BELIEVE ME, SHE IS TRUE INDEED. BELIEVE me, she is true indeed, Whatever you surmise; Beaming with candour, every look Oh do not then of Nature's book Her smiles most eloquently speak The health of virtue show. Hypocrisy could never give As seems, a sign from Heaven, to live Believe me she is true indeed, Impartial be, and you may read ON HAWTHORNDEN. WHO can describe thy charms, sweet Hawthornden, Fit residence of poetry and love! What fair variety is here! the glen, Rocks clothed with oak and beech that rise above The Esk's impetuous stream below, the ken Of thy romantic mansion, as we rove Thy winding walks among! ah, where's the pen NOTE. Hawthornden, once the abode of the Poet Drummond, is placed on a high rock or precipice, overlooking the river Esk, that runs rapidly below the rocky sides of the glen, as you approach this delightful retreat, are covered with oak and birch that spring up from every crevice. * There are several caves in the rocks, in one of which, it is said that the patriot Wallace was concealed for two days. "How fresh an' fair o' varied hue, Ilk tufted haunt o' sweet Buccleugh! An' Mavisbank sae rural gay, Looks bonnie down the woodland brae; But doubly fair ilk darling scene, That screens the bowers of Hawthorn-dean."-GALL. A MAY-MORNING. Crocus and hyacinth with rich inlay Broidered the ground, more coloured than with stones LIKE a cloud all resplendent with green and with gold And undergrown shrubs their light arms interlace, While the fragrance of plants o'er our senses is stealing; Y And blue flowers laugh, like the beautiful eyes With hues caught from heaven, spring up where we pass, glade, Than Solomon in all his glory array'd! |