October 3, 1776. No. 579.

A HIGHLAND LANDSKIP.
Addressed to Colonel MACLEAN and his Corps of ROYAL EMIGRANTS.

        WHERE Blava’s streams in mazy windings flow
        With many a bend thro’ Lona’s smiling vale
        There let me range diffuse; or calmly fit,
        With thee sedate of look, thou heav’nly Maid
        Sweet Contemplation, and delighted see,

The verdant meadow and the flow’ry Vale
Tho’ narrow be the scene: for Scotia’s scenes
Have no eye tiring, weary, even stretch
Of hedge incumber’d flats, which tho’ they bring
Luxuriant increase to the rustick hind

No pleasure to the eye of taste afford.
     There let me view the lawn, the hillock green,
The hollow out of which great nature seems
The hillock to have scoop’d, that she might more
The Scene diversify: the solemn grove,

Majestick waving on the mountain’s side,
Whose top even when the tepid Zephirs blow
Along the valleys, still retains the wreath
Which old December plac’d upon its brow.
     See where the Birch its pendant branches spread

And in each varying line of beauty waves;
Fit crown for the fair stem, straight, smooth and tall
With many a love-knot carv’d and the dear name
Of soft Moina, or the lovely Maid,
From Selma sprung; Selma the ancient race

Of matchless beauty and unrival’d fame.
And ah how sweet the Cherry whose fair flowers
Mix purest silver with the deepning green.
The Warlike Ash is there, whose hardy limbs
Have many a spear for gallant hands produc’d:

And there the tufted Alder, from whose rind,
The lovely crimson flows, the pride supreme
Of Caledonia’s dames when they prepare,
The Martial plaid, for their courageous sons.
Mixing with these, a deepning line extends

Of Trees of various use and size and hue:
And who can count or range the endless tribes
Of shrubs and flow’rs and plants that creep between?
But see alone, my country’s guard and boast
The forest king, the strong the stately Oak

Assumes his station in the open glade
At once in all his glory to appear.
Down the steep mountain’s side impetuous pours
The founding torrent dashing o’er the rocks
Abrupt and narrow: here the waters flash

With double fury, raging to be free,
And threaten ruin with tremendous roar.
Nor does the sight affrighted start away
From this dread view of ruin and despair
For nature fits those vast, those towring rocks

For the proud site of never fading Pines
Whose spreading branches from th’opposing banks
Stretch forth to meet each other and unite
Half from the reeling eye the scene to hide.
     No flocks of snowy fleece these mountains feed;

Of size immense no cattle graze the vale:
But o’er the pendant cliff the shagged Goat
High hangs to browze the aromatick shrub
With juice replete salubrious and warm
Hence streams of health, flow from their scanty teats

And nervous strength to Caledonia’s Sons.
     Here in the plain, a low built cot appears
There in the wood, the rising smoke points out
Where stands another lowly as the first.
O!  fair example, that `tis not the dome

The splendid town, or stack surrounded farm
The soul give courage or fair Science Eye:
That give a gallant freedom to the heart
Or friendship’s manly never failing band.
That these, those sons of Poverty possess

All times, all nations ever have avow’d.
From them protection the unhappy find
And all the faith of hospitable Rites.
Here smiling Welcome sits in ev’ry door
And courteous asks the weary stranger in.

Goodness and Courage here, have but one name
And rich and hospitable have but one. *
     The smooth expansive face of their own lakes
When not the gentlest air, the surface moves,
Is not more calm, than Caledonia’s sons

Unruffl’d, unprovok’d—But give them cause,
Arouse the latent spark within their heart,
Not all the fury of contending waves,
Impell’d by thund’ring tempests can compare
With that gigantick Rage, which fires their Souls

When dreadful on their country’s foes they rush.
     O!  may indulgent heav’n for ever pour,
Full streams of happiness a-down their rural cares.
Or if the bold adventurous Spirit calls,
Fair Scotia’s sons to roam in foreign lands

O!  may no time of distance e’er efface
The mem’ry of their gallant fathers deeds;
How bravely they for Scotia’s honour fought,
How nobly they for Scotia’s glory fell.
And when in distant climes, they pensive hear

The pleasing mournful tale, when the full heart
Shall throb, with gen’rous emulation, then
Their fathers awful Shades, they stern shall call
To witness to their vows, that their true sons
Will never live to see that day arise

Shall look on Scotia of her rights bereft. 

   *This fact is mentioned by the Rev. Doctor McPherson, page 148 of his 
critical disertation upon Scottish Antiquities.

October 3, 1776. No. 579.

MR.PRINTER,
BY inserting the following Lines in your next, you’ll much oblige a great many of your Correspondents, and among others,
                                                                                      PHILANTHROPE. 

The following Lines were occasioned by the Death of Mr. JOHN
AITKIN, a Gentleman sincerely mourn’d by most of his acquaintance.       
Quid valet hic Mundas, quid Gloria, quidue Triumphus,
       Post miserum funus, pulvis et umbra sumus.

AITKIN, farewell thou universal Friend!
            Belov’d in Life, lamented in thy End!
            Peace to thy Shade, thy Soul eternal bloom,
            And weeping Angels mourn around thy Tomb.
            What tho’ my Friend, the glow of Life is o’er,

What tho’ the vital Current glide no more,
Still Friendship hopes, while feeble Nature sighs,
That guardian Saints will waft thee thro’ yon Skies,
Thro’ fields of Æther—to the port of Ease,
The Seat of calm and everlasting Peace.

Farewell, thou Brother, of an honour’d Art,
Where Union’s Eye explores the human Heart,
Where Morals mending lure the captive Mind
To all that’s Great and Good to Humankind.
This Life, my Brother, but a Passage o’er

Vexation’s Ocean to a peaceful Shore:
Let this prevent the pensive starting Tear,
Let chearing Hope glad all around thy Bier.
Oh pleasing Hope!  thou Heav’n of Man below,
Can Comfort give tho’ dearest Friends lie low;

There’s that within can make us truly great,
Can brave thy Terrors, Death! and smile on Fate.

October 3, 1776. No. 579.

EPITAPH.  On Mr. JOHN AITKIN.

                                    I.
HERE, passing Stranger, rests a Friend,
     Whose Worth procur’d him honest Fame;
The most who knew him did commend,
     As few a worthy Man could blame.
                              II.
      His Heart was open to Distress,

     His Will was prompt to serve Mankind;
His Virtues ev’ry Friend confess,
     But to his Faults we all are blind.
            QUEBEC, 27^th September, 1776.

October 10, 1776. No. 580.

ODE on SOLITUDE.

HAPPY the Man who courts thy smiles,
Oh SOLITUDE!  enchanting Maid!
Far from the World’s enchanting Wiles,
                                                In some blest Shade.
Thrice happy sure—his tranquil Mind,

No ruffling Passions discompose;
His peaceful days he spends resign’d
                                                In soft Repose.
Far from his Grot flies carping Care,
Fierce Rage, pale Envy, dire Dismay,

Pride, Discontent, and sad Despair
                                                Fly far away.
But in their stead, a milder Train
To his lone, humble Cot retreat,
Calm Peace, found Health, Content serene,

                                                There fix their feat.
Him Nature’s various Beauty’s please,
With grateful Thoughts his Breast she fires;
With wond’ring Eyes her Charms he sees,
                                                Sees and admires.

Blows not a Flow’ret in the Vale,
Where the soft murm’ring Riv’let strays,
Nor sports an Insect on the Gale
                                                But claims his Praise.
Through flow’ry Meads, and shady Groves,

Where tune their Songs the warblers gay,
There pleas’d he meditating roves
                                                The live long Day.
Thus would I live in some lone Seat,
Blest with Content and Careless Ease,

Thus Pass in some secure Retreat
                                                My happy Days.

October 10, 1776. No. 580.

EPITAPH on a Nobleman.

I Dreamt that bury’d in my fellow Clay,
Close by a common Beggar’s side I lay;
And as so mean a Neighbour shock’d my Pride,
Thus (like a Corpse of Quality) I cry’d,
“Away!  thou Scoundrel; henceforth touch me not;

More Manners learn, and at a Distance rot;
Thou Scoundrel, in a louder Tone cry’d he,
Proud Lump of Dirt, I scorn thy Words and thee,
We’er equal now, I’ll not an Inch resign,
This is my Dunghill, and the next is thine.”

October 17, 1776. No. 581.

An ODE, which was performed at the Castle of Dublin, on
Tuesday the 4^th of June, 1776, being the birth day of
his most excellent and sacred Majesty GEORGE III. King
of Great Britain, France, and Ireland. 

By the special Command of
His Excellency SIMON Earl HARCOURT, Lord Lieutenant
General and General Governor of Ireland. 

Written by Benjamin Victor, Esq; and the musick composed
by Richard Hay, Esq; chief composer and master of the
musick attending his Majesty’s State in Ireland, and master
of the King’s Chamber Concert.

                          R E C I T A T I V E.
      THOU fairest daughter of the various year,
         O June!  how bright thy flow’ry scenes appear!
         The greatest Prince, the foremost son of fame,
            To thee bequeath’d the glories of his name.

A I R.
Perfect virtues, manly grace,
   Let th’harmonious choir display,
The brightest of the Royal race,
   Animates the breathing lay.

A I R.
Supreme of all celestial pow’rs,
Bless our Monarch’s social hours;
Ev’ry earthly bliss prepare;
Faith and truth deserve your care.

  R E C I T A T I V E.
With modest confidence come forth
Neglected truth and pining worth,
   By GEORGE belov’d and known:
But fear the light’ning of his eye,

Ye splendid frauds, and ev’ry lie
   That skulks behind the Throne.
                   A I R.
   O happy Britain, joyful hour,
   Where reigns humanity with pow’r,

      Integrity with art!
   Unwearied bounty still bestows,
   Yet still the public current flows,
      Entire in ev’ry part.
         R E C I T A T I V E.

HIBERNIA looks with fond surprize,    
To see sweet concord smiling rise,
To see the Royal favours shed
Around her Viceroy’s honour’d head;
See Harcourt, grac’d with Royal pow’r,

Add Splendour to this joyous hour.
        R E C I T A T I V E  accompanied.
Hail blest Ierne!  hospitable shore,
Faction shall ne’er divide her subjects more;
Peace o’er the isle extends her balmy wing,

And thus her grateful happy peasants sing.
             D U E T T.
Behold each vale with plenty crown’d,
   And hung with fruits of golden dye!
From the low shrub that creeps the ground,

To the tall oak that braves the sky;
The prosp’rous harvest claims our care.
The blest rewards of toil we share.
             C H O R U S.
To GEORGE our King renew the strain;

October 24, 1776. No. 582.

ODE for his MAJESTY’S Birth-Day.

YE western Gales, whose genial Breath
Unbinds the Glebe, `till all beneath
                        One verdant Livery wears:
You soothe the sultry Heat of Noon
Add softness to the setting Sun,

                        And dry the Morning’s Tears.

This is your Season, lovely gales!
Thro’ Æther now your Power prevails
And our dilated Breasts should own,
The Joys which flow from you alone.

Why therefore in yon dubious Sky,
With out-spread Wing and eager Eye,
                        On distant Scenes intent,
“Sit Expectation in the Air.”
Why do alternate Hope and Fear,

                        Suspend some great Event? 

Can Britain fail?  The Thought were vain!
The powerful Empress of the main
But strives to smoothe th’unruly Flood
And dreads a Conquest stain’d with Blood.

While yet, ye Winds, your breezy Balm
Thro’ nature spreads a general Calm,
While yet a Pause fell Discord knows,
Catch the soft moment of Repose,
                        Your genuine Powers exert,

To Pity melt th’obdurate Mind
Teach every Bosom to be kind
                        And humanize the Heart. 

Propitious Gales, O wing your Way!
And whilst we hail that rightful sway,

                        Whence temper’d Freedom springs;
The Bliss we feel to future times
Extend, and from your Native Climes,
                        Bring Peace upon your wings.

October 31, 1776. No. 583.

As the Author of the Verses entitled “A POETICAL
WELLCOME” seems much chagrined that his favourite
Bantling has not been exposed to public View, and is very
desirous to know “how or in what manner they are too incorrect
for Publication,” we take the earliest opportunity to assure our
angry Bard that we chose to make use of the Word “INCORRECT,”
purely from Motives of Delicacy to him, as we might with great
propriety and equal truth have asserted that the whole insufferably
fulsome, and, in many Instances, exceedingly unintelligible.
                        For Example—He thus begins.     

“Welcome, fair Emblems of sweet Peace and Love;
            “To bless our Land—―Our happiness improve:
            “To lead the Graces in a smiling Train
            “Beneath the Dome, &c.
                                            Again.

“The tender look, sweet smile and converse gay,
“The winning softness, and the gentle sway,
“The thousand nameless, pretty ways to charm
                                                Query, what?
“The calm good Temper,—or the fierce disarm.

                                    Encore.
“Breath soft, ye Winds, ye adverse Gales subside.
“Nor such fond Lovers EVERMORE divide,
“Let cruel discord cease her dire Alarms,
“Now Beauty flies to HONORABLE Arms.

Query, Does our Author mean these last four Lines as a Compliment?
               How superlatively fulsome are the following.
              “O!  C—n!  fitted for the Muses Theme
             “(The Bloom of Breeding—and the Flower of Fame)
   How amazingly pathetic are the Contents of the Parenthesis.”

     Essays, whether in Verse or Prose, when they are meant
either to inculcate Virtue and Morality, to promote public or
private Good, or to inspire innocent mirth, shall ever be
thankfully received:—but fulsome Panegyric, unmeaning
Flattery, or undeserved Censure, shall never be conveyed to
the Public thro’ the Channel of this Paper.

October 31, 1776. No. 583.

MODERN CHASTITY.
An EPIGRAM.

WHEN ancient Bess was England’s Queen,
        Our mothers were less kind,
Our fathers courted them for years,
        Before they told their minds:
But now, our modern dames have found

        A shorter way to wed:
They force us off our native ground,
        And push us into bed.
                                    A BATCHELOR.