Sprung from a long paternal line,
For virtue loved for science famed-
'Midst Scotia's nobles first to shine,
His high maternal lineage claim'd;
Yet Genius on his favour'd head
New honours heap'd-new lustre shed.
Sprung from the noble and the brave-
The saint, the scholar, and the sage,-
Though round his tomb no trophies wave,
His fame to every distant age
Shall flourish fresh in vernal grace,
And add new splendour to the race.
Cold is that heart whose fervid glow
Burst forth in many an ardent gleam;
Closed are those lips, whence wont to flow
Of eloquence the copious stream,
While wit and learning's blended powers
Bloom'd fair in academic bowers.
His was the clear and spotless life,
Pure as the lucid mountain stream;
And sordid art and petty strife,
And avarice with her golden dream,
Shrunk from that candid open mien
Where truth and honour shone serene.
The stream that with diminish'd force
Irriguous wanders through the mead,
Or, hid in shades, directs its course,
Each humbler plant unseen to feed;
While verdure fresh, and flow'rets gay,
Reviving mark its devious way:
An emblem fair its course supplied
Of bounty ever fresh and new,
That while it wander'd far and wide,
As silent moved as evening dew,
And heal'd disease, and soften'd woe,—
That stream, alas! has ceased to flow.
She who, to him supremely dear,
Dwelt in his generous bosom's core ;
They who, his pride and solace here,
Joy in a father's smile no more,
While o'er the treasure lost they moan,—
Mourn not unaided or alone.
Sickness, and want, and sorrow round,
Respond with answering sounds of woe,
Long must they mourn the skill profound,
That bade the healing balsam flow,
And added to the unbought cure
The aid that made it firm and sure.
Not to this favour'd isle alone,
Where art and genius soar so high, Where science mounts her western throne, And heavenward lifts her eagle eye, Was his much honour'd name confined, Who lived and thought for all his kind.
Where'er the sons of science strive
Our feeble nature's pangs to aid,
His fame immortal shall survive
With grateful honours duly paid,
Extensive as the healing art,
And dear to every generous heart:
Where Britain's energetic tongue
Is heard in East or Western Ind,
Or Shakespeare's verse, or Milton's song,
Have fancy waked or taste refined,
Beneath the sun's last lingering ray,
Or where he first pours forth the day;
From where Canadian wastes of snow,
Sullen in wint'ry guise appear,
To where the South, with ardent glow,
Decks with her golden fruits the year,
Columbia's sons that name revere,
To virtue and to wisdom dear.
Even hostile France, averse no more
To merit's just and powerful claim,
In healing art and classic lore,
Inscribes the Scottish sage's name
Amongst her sons, whose fair renown
Their country's letter'd honours crown.
Yet not the wealth his spirit scorn'd,
Not all the wreathes his genius won,
Not all who praised, nor all who mourn'd,
Avail when life's short day is done :
To heartfelt virtues prized by Heaven,
The unfading amaranth is given.
His dear-loved country heirs that fame,
That long her classic page shall grace,
His offspring, too, may boast the name,
That sheds a radiance o'er his race;
But 'tis his goodness spreads a bloom,
And scatters fragrance round his tomb.
[The following is a pretty correct version of one of the numerous poems on the Death of Napoleon, at present in circulation in Paris. It is a curious proof of the fond and devoted attachment with which his memory is still cherished by his fol
NOBLE spirit, hast thou fled!
Is thy glorious journey sped,
Thy days of brightness numbered,—
Soul of dread sublimity!
WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rest below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend ;
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in Heaven the soul he held on earth.
While Man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven;
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh Man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit,
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye who behold perchance this simple urn,
Pass on, it honours none you wish to mourn;
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise,
I never knew but one-and here he lies.
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