Some eastern hurricane has laid thee low,
With dreadful crash, upon the mossy flow,

Where very long inglorious thou hast lain, Which British thunder might have born upon the main.

Now thou must yonder princely palace grace,
(A strange vicissitude of form and place!)
Thy beauties rare will there be brought to view,
By all that craftsman's art it can bestow.

LINES OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF THE MUCH-LAMENTED CHARLES, LATE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH AND QUEENSBERRY, &c.

SCARCELY for her the tears had ceased to flow,
Who Virtue was-if Virtue's e'er below;
Too good, alas! for this sublunar scene;
Our heavy loss, but her immortal gain.

The wound of sorrow's made again to bleed,
Our noble Thane is numbered with the dead;
Fallacious are the hopes that here we form-
Fanned by the breeze, but blasted by the storm.
Anxious for him we wish'd a length of days,
Still to enjoy the well-earn'd meed of praise;
But his are laurels that will bloom on high-
The blessing of the poor ascends the sky.

Distress he always freely did relieve-
Whenever reason dictated to give,

Unasked, ungrudged, his gifts did freely flow,
His generous heart delighted to bestow.

Upon his country's purse he never drew,

To serve his friends which proved the patriot

true;

Thus sacred always be the ways and means,
And ne'er perverted into private ends.

His friendships lasting as they were sincere,
He ne'er inhaled the pestilental air

Of calumny detraction from him spurn'd;

Pure in his breast the flame of friendship burn'd.

In camp or court he could have honour gain'd, And power-ay, highest power-might e'en at

tain'd;

He chose the virtuous path of private life,

Removed from camps and courts, and public strife.

But cast your eyes far o'er his wide domains,
"Tis there a lasting monument remains,
Of grateful feeling, ne'er to be suppress'd
While gratitude pervades the human breast.

THE LAND OF CAKES.

FROM remote ages have our youth been known,
In various pursuits far and near to roam.
Bold and advent'rous from the days of yore,
Scotsmen you'll find on the most distant shore.

Where to the main majestic Ganges flows,
On civil business, and to face their foes,

Numbers of Caledonians still you'll find,
Some unto this, and some to that, inclined.

Where Donald firm upon the picquet stands,
And dreary darkness covers all the land,
Back to his native isle his mind repairs,
And fondly rests on scenes of bygone years.

Ben-Nevis' towering top he thinks he sees,
And hears the Ness soft murmuring 'mong the

trees,

Where with his Flora often he has strayed,
And breathed a passion never yet betrayed.

Her well-known form before him now appears, Her beauties heightened by three absent years, The phantom to his breast he fain would press, But ah! the substance is at Inverness.

Oh, Flora! fairer than the mountain snow, Sweeter than woodbine bathed in morning dew; my Flora I could only be,

If with

Even Iceland would be Caledon to me.

But oh the dire effects of Fortune's frown
Exiled from fields I whilom call'd my own,
Fortune to follow on a foreign shore,
And Flora haply ne'er to visit more.

In Indian isles, blest with perpetual spring,
Blossoms expand, and ripened clusters hing,

There shrubs unnumbered sweets on sweets ex

hale,

And steep with odour every passing gale.

The splendid mansion, and the spicy grove,
Invite to mirth, and luxury, and love;
But ah! those pleasures pall-whoe'er partakes
But sighs more deeply for the land of cakes?

So Sandy he will leave the Indian isles,
Capricious Fortune has vouchsafed her smiles;
His aged parents and his Mary dear,
Fondly invite him to his native shore.

The stately bark again is under weigh,
Each favouring breeze impels her o'er the sea,
At length Benlomond's peak appears in view,
What transport fills the son and lover true!