She fpoke, fhe dy'd; her corfe was borne,
The bridegroom blith to meet,
He in his wedding-trim fo gay,
She in her winding-fheet.
Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?
How were thefe nuptials kept?
The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
Confufion, fhame, remorfe, defpair,
At once his bofom fwell:
The damps of death bedew'd his brow;
He fhook, he groan'd, he fell.
From the vain bride, ah bride no more!
The varying crimson fled,
When, ftretch'd before her rival's corfe,
She faw her husband dead.
Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,
Convey'd by trembling fwains,
One mould with her, beneath one fod,
For ever he remains.
Oft, at this grave, the conftant hind,
And plighted maid, are feen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,
They deck the facred green;
But, fwain forfworn, whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd fpot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXLVI.
This ode, by Dr. Smollet, does rather more honour to the author's feelings than his tafte. The mechanical part, with regard to numbers and language, is not fo perfect as fo fhort a work as this requires; but the pathetic it contains, particularly in the laft ftanza but one, is exquifitely fine.
JOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy fons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie flaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hofpitable roofs no more,
Invite the ftranger to the door;
In fmoaky ruins funk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.
The wretched owner fees, afar,
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then fmites his breaft, and curfes life.
Thy fwains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy ravish'd virgins fhriek in vain ;
Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime,
Thro' the wide-fpreading wafte of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still fhone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy tow'ring fpirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke:
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage, and rancour fell.
The rural pipe, and merry lay
No more fhall chear the happy day:
No focial fcenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains, but those of sorrow, flow,
And nought be heard but founds of woe,
While the pale phantoms of the flain
Glide nightly o'er the filent plain.
Oh baneful caufe, oh, fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The fons, against their fathers flood;
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's foul was not appeas'd:
The naked and forlorn muft feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel!
The pious mother doom'd to death,
- Forfaken, wanders o'er the heath,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread,
Bereft of fhelter, food, and friend,
She views the fhades of night defcend,
And, ftretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
Whilft the warm blood bedews my veins,]
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns;
Refentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breaft fhall beat;
And, fpite of her infulting foe,
My fympathizing verse shall flow,
"Mourn, haplefs Caledonia, mourn,
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn."
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