But ſee the Horrid [1] Bear march round the Pole,
And feel her Piercing Breath Congeal the Soul.
Their Muſick's Whirl-wind, and the ſhrill Echoing Roar
Of Frozen Seas on the Deſerted Shore.
Legends of Fables fill our partial Heads,
Of Lands where Graſs ne'r grows, or Mortal treads;
Where keeneſt Winds and Storms Inceſſant blow
On Mountains cover'd with Eternal Snow;
Where Nature never blooms, and Sun ne'r ſhines,
But Cold with Cold, and Froſt with Froſt Combines,
[2] Inhoſpitable Clime.
What Countrey's this? And whither are we gone?
Bright Caledonia, where will Fable run?
Suffer th' impartial Pen to range thy Shore,
And do thee [3] Juſtice, Nature aſks no more:
Fitted for Commerce and cut out for Trade;
The Seas the Land, the Land the Seas invade.
The Promontory Clifts with Hights emboſſt,
And large deep Bays adorn thy dang'rous Coaſt;
Alternately the Pilot's true Relief,
Theſe warn at Diſtance, thoſe receive him ſafe;
The deep indented Harbours then invite,
Firſt court by day, and then ſecure at night:
The wearied Sailors ſafe and true Receſs,
- ↑ By the Horrid Bear is to be understood the Constellation so call'd, which Scotland, being so far North, easily sees in its whole Circular Motion round the Pole.
- ↑ This is as suggested by Foreign Authors, in open Injury of Scotland, and one of the principal Reasons of this Poem.
- ↑ 'Tis presum'd this Part will clear the Author from a Charge of Flat|tery, he designing to say nothing in this Poem, but what Justice and the Nature of things require.
