Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay, Then deem'd the dole was o'er : But wot ye well his harder lot? His feely back the bunch had got This tale a Sybil-nurse ared; She foftly ftrok'd my youngling head, 175 180 "Thus fome are born, my fon (fhe cries) "With base impediments to rife, "And fome are born with none. "But virtue can itself advance "To what the fav'rite fools of chance By fortune feem'd defign'd; "Virtue can gain the odds of fate, "And from itself shake off the weight 185 190 RONALD AND DORNA; BY A HIGHLANDER, TO HIS MISTRESS. FROM A LITERAL TRANSLATION OF THE ORIGINAL. BY AARON HILL, ESQ.* I. COME, let us climb Skorr-urran's fnowy top; Cold, as it feems, it is lefs cold than you: Thin, thro' its fnow, thefe lambs its heath-twigs crop ; Your fnow, more hoftile, ftarves, and freezes, too. II. What, tho' I lov'd, of late, in Skey's fair isle, 5 And blush'd--- and bow'd --- and fhrunk from Kenza's eye! All, she had pow'r to hurt with, was her fmile; But 'tis a frown of yours, for which I die. III. Ak, why thefe herds, beneath us, rush, so fast, On the brown fea-ware's ftranded heaps, to feed? Winter, like you, with-holds their wish'd repast, And, robb'd of genial grafs, they brouze on weed. IV. Mark, with what tuneful hafte Sheleila flows, V. Born, like your body, for a spirit's claim, Trembling, I wait, unfoul'd, till you inspire: God has prepar'd the lamp, and bids it flame, But you, fair Dorna, have with-held the fire. VI. High, as yon pine, when you begin to speak, My light'ning heart leaps, hopeful, at the found, But, fainting at the fenfe, falls, void, and weak, And finks, and faddens, like yon moffy ground. VII. All that I tafte, or touch, or fee, or hear, 25 Nature's whole breadth reminds me but of you: Ev'n heav'n itself would your sweet likeness wear, If, with its pow'r, you had its mercy too. THE MESSENGER. BY THE SAME. Go, happy paper! gently steal, 5 Should fhe, to flames, thy hope confign, But, if inclin'd to hear, and bless, 10 And change his heav'n for hers. 15 Oh! tell her-were her treasures mine, Nature and art would court my aid; The painter's colours want her shine; The rainbow's brow not half fo fine As her sweet eye-lids shade! 20 |