Noosing with care a bursting purse, STROPHE. View the wither'd beldam's face- Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace? See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo! there she goes-unpitied and unblest! ANTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes (Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends), Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies; 'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, She, tardy, hell-ward plies. EPODE. And are they of no more avail, O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to heav'n. MONODY, On a Lady famed for her caprice. How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd! How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd! How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd! If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection remov'd, How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, Thou diedst unwept as thou livedst unlov'd! Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear; But come all ye offspring of Folly so true, And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam thro' the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from her ire. THE EPITAPH. Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, ELEGIES ELEGY ON MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO. LIFE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, As Burnet, lovely, from her native skies; Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? In thee, high Heaven above was truest shewn, Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth, We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. No more, ye warblers of the wood no more, roar. How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend: How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies. Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. THE lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare Lone, as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ; Ormus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd well, Or mould'ring ruins mark'd the sacred fane ; 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 woe that frantic beat her breast, And mix'd 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 woe, The light'ning of her eye in tears imbued. The King's Park, at Holyrood-house. Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world. 'My patriot Son fills an untimely grave !' With accents wild and lifted arms she criedLow 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 drooping Arts surround their Patron's bier, And 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-and shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name? No; every 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. 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: Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms. Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew The morning rose may blow; |