SCENE VII.

Ulfinore, Thula.

T HULA .

What? ever musing in these lonely Shades?
Some Beauty sure, must entertain your Mind,
Some City-Fair; for, as I came along,
Methought the Echoes seem'd to murmur Love.

U LFINORE .

'Tis Love, 'tis more, 'tis almost Adoration.
No, gentle Thula , I was bred to war,
And the rough Business of the Iron-field:
No Beauty sheds a Softness o'er my Mind.

SCENE VI.

U LFINORE Solus .

In vain I wander through the Shades and Gardens
For Peace; the Shades and Gardens nourish Love.
O Love, thou Serpent hid beneath the Flowr's
Of rural Innocence, to sting our Quiet!
How am I lost! The Venom burns me up.
I pine away in Thought; I sink in Sorrows;
And Hope, the smiling Flatterer of Grief,
Ev'n Hope is distant from me, to extend
A helping Hand, and raise Me from the Vale
Of Misery: but dull and black Despair

SCENE V.

GONDIBERT, BIRTHA, THULA, G ONDIBERT .

My Birtha! now for I will call Thee mine,
I long have sought Thee through these secret Shades,
Through every Walk and Grotto, to disclose
Our mutual Happiness. A Tide of Joy
Bears down my Soul: the Gods are most propitious:
Thy Father (O the Rapture turns my Brain!)
Blesses our Passion and confirms our Love.

B IRTHA .

Is it the Voice of Gondibert , or Heav'n?

SCENE IV.

BIRTHA and THULA.

T HULA .

Yes — you are chang'd of late, my gentle Mistress,
Your Actions, nay your very Looks are chang'd.
No more you love to wake the sleeping Strings
Into the sprightly Life of Harmony,
Nor teach the Lute to dye away in Softness.
No more you dip the Pencil, and diffuse
A Blush or Smile upon the breathing Canvass,
Nor trace a Flow'r along the snowy Lawn,
Created by your Hand, the Pink or Violet.

SCENE III.

GONDIBERT and ASTRAGON.

A STRAGON , at some Distance .

What! Birtha yonder parting from the Duke!
It must be so. I have observ'd of late
Uncommon Alteration in my Daughter.
Whene're I mention Gondibert , she blushes,
But soon the Purple fades away to Paleness:
A dying Languor swims upon her Eyes,
And her whole Nature's chang'd. It must be Love.
The Duke 's made up of Honour, Truth, and Goodness,
And might I glory in Him for a Son! —

SCENE II.

G ONDIBERT.

You come, my Birtha , like the op'ning East,
Half strow'd with Blushes, and half drest in Smiles.
When thou art absent Darkness broods around,
And Melancholy spreads her baleful Wing:
But now my Sun of Beauty gilds the Gloom,
To bless my Eyes and cheer my Heart with Gladness.
For, oh, believe me, I am ne'er so happy
As when I hang dissolving o'er thy Beauties,
As when I pour my Soul upon thy Lips,

ACT I. Scene I.

GONDIBERT and ULFINORE . G ONDIBERT .

B LEST be the Hour which brought me to this Seat
Of Piety and Peace: may Ev'ning crown it
With all the softest Purple of the Sky:
The Hour when Astragon receiv'd me first
With hospitable Arms, and heal'd my Wounds.
'Twas then I learn'd the Vanity of Fame:
Then Virtue open'd all her Charms upon me,
Her modest Charms, superiour to the Blaze
Of courtly Pomp, and brighter than a Crown.

U LSINORE.

Written to M ARSH'S national Air , " Britons, who for
Freedom bled . "

Hail, ye glorious sons of song,
Who wrote to humanize the soul!
To you our highest strains belong,
Your names shall crown our friendly bowl.
But chiefly, Burns, above the rest,
We dedicate this night to thee;
Engrav'd in every Scotchman's breast,
Thy name, thy worth shall ever be!

RECITATIVE .

Yes, Burns , " thou dear departed shade! "
When rolling centuries have fled,
Thy name shall still survive the wreck of time,
Shall rouse the genius of thy native clime;
Bards yet unborn, and patriots shall come,
And catch fresh ardour at thy hallow'd tomb —
There's not a cairn-built cottage on our hills,
Nor rural hamlet on our fertile plains,
But echoes to the magic of his strains,
While every heart with highest transport thrills.

Set to Music by Mr. R. A. Smith .

Though dark scowling Winter, in dismal array,
Remarshals his storms on the bleak hoary hill,
With joy we assemble to hail the great day
That gave birth to the Bard who ennobles our Isle.
Then loud to his merits the song let us raise,
Let each true Caledonian exult in his praise;
For the glory of Genius, its dearest reward,
Is the laurel entwin'd by his country's regard.
Let the Muse bring fresh honours his name to adorn,