English

Apon the Midsummer Ewin, mirriest of nichtis,
I muvit furth allane in meid as midnicht wes past,
Besyd ane gudlie grein garth, full of gay flouris,
Hegeit of ane huge hicht with hawthorne treis,
Quhairon ane bird on ane bransche so birst out hir notis
That neuer ane blythfullar bird was on the beuche hard.
Quhat throw the sugarat sound of hir sang glaid,
And throw the savour sanative of the sueit flouris,
I drew in derne to the dyk to dirkin efter mirthis.
The dew donkit the daill, and dynnit the feulis.

(i)

The Gathering " Oats — a grain which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people." — DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON . " True, but where will you find such horses, where such men?" — LORD ELIBANK'S REPLY AS RECORDED BY SIR WALTER SCOTT .

Oatmeal was in their blood and in their names.
Thrift was the title of their catechism.
It governed all things but their mess of porridge
Which, when it struck the hydrochloric acid
With treacle and skim-milk, became a mash.
Entering the duodenum, it broke up

How many times do I love thee, dear?
Tell me how many thoughts there be
In the atmosphere
Of a new-fall'n year,
Whose white and sable hours appear
The latest flake of Eternity:--
So many times do I love thee, dear.

How many times do I love again?
Tell me how many beads there are
In a silver chain
Of evening rain,
Unravelled from the tumbling main,
And threading the eye of a yellow star:--
So many times do I love again.

Should you, my lord, while you pursue my song
Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung,
Whence flow these wishes for the common good,
By feeling hearts alone best understood,
I, young in life, by seeming cruel fate
Was snatch'd from Afric's fancy'd happy seat:
What pangs excruciating must molest,
What sorrows labour in my parent's breast?
Steel'd was the soul and by no misery mov'd
That from a father seiz'd his babe belov'd
Such, such my case. And can I then but pray
Others may never feel tyrannic sway?

HAIL, happy day, when, smiling like the morn,
Fair Freedom rose New-England to adorn:
The northern clime beneath her genial ray,
Dartmouth , congratulates thy blissful sway:
Elate with hope her race no longer mourns,
Each soul expands, each grateful bosom burns,
While in thine hand with pleasure we behold
The silken reins, and Freedom's charms unfold.
Long lost to realms beneath the northern skies
She shines supreme, while hated faction dies:
Soon as appear'd the Goddess long desir'd,

[ Lucretius continues the praise of Epicurus ]

But who can number up his labours? who
His high discoveries sing? When but a few
Of the deep-studying race can stretch their minds
To image what He knew, as clear as They
The Truths self-evident with which He link'd
His farthest Views. For is there ought that's great,
That's wonderful, and hard, deterring Search?
That was his Prize! and worthy of his Toil
Unfailing, Who the lonely Monarch reign'd
Of Science thin-inhabited below.

Even Light itself , which every thing displays,
Shone undiscover'd, till his brighter mind
Untwisted all the shining robe of day;
And, from the whitening undistinguish'd blaze,
Collecting every ray into his kind,
To the charm'd eye educ'd the gorgeous train
Of Parent-Colours . First the flaming Red
Sprung vivid forth; the tawny Orange next;
And next delicious Yellow ; by whose side
Fell the kind beams of all-refreshing Green .
Then the pure Blue , that swells autumnal skies,
Ethereal play'd; and then, of sadder hue,

All-intellectual eye, our solar round
First gazing through; he by the blended power
Of gravitation and projection saw
The whole in silent harmony revolve.

Th' aerial flow of Sound was known to him,
From whence it first in wavy circles breaks,
Till the touched organ takes the message in.
Nor could the darting beam, of speed immense,
Escape his swift pursuit and measuring eye.
Even Light itself, which every thing displays,
Shone undiscovered, till his brighter mind
Untwisted all the shining robe of day;

I
Farewell, thou busy world, and may
We never meet again:
Here can I eat, and sleep, and pray,
And do more good in one short day,
Than he who his whole age out wears
Upon the most conspicuous theatres,
Where nought but vice and vanity do reign.
II

Good God! how sweet are all things here!
How beautiful the fields appear!
How cleanly do we feed and lie!
Lord! what good hours do we keep!
How quietly we sleep!
What peace, what unanimity!
How innocent from the lewd fashion

TECHNIQUE

Could but this be brought
Into your ken, — that the technique is thought!
Escape from " Style, " the notion men can use
Words without thoughts, — so wrench and so abuse
The innocent language to their ends that they
Will seem to be respectful, honest, gay,
Grave, or what else, — and all the glorious while
The authors' selves sit with the wise and smile:
" 'Tis but a trick, 't is words, it is a style! "

Your technique, then, is thought, just as I say.