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Ah! what avails it, that his form Was deck'd with ev'ry grace—That truth, and love, and friendship warm, Glow'd in his manly face?
Alas! they glow'd not in his soul;— But, as a fleeting shade,Across his darken'd path they stole, And no impression made.
Oh! come, ye young and thoughtless! come View where Leander lies—Pause o'er the wretched sinner's doom, And pausing, yet be wise!
AN ADDRESS TO ZETLAND.
"The land of Cakes[1]" has oft been sung, In many a poet's strain;But never might "the land of Fish" Such proud distinction gain.
Then I will lift the voice of praise; To thee my strains belong;—Thy misty hills, and humid vales, First woke my infant song.
- ↑ A name frequently applied to Scotland
