In 1789, having realized a handsome fortune, he purchased the property of Raitts, in his native parish, changed the name to the more euphonious and sounding one of Belleville, and built upon it a splendid residence, in the style of an Italian villa, in which he hoped to spend an old age of ease and dignity. He enjoyed his splendor, however, for but a brief period; as his death occurred on the seventeenth of February, 1796.