companion-your flatterer-your feducer-but, believe me, he is
haplefs Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy fons, for valourlong renown'd,
Lie flaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hofpitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door ;
In fmoaky ruins funk they lic,
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-spreading waste 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 scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night :
No ftrains, but those of forrow, 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 cause, oh, fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The fons against their fathers ftood;
The parent fhed 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 shelter, 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
filial breaft fhall beat;
And, fpite of her infulting foe,
My fympathizing verfe fhall flow,
"Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
"Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!"
The Lafcar's Lamentation.
H hear, a wretched Lafcar's cries,
Turn not thine eyes away;
Helpless and fhiv'ring, here he lies,
To poverty a prey.
Forc'd from his native peaceful home,
He wanders here forlorn ;'
Hungry and fad, obliged to roam,
From every comfort torn.
Ah! could I but once more behold
That foil which gave me life,
Within these arms, once more infold
My lov'd, my long-loft wife.
The white-man then, with haughty air
Might treat me with difdain;
But Yalpa free'd from black despair,
No Longer would complain.
On the cold ftones I lay my head,
Opprefs'd with want and pain;
The fmalleft gift to buy fome bread,
I afk-but afk in vain!
Did'st thou but feel the parching thirst
Know but one half my grief;
See my poor heart with anguish burst,
Could'st thou deny relief?
The Chriftian rolling in his wealth,
Poffeft with means to blefs;
Enjoying happiness and health,
Thinks not of my diftrefs.
Alas, I faint, my eyes grow dim,
I haften to the grave;
Now cruel Chriftian, pity him
Thou has refus'd to fave.
What comfort fay, can't thou receive
When thy last hour is nigh?
Thou, cruel man, has learnt to live,
But I have learnt to die.
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