THE wretch, condemned with life to part, Still, still on hope relies; And every pang that rends the heart, Bids expectation rise. Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, Adorns and chears the way; And still, as darker grows the night, Emits a brighter ray. O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver, Still importunate and vain, To former joys recurring ever, And turning all the past to pain; Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe; And he who wants each other blessing, In thee must ever find a foe. XL. THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND SMOLLET. MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn The wretched owner sees afar His all become the prey of war; Then smites his breast, and curses life. Thy swains are famished on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks : Thy ravished virgins shriek in vain ; Thy infants perish on the plain. What boots it then, in every clime, Thy martial glory, crowned with praise, Thy towering spirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke. What foreign arms could never quell, The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall chear the happy day : Beguile the dreary winter night: No strains but those of sorrow flow, And nought be heard but sounds of woe, While the pale phantoms of the slain Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. O baneful cause! oh, fatal morn, The sons against their father stood, The pious mother, doomed to death, The bleak wind whistles round her head, Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, She views the shades of night descend; And stretched beneath the inclement skies, While the warm blood bedews my veins, |