Speak not to me of swarms the scene sustains; One heart free tasting Nature’s breath and bloom Is worth a thousand slaves to Mammon’s gains. But whither goes that wealth, and gladd’ning whom? See, left but life enough and breathing-room The hunger and the hope of life to feel, Yon pale Mechanic bending o’er his loom, And Childhood’s self as at Ixion’s wheel, From morn till midnight tasked to earn its little meal. Is this Improvement?—where the human breed Degenerates as they swarm and overflow, Till Toil grows cheaper than the trodden weed, And man competes with man, like foe with foe, Till Death, that thins them, scarce seems public woe? Improvement!—smiles it in the poor man’s eyes, Or blooms it on the cheek of Labour?—No— To gorge a few with Trade’s precarious prize, We banish rural life, and breathe unwholesome skies. Nor call that evil slight; God has not given This passion to the heart of man in vain, For Earth’s green face, th’ untainted air of Heaven, And all the bliss of Nature’s rustic reign. For not alone our frame imbibes a stain From fœtid skies; the spirit’s healthy pride Fades in their gloom—And therefore I complain, That thou no more through pastoral scenes shouldst glide, My Wallace’s own stream, and once romantic Clyde! LINES ON REVISITING CATHCART. Oh! scenes of my childhood, and dear to my heart Ye green waving woods on the margin of Cart, How blest in the morning of life I have strayed, By the stream of the vale and the grass-covered glade! Then, then every rapture was young and sincere, Ere the sunshine of bliss was bedimmed by a tear, And a sweeter delight every scene seemed to lend, That the mansion of peace was the house of a friend. Now the scenes of my childhood and dear to my heart, All pensive I visit, and sigh to depart; Their flowers seem to languish, their beauty to cease, For a _stranger_ inhabits the mansion of peace. But hushed be the sigh that untimely complains, While Friendship and all its enchantment remains, While it blooms like the flower of a winterless clime, Untainted by chance, unabated by time. THE “NAME UNKNOWN;” IN IMITATION OF KLOPSTOCK. Prophetic pencil! wilt thou trace A faithful image of the face, Or wilt thou write the “Name Unknown,” Ordained to bless my charmèd soul, And all my future fate control, Unrivalled and alone? Delicious Idol of my thought! Though sylph or spirit hath not taught My boding heart thy precious name; Yet musing on my distant fate, To charms unseen I consecrate A visionary flame Thy rosy blush, thy meaning eye, Thy virgin voice of melody, Are ever present to my heart; Thy murmured vows shall yet be mine, My thrilling hand shall meet with thine, And never, never part!