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Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe,
Great, when, amid the vale of peace,
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
LADY CHARLOTTE GORDON,
DRESSED IN A TARTAN SCOTCH BONNET,
WITH PLUMES, &c.
WHY, Lady, wilt thou bind thy lovely brow, With the dread semblance of that warlike helm, That nodding plume, and wreath of various glow, That graced the chiefs of Scotia's antient realm?
Thou knowest that virtue is of power the source,
The plumy helmet, and the martial mien, Might dignify Minerva's awful charms; But more resistless far the Idalian queenSmiles, graces, gentleness, her only arms.
Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
"Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and woe?
'Yet, if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay,
“Mourn, sweetest complainer! man calls thee to mourn : "O sooth 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.
" "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 it dawn on the night of the grave?"
'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,