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NOT IN THE MANNER, BUT IN THE SPIRIT OF
" Deep in
yon bed of whispering reeds Thy airy harp shall now be laid ; 66 That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love thro' life the soothing shade."
WHEN THOMSON's harp of charming tone
Sweet Spring in weeping buds was drest,
Your jealous walls, great Duke; in vain
All access would refuse;
What bars keep out the Muse ? Where'er I go I bring with me " That mountain-nymph, sweet LIBERTY !"
Would you engross each breathing sweet
Yon violet banks exhale ?
Alike they smile on you and me,
While pleasure's fleeting form you trace
In Mona's distant isle,
Where rural beauties smile :
Eneas pass’d with branch of gold
The gloomy gates below: And silver branches, I am told,
Can smooth your porter's brow; But wand'ring Highland folks like me, Can seldom purchase Liberty.
While musing by the Tilt I stood,
And view'd its wand'ring tide, Uprose a Naiad from the flood,
And beckoning, shew'd its side : I took the kindly hint with glee, And scrambled hard for Liberty.
Beneath the bridge's bending arch
My vent'rous steps she led,
I laid my wearied head:
The leaden gods above the gate
Aghast with wonder stood, Olympian Jove, his vixen mate,
And all the heathen brood : Bravo! cried thievish MERCURY, 'Tis right to steal sweet Liberty !