A chaplet of immortal bays

Shall crown her brows, and guard her Lays.
Of Nectar-Sack an acorn cup
Be, at her board, each year, filled up.
And as each Quarter Feast comes round,
A Silver Penny shall be found
Within the compass of her shoe;
And so We bid you all, Adieu!

Given at our Palace of Cowslip Castle,
The shortest night of the year.

32.

Oberon.

H. Walpole, Earl of Orford

If Rightly Tuneful Bards Decide
IF rightly tuneful bards decide,

If it be fix'd in Love's decrees,
That Beauty ought not to be tried

But by its native power to please,
Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell,
What fair can Amoret excel?

Behold that bright unsullied smile,
And wisdom speaking in her mien:
Yet (she so artless all the while,
So little studious to be seen)

We nought but instant gladness know,
Nor think to whom the gift we owe.

But neither music, nor the powers
Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer,

33.

Add half that sunshine to the hours,
Or make life's prospect half so clear,
As memory brings it to the eye
From scenes where Amoret was by.

Yet not a satirist could there

Or fault or indiscretion find;
Nor any prouder sage declare

One virtue, pictur'd in his mind,
Whose form with lovelier colours glows
Than Amoret's demeanour shows.

This sure is Beauty's happiest part:
This gives the most unbounded sway:
This shall enchant the subject heart
When rose and lily fade away;
And she be still, in spite of time,
Sweet Amoret in all her prime.

THE

Kate of Aberdeen

M. Akenside

HE silver moon's enamoured beam,
Steals softly thro' the night,

To wanton with the winding stream,

And kiss reflected light.

To beds of state go balmy sleep

('Tis where you've seldom been), May's Vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen.

Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay,

34.

Till morn unbar her golden gate,
And give the promised May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare,
The promised May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair,
As Kate of Aberdeen.

Strike the tabor's boldest notes,
up

We'll rouse the nodding grove;

The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And hail the maid of love;

And see

the matin lark mistakes,

He quits the tufted green:

Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight fairies rove,

Like them the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love:

For see the rosy May draws nigh,

She claims a virgin Queen;

And hark, the happy shepherds cry,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

J. Cunningham

When I Upon Thy Bosom Lean

WHEN I upon thy bosom lean,

And fondly clasp thee a' my ain,

I glory in the sacred ties

That made us ane, wha ance were twain.

35

A mutual flame inspires us baith
The tender look, the melting kiss;
Even years shall ne'er destroy our love,
But only gi'e us change o' bliss.

Ha'e I a wish? it's a' for thee,
I ken thy wish is me to please;
Our moments pass sae smooth away
That numbers on us look and gaze.
Weel pleased, they see our happy days,
Nor envy's sel' finds aught to blame;
And aye when weary cares arise,
Thy bosom still shall be my hame.

I'll lay me there and tak' my rest;
And if that aught disturb my dear,
I'll bid her laugh her cares away,
And beg her not to drap a tear.
Ha'e I a joy? it's a' her ain.

United still her heart and mine;

They're like the woodbine round the tree,
That's twined till death shall them disjoin.

Tweedside

J. Lapraik

WHAT beauties does Flora disclose!

How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed!

Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those,
Both nature and fancy exceed.
No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose,
Not all the gay flowers of the field,

Not Tweed, gliding gently through those,
Such beauty and pleasure does yield.

The warblers are heard in the grove,
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush;
The blackbird and sweet cooing dove
With music enchant every bush,
Come, let us go forth to the mead;

Let us see how the primroses spring!
We'll lodge in some village on Tweed,
And love, while the feathered folk sing.

How does my love pass the long day?
Does Mary not tend a few sheep?
Do they never carelessly stray
While happily she lies asleep?

Should Tweed's murmurs lull her to rest,
Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To ease the soft pains of my breast
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.

'Tis she does the virgin excel;

No beauty with her may compare; Love's graces around her do dwell;

She's fairest where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray? Oh, tell me at noon where they feed? Shall I seek them on sweet-winding Tay, Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed?

R. Crawford