Where are your lyres, ye sons of song ?
Bring all your symphonies along,

And consecrate to this blest theme your lays:
What! has no lyre divine been strung?

And has no energetic tongue

Charm'd Virtue's ear with good LAS CASA's praise?

In that mild region of the sky,

Where dove-ey'd Pity dwells on high,

From golden harps his praise melodious flows;
Will none of all the tuneful throng

Of

Responsive catch the heavenly song,

power to soothe even slavery's bitter woes?

Yes! from thy banks dear native Clyde,
I hear with pleasure and with pride,
A classic lyre resound the hallow'd strain,
While shades of feather'd Inca's near,
In mournful fix'd attention hear,

Nor think they wept and bled in vain,
Since RICHARDSON records in lasting lays

Their matchless woes, and blest CHIAPA's praise!

ANSWER

ΤΟ Α

POETICAL APOLOGY

SENT BY PROFESSOR M'LEOD OF GLASGOW, TO SOME LADIES WHO HAD INVITED HIM TO AN

OYSTER FEAST.

"Thus sung the uncouth nymph to th' oaks and rills.”

MILTON,

WHEN FINGAL dwelt in windy halls,

As mournful OSSIAN tells,
'Midst lofty Selma's shaded walls
He spread the feast of shells.

Each tuneful bard and warlike chief
Made haste the feast to share ;

Where music, sorrow's best relief,
Oft charm'd the vocal air.

The soft harp's many-sounding strings,
Wak'd by the blushing maid,

Could melt the iron hearts of kings,
And beauty's influence aid.

Excluded from the hero's feast,
By some unhappy chance,

Dark anguish prey'd on ALDO's breast,
And rust consum'd his lance.

Nor war nor hunting more could please,
Nor beauty's powerful charms,
He fled o'er Lochlin's stormy seas,
To shine in foreign arms.

Blest days, when Nature rul'd supreme,

Uncheck'd by frozen art,

And love and fancy's blended beam
Illum'd the artless heart.

When hungry herocs sprung with joy
To snuff the ven'son's fume,
Nor nymphs could artifice employ

To heighten Nature's bloom.

Their heavy locks that wont to fly
Unpowder'd in the wind;

Their blushing cheek and downcast eye
That spoke th' ingenuous mind;

With more coercive force could sway
And tame the manly breast,
Than Belles in all the full display
Of modern fashion drest.

Alas! a mournful proof appears
Of this soul-harrowing truth;
For this sad Nature melts in tears,
And clouds o'erhang the south.

MACALPINE, NEPTUNE's faithful priest, Well known to beaux and belles, Thrice bow'd adoring to the east,

Then spread the feast of shells:

There sportive maids, and festive swains, Attend the hallow'd rite,

And weave to Music's sprightly strains The dance in mazes light.

T

Ye echoes hold your tattling tongues,
Nor spread our sad disgrace;

Else busy fame, with brazen lungs
Will blaze it thro' the place.

The bard of Celtic race renown'd
Avoids great NEPTUNE's feast,
Lest he in torrents should be drown'd,
Or blighted by the east.

Rude blasts from EoL's airy hall Pierc'd thro' each tender form, While snug behind his cloister'd wall, He laugh'd to see the storm.

Secure, his adamantine heart
In learning's musty cell,
Repell'd poor CUPID's powerful dart,
And slighted every belle.

Had he like ALDO no repast,

But what his bow supplied,

He'd dare well pleas'd the wint'ry blast When shells were smoking wide.