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στένομεν μεμνημένοι

From the New Monthly Magazine.

ἐβης ἐκείνης, νοῦ τ' ἐκείνου, και φρενῦν.

STOв. Adolescens, tamen etsi properas, hoc saxum rogat,

Uti ad se aspicias: deinde quod scriptu'st
legas;

Hic sunt poete Marcei Pacuviei sita
Ossa: hoc volebam nescius ne esses. Vale.
GELL. lib. i. c. 24.

MR. EDITOR,

DE

EPARTED genius meets at length with its reward, and the admirers of the immortal BURNS hear with feelings of singular satisfaction that a splendid monument is now erecting to his memory at Dumfries in Scotland, where he resided during the greater part of his life, and where his remains were buried. The promoters of this benevolent plan are entitled to the public gratitude, and by this act of generosity they derive some reflected glory to themselves from the Just re of his genius

Non hæc urna tua, Euripides, sed tu magis hujus,

1803, I shall gratify their taste by producing it, first giving our author's preliminary observations.

"As I profess myself a great admirer of the writings of Burns, and should think that I had no knowledge or taste -in poetry if I were not, I endeavoured to stimulate the exertions of his countrymen when I was at Dumfries, by writing two short pieces of poetry, and fixing them as well as I was able on the turf of his grave. I cut some small hooked sticks from the ash-trees that sprung up among the tombs, and by means of these I pegged the papers down upon the grass. The epitaph I carried with me to the place, and the other I wrote with a pencil on the spot, making use of one of the monuments for a table. The epitaph was as follows:

INSCRIPTION
to the
MEMORY
of

ROBERT BURNS.
If sweetest thoughts in simple language drest,
If vivid wit has power to move thy breast,
If Nature, painted with a master's hand
And poet's skill, thy passions can command,
Here, reader, pause,---and Fancy's bard ad-

Namque tua hanc urnam gloria condecorat. The inscription that commemorates the burial-spot of this very beautiful poet is written in Latin, and has already appeared in more than one publication. As some of your readers, Mr. Editor, may perhaps be unacquainted with an epitaph which was written for the same purpose by a very amiable and accomplished man, in his tour to the Western If Pity touch thee, drop one friendly tear; Highlands of Scotland in the summer of If blameless, censure him; for BURNS lies Eng. Mag. Vo), A

2H

mire;

For here he rests who well could strike the

lyre;

here."

149]

Mausoleum of Burns, the Poet.

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How superior is the language of these point worthy of its subject-nay, worthy es to the trite expressions generally to be inscribed on the monument which ised in subjects of this kind! The above is now erecting to the memory of Burns. pitaph recommends itself to the taste That its elegant author may give addiof every reader by its chaste simplicity; tional proof of his poetical talent is the and I need not add that it is in every fervent wish of

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N. N.

DESCRIPTION OF THE MAUSOLEUM OF BURNS,

THE

AT DUMFRIES, IN SCOTLAND. (WITH A PLATE.)

From the Monthly Magazine.

HE elegant and classical tribute not only from various parts of the Unitto the memory of departed genius, ed Empire, but from the East and West which is represented in the plate, is now Indies and America, the committee aderecting at Dumfries, in Scotland, where vertised for plans and drawings of a Burns resided during the greater part of suitable architectural monument. Many his life, and where his remains were eminent architects accordingly became buried. competitors for the honour, and, after a due examination of the merits of the various drawings, the palm was awarded to the plans which, on opening the sealed envelope transmitted therewith, appeared to be executed by Mr. Hunt.

The fands for defraying the expence of this splendid monument are raising among the friends and admirers of the bard, by a subscription, which originated with a few public-spirited inhabitants of Dumfries scarcely two years ago, and A grand masonic and military procestheir exertions have been attended with sion ushered in the ceremony of laying the most gratifying success. The arch- the foundation stone; and the attention tectural part of the mausoleum was de- of the numerous spectators was called to signed by Mr. THOMAS FREDERICK the solemnity in an elegant and pathetic HUNT, of London. eulogium on the merits of the deceased

Poetarum

:--

In Aeternum Honorem
ROBERTI BURNS,

The first meeting of the subscribers bard, by the provincial grand-master of was held at Dumfries on the 6th of Ja- this part of Scotland, WILLIAM Miller, nuary, 1814, and after stating their opi- esq. of Dalsminton. The foundation nion "that it has long been a subject of stone was then laid with due masonic regret, and indeed a reflection against formalities, and the following elegant their country, that no public tribute of inscription was deposited, along with respect has yet been paid to the memory the usual memorials of the age in which of the man who employed his unrivalled we live :powers in giving grace and dignity to the Lowland language of Scotland, and in illustrating the simplicity of the manners and character of the Scottish peasantry," the meeting resolved," that a mausoleum ought to be reared over the grave of Burns ;" and a subscription was opened to defray the expences. committee selected from among the nobility, gentry, clergy, and principal inhabitants of the town and county of Dumfries, was appointed to superintend the erection of the monument, and to receive and solicit subscriptions.

Encouraged by the liberal and handsome manner in which the admirers of Burns came forward with contributions,

Caledonia sui ævi longe principis Cujus carmina eximia, patrio sermone scripta,

Animi magis ardentis, ingeniique-vi, Quam arte vel cultu conspicua, Facetiis, jucunditate, lepore affluentia, Omnibus literarum cultoribus satis nota ; Cives sui, necnon plerique omnes Musarum amantissimi, memoriamque viri Arte poetica tam praeclari, foventes HOC MAUSOLEUM,

Super reliquias poetæ mortales,
extruendum curavere.
Primum hujus ædificii lapidem
Gulielmus Miller, Armiger,
Reipublicæ architectonicæ apud Scotos,
In regione australi, Curio Maximus
provincialis,

Georgio Tertio regnante,
Georgio, Walharum Principe,
Summam imperii pro patre teñeute,

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Thoma F. Hunt, Londinensi, Architecto,
Posnit,

Nonis Juniis, Anno Lucis VMDCCCXV.
Salutis Humanæ MDCCCXV.

TRANSLATION.

In perpetual honour of
ROBERT BURNS,
decidedly the first Scottish poet of his age,
whose exquisite verses, in the dialect
of his country,
distinguished for the strength and fire of
native genius,

more than for the acquired accomplishments
of polish and erudition,
are admired by all men of letters
for their humour, pleasantry, elegance
and variety;

his townsmen and others, who love polite
literature,

and cherish the memory of so eminent
a genius,
caused this mausoleum to be erected
over the mortal remains of
THE BARD.

Of this edifice,

planned by Thomas F. Hunt, esq. of London, architect,

the first stone was laid by William Miller, esq. Provincial Grand Master of the Southern

District

of Free Masons in Scotland,
in the reign of King George III.
During the regency of George Prince
of Wales,

Joseph Gass, esq. being Provost of
Dumfries,

On the 5th day of June,

In the year of light, 5815.
Of our Lord, 1815.

446

The mausoleum is now nearly completed, and already attracts the admiration of all who view it; for symmetry and chasteness of design it has scarcely its equal in the sepulchral monuments of any age or country, while the situation in which it is placed is excellently calculated to arrest the attention of the passing traveller.

It is intended to adorn the interior with a piece of sculpture, in alto-relievo, from the chisel of Turnerelli; and the subject which the artist has chosen may be considered as the apotheosis which the bard selected for himself. In the dedication of the first edition of

his poems to the members of the Caledonian Hunt, Burns observes, "the poetic genius of my country found me as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha, at the plough, and threw ber inspiring mantle over me." The alto-relievo of the sculptor will embody this elegant thought on marble, and the effect of the whole cannot fail to be heightened by the sublimity and grandeur of an idea so highly poetical.

PRESCIENCE; OR, THE SECRETS OF DIVINATION.

A POEM. By EDWARD SMEDLEY, junior.

From the Monthly Review.

AFTER the mass of nonsense which, reader. Such are the several "Pleain the discharge of our literary duty, sures" of "Imagination," of "Hope,' we are so constantly compelled to peruse, and of "Memory," which have been it is indeed a relief and a refreshment to deservedly admired and esteemed in witness the gradual improvement and the their day; and which bid fair to possess corrected labours of a genuine English a permanent reputation in the annals of writer. To no department of criticism our poetry.

does this remark more forcibly apply. In the first part, the author describes than to that which is occupied in the the famous scene that is said to have examination of modern poetry. taken place before the battle of Phil

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Mr. Smedley's object seems to have ippi: been to tread in the steps of those successful writers who have chosen some passion or power of the human mind as the favourite ground-work of their compositions; and who have built on this foundation an edifice of moral reflection, historical illustration, and fanciful embellishment, calculated to instruct and to please the thoughtful and the classical

His thirsty spirit drank ambition's blood;
Heaven on the deed it lov'd forebore to smile,
And mourn'd its cause could triumph bui

awhile.

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Then, as they tell, the sorrowing lord of day
Veiled his bright coronal, and quench'd his ray;
Glanced towards Philippi with diminish'd light,
And shrank as conscious of the coming fight.

"The fight was near---already on the plain, Thousands had slept, who ne'er shall sleep again,

Unless that dreamless nothing sleep we call
Whose couch is spread for ever and for all.
'Twas that strange season when the waning
night

Unfolds her dusky wing to fly from light;
When 'tis not morning, yet one single ray,
Flung from the east, would almost make it day.
Well may the waking fear that doubtful hour,
When spirits sail abroad, and fiends have
power;

And o'er the slumber's fancy-wilder'd view,
Flits many a dream, whose warning may be true.
By the dim taper in his tented dome,
Then sate the last best son of falling Rome;
The patriot dagger at his right hand lay,
Whose point had rent great Cæsar's soul away;
And in each pause of thought he trac'd the page
Rich with the honey of Athena's sage.
Can those be footsteps which his ear assail?
"Tis but the burden of the twilight gale!
Is that a shadow which deceives his eye?
He glances round--there's rought but vacancy!
A moment yet he looks---i stands there now,
Shap'd as before, and horror on its brow!
Fierce from each dim and shadowy feature
broke

The chilling smile which sated vengeance
spoke :

It rais'd the purple which was folded round,
And bared and counted many a gaping wound;
Stretch'd it's lank finger where the falchion
lay,

Pointed the battle-plain, and sternly strode
away!

'Calm sate the hero; once before his eye
Glar'd on that nameless vision passing by;
Dwelt on th' unearthly warning which it gave,
And saw, and listen'd as became the brave.
Vain all the portents which beset his way,
The dream by night, the sun obscur'd by day:
One only star could fix his longing view,
Th' unerring beam which patriot valour threw !'

The following attempt to pourtray a character of which so many have confessed,

448

Breathes to his soul the rich perfume of fame,
And wafts the fragrance of a deathless name!
Oh! for that moment, when no more repress'd
The master-spirit rages in his breast:
When from their source the bright creations
rise,

And thought outruns each image it supplies.
When on the tablet of enraptured mind,
Each form is shadow'd out, but not defin'd;
O'er their first tints the lights of fancy glow.
And as the wildly blended colours flow,
'Tis then the mighty workman can combiné
These jarring seeds in unconfus'd design;
And marks the plan which regulates the maze;
His rapid eye the seeming waste surveys,
Awakes a world, where heaven and earth were
blent,

And bars the waters from the firmament.
The course is pass'd, the goal of glory won:
Ere yet its race his chariot has begun,
Ere yet the quarry its rude mass bèstows,
A God beneath the breathing marble glows:
And inspiration rushes on his song;
Swift to his lips unbidden numbers throng,
Then coming ages pass before his eyes,
And dreams of long futurity arise;
Tongues yet unborn his living strain rehearse,
And climes unthought of echo with his verse;
He sees the laurel which entwines his bust,
He marks the pomp which consecrates his dust;
Shakes off the dimness which obscures him now,
And feels the future glory bind his brow.'

two beautiful extracts (so indeed they
We reserve our remaining room for
may be called) on the dangerous though
delightful common-places of long im-
aginary but at last realized love, and on
the death-bed of friendship.

Nor these alone, but gentler hopes belong
To the soft Fancy-nurtur'd child of song :
And, mid the laurel's everlasting bower,
Love's wanton fingers twine a lighter flower.
Ah! who has ever glow'd with minstrel flame,
Whom Love neglected for himself to claim!
Ah! where the lover who has never paid
His secret homage in the Muse's shade!

There Fancy paints to his enamour'd gaze Visions of happiness in coming days; Portrays some image of the yet unknown, And shews the spirit destin'd for his own; Half veils and half reveals ber to his sight, And pours o'er all a dimly shadow'd light, Till, in his own creation rapt, the boy Clasps with fond arms his unsubstantial joy; Which fans the slumbering spark of minstrel And give unreal substance to a shade. Hangs o'er the imagin'd form himself has made,

--nequo monstrare, et sentio tantùm,” is far from unsuccessful:

"Oh! for that holy hope, that keen desire,

fire;

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'Pass'd is the spell, the talisman unbound,
His air-built fabric shatter'd to the ground!
The fairy landscape ravish'd from his eyes!
The star of promise set beneath its skies!
Ah! what the pause of being can supply,
What fill his craving bosom's vacancy!
Where may the pilgrim his lone steps delay,
To slake the fever of his thirsty way!
Springs but a single fountain in the waste,
And is that one forbidden to his taste!
Farewell the hopes which from ambition flow,
Farewell the promise life and youth bestow :
Joy idly breathes her easy-hearted strain,
And reeling pleasure beckons him in vain :
The proffer'd goblet to his lip is dry,
And beauty palls upon his wearied eye;
Vain all the loveliness which others wear,
Till the one statue of his hope is there!

'Yet o'er his search some hand unseen
presides;

Weans from the false ones, to the real guides;
From his dim eye with favoring power dispels
The mist which all diviner vision quells ;
Shadows the past, the forward pathway shows,
And gifts of planetary might bestows;
The glass whose surface but for one is clear,
The ring which presses when the lov'd is near.

'Soon as her first light whisper steals around,
His ready ear acknowledges the sound ;
Deems it sweet music other days have known,
And catches ere it falls the coming tone;
So lost, yet so familiar and so dear,
He thinks 'twas always present to his ear.
Haply 'twas warbled ere condemn'd to earth,
His spirit gloried in its purer birth;
And echoes now its unforgotten strain,
To lure him upwards to his heaven again.
He views an image where the features seem
Like the vague memory of a shatter'd dream;
Or as the visage of a friend, whom time
Has render'd strange, with grief, or toil, òr
clime;

So like, we almost greet him by his name,
Yet so unlike, we doubt it is the same;
And wipe away the film, and with surprise
Scarce dare to trust the gladness of our eyes.
It is the single star, whose ceaseless ray
Hat ever dimm'd its blaze in ocean spray;
*pilot-beam, which steady light supplies,
The cynosure of never clouded skies.
It is the holy dream by fancy bred;
The hope on which his solitude has fed;

[450

The lines on the Loss of a Friend, must close our citations.

'Tis this which whispers solace from the bier

Where moulders all the heart bath cherished
here;

'Tis this which gilds the twilight of the tomb,
Thou art not lost for ever in its gloom,
For ever lost, my brother !---Oh! not all
Shall slumber on; but at the mighty call
Of the dread harbinger of endless fate
The captive soul shall burst its prison-gate.
Such is the glorious certainty which cheers
The sad survivor's manly-flowing tears;
And pours the sweetness of immortal breath
Through the dark valley of the shade of death.

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The kindred nature whom his bosom claim'd; Their dream--ah! who that dreaming can

The one for whom he felt his being framed.'

relate!

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