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Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves,
Ye cease to charm - Eliza is no more!
Ye heathy wastes, inmix'd with reedy fens,
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stord, Ye rugged cliffs, o’erhanging dreary glens,
To you I fly - ye with my soul accord.
Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth,
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ;
And not a muse in honest grief bewail ?
W saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride,
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres , But, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide,
Thou leftst us darkling in a world of tears.
The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee,
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care ! So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree;
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare.
ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF JOHN
M'LEOD, ESQ., BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S.
Sad thy tale, thou idle page,
And rueful thy alarms !
From Isabella's arms.
Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew
The morning rose may blow;
May lay its beauties low.
Fair on Isabella's morn
The sun propitious smild; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguild.
Fate oft tears the bosom chords
That Nature finest strung; So Isabella's heart was form’d,
And so that heart was wrung.
Dread Omnipotence alone
Can heal the wound he gave; Can point the brimful, grief-worn eyes
To scenes beyond the grave.
Virtue's blossoms there shall blow,
And fear no with’ring blast; There Isabella's spotless worth
Shall happy be at last.
ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ., OF GLEN RIDDEL, APRIL, 1794.
No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more,
ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR.
The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare,
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; Th’ inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark’ning air,
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.
Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell,
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ;* Or mus’d where limpid streams, once hallow'd well,+
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane; 1
Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks,
The clouds, swift-wing’d, flew o'er the starry sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.
The paly moon rose in the livid east,
And ’mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form, In weeds of wo, that frantic beat her breast,
And mixt her wailings with the raving storm.
Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd ! Her form majestic droop'd in pensive wo,
The lightning of her eye in tears imbu'd.
Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war,
Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurld, That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar,
And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.
“My patriot son fills an untimely grave!”
With accents wild and lifted arms she cried, " Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save;
Low lies the heart that swell’d with honest pride!
“A weeping country joins a widow's tear,
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry;
* The King's Park, at Holyrood House, † St. Anthony's Well.
St. Anthony's Chapel.
The drooping Arts surround their patron's bier,
Ard grateful Science heaves the heartfelt sigh.
"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;
I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow; But ah! how hope is born but to expire !
Relentless fate has laid this guardian low.
"My patriot falls ! but shall he lie unsung,
While empty greatness saves a worthless name? No! ev'ry muse shall join her tuneful tongue,
And future ages hear his growing fame.
" And I will join a mother's tender cares,
Thro' future times to make his virtues last, That distant years may boast of other Blairs!”.
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.
TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST
AT EDNAM, BOXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS.
Or tunes Æolian strains between;
While Summer, with a matron grace,
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,