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                                  THE
                               MINSTREL,
                                 WITH
                           SOME OTHER POEMS.


                            [Illustration]


                             THE MINSTREL;
                                  OR,
                        THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS.

                                 WITH
                           SOME OTHER POEMS.


                       By JAMES BEATTIE, LL. D.


                              EDINBURGH:
                     PRINTED BY JAMES BALLANTYNE,
                FOR WILLIAM CREECH, MANNERS AND MILLER,
                       AND A. CONSTABLE AND CO.
                                 1805.




                                  TO
                          SIR WILLIAM FORBES,
                         OF PITSLIGO, BARONET,
                AS A MARK OF RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER,
           AND AS AN APPROPRIATE TRIBUTE TO ONE OF THE MOST
                     VALUED FRIENDS OF THE AUTHOR,
                             THIS EDITION
                                OF THE
                     POETICAL WORKS OF DR BEATTIE,
                            _IS INSCRIBED_
                                  BY
                            THE PUBLISHERS.




                               CONTENTS.


                                                                   Page.
The Minstrel, Book I.                                                 1
              Book II.                                               35

Retirement                                                           71

Elegy                                                                76

Ode to Hope                                                          81

Pygmaeo-gerano-machia: The Battle of the Pigmies and Cranes           89

Epistle to the Hon. C. B. 101

The Hares: A Fable                                                  105

Epitaph: being Part of an Inscription for a Monument,
to be erected by a Gentleman to the Memory
of his Lady                                                         118

Ode on Lord H***'s Birth-Day                                        119

To the Right Hon. Lady Charlotte Gordon, dressed in
a Tartan Scotch Bonnet, with Plumes, &c.                            125

The Hermit                                                          127

Ode to Peace                                                        130

Triumph of Melancholy                                               139




                       PREFACE TO THE MINSTREL.


The design was, to trace the progress of a Poetical Genius, born in a
rude age, from the first dawning of fancy and reason, till that period
at which he may be supposed capable of appearing in the world as a
MINSTREL, that is, as an itinerant Poet and Musician;--a character,
which, according to the notions of our fore-fathers, was not only
respectable, but sacred.

I have endeavoured to imitate SPENSER in the measure of his verse, and
in the harmony, simplicity, and variety, of his composition. Antique
expressions I have avoided; admitting, however, some old words, where
they seemed to suit the subject; but I hope none will be found that
are now obsolete, or in any degree unintelligible to a reader of
English poetry.

To those, who may be disposed to ask, what could induce me to write in
so difficult a measure, I can only answer, that it pleases my ear, and
seems, from its Gothic structure and original, to bear some relation
to the subject and spirit of the Poem. It admits both of simplicity
and magnificence of sound and of language, beyond any other stanza
that I am acquainted with. It allows the sententiousness of the
couplet, as well as the more complex modulation of blank verse. What
some critics have remarked, of its uniformity growing at last tiresome
to the ear, will be found to hold true, only when the poetry is faulty
in other respects.




                                  THE
                               MINSTREL;
                             IN TWO BOOKS.


    _Me vero primum dulces ante omnia Musae,
     Quarum sacra fero, ingenti perculsus amore,
     Accipiant.----_

                                         VIRGIL.




                                  THE
                               MINSTREL;
                                  OR,
                        THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS.




                              BOOK FIRST.


                          I.

      Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb
      The steep, where Fame's proud temple shines afar!
      Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime
      Has felt the influence of malignant star,
      And waged with Fortune an eternal war!
      Checked by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,
      And Poverty's unconquerable bar,
      In life's low vale remote has pined alone,
    Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown!


                         II.

      And yet, the languor of inglorious days
      Not equally oppressive is to all.
      Him, who ne'er listened to the voice of praise,
      The silence of neglect can ne'er appal.
      There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call,
      Would shrink to hear th' obstreperous trump of Fame;
      Supremely blest, if to their portion fall
      Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim
    Had He, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim.


                        III.

      This sapient age disclaims all classic lore;
      Else I should here, in cunning phrase, display,
      How forth THE MINSTREL fared in days of yore,
      Right glad of heart, though homely in array;
      His waving locks and beard all hoary grey:
      And, from his bending shoulder, decent hung
      His harp, the sole companion of his way,
      Which to the whistling wind responsive rung:
    And ever as he went some merry lay he sung.


                         IV.

      Fret not yourselves, ye silken sons of pride,
      That a poor Wanderer should inspire my strain.
      The Muses fortune's fickle smile deride,
      Nor ever bow the knee in Mammon's fane;
      For their delights are with the village-train,
      Whom Nature's laws engage, and Nature's charms:
      They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain;
      The parasite their influence never warms,
    Nor him whose sordid soul the love of wealth alarms.


                          V.

      Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn,
      Yet horror screams from his discordant throat.
      Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,
      While warbling larks on russet pinions float;
      Or seek, at noon, the woodland scene remote,
      Where the grey linnets carol from the hill.
      O let them ne'er, with artificial note,
      To please a tyrant, strain the little bill!
    But sing what heaven inspires, and wander where they will.


                         VI.

      Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand;
      Nor was perfection made for man below.
      Yet all her schemes with nicest art are planned,
      Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe.
      With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow,
      If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise;
      There, plague and poison, lust and rapine grow;
      Here, peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies,
    And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes.


                        VII.

      Then grieve not, thou, to whom the indulgent Muse
      Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire;
      Nor blame the partial fates, if they refuse
      The imperial banquet, and the rich attire.
      Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre.
      Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined?
      No; let thy heaven-taught soul to heaven aspire,
      To fancy, freedom, harmony, resigned;
    Ambition's grovelling crew for ever left behind.


                       VIII.

      Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul
      In each fine sense so exquisitely keen,
      On the dull couch of Luxury to loll,
      Stung with disease, and stupified with spleen;
      Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen,
      Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide,
      (The mansion, then, no more of joy serene)
      Where fear, distrust, malevolence, abide,
    And impotent desire, and disappointed pride?


                         IX.

      O, how canst thou renounce the boundless store
      Of charms which Nature to her votary yields!
      The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
      The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
      All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
      And all that echoes to the song of even,
      All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,
      And all the dread magnificence of heaven,
    O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!


                          X.

      These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health,
      And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart.
      But these thou must renounce, if lust of wealth
      E'er win its way to thy corrupted heart;
      For ah! it poisons like a scorpion's dart;
      Prompting the ungenerous wish, the selfish scheme,
      The stern resolve, unmoved by pity's smart,
      The troublous day, and long distressful dream.
    Return, my roving Muse! resume thy purposed theme.


                         XI.

      There lived, in Gothic days, as legends tell,
      A shepherd-swain, a man of low degree;
      Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell,
      Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady;
      But he, I ween, was of the North Countrie:
      A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms;
      Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free;
      Patient of toil; serene amidst alarms;
    Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms.


                        XII.

      The shepherd-swain, of whom I mention made,
      On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock;
      The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never swayed;
      An honest heart was almost all his stock;
      His drink the living water from the rock:
      The milky dams supplied his board, and lent
      Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock;
      And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent,
    Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went.


                       XIII.

      From labour health, from health contentment springs.
      Contentment opes the source of every joy.
      He envied not, he never thought of kings;
      Nor from those appetites sustained annoy,
      Which chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy:
      Nor fate his calm and humble hopes beg