Fade, fade, ye flowerets fair!
Gales, fan no more the air!

Ye streams, forget to glide!
Be hushed, each vernal strain;
Since nought can soothe my pain,
Nor mitigate her pride.

EPITAPH

ON TWO YOUNG MEN OF THE NAME OF LEITCH,

WHO WERE DROWNED IN CROSSING THE

RIVER SOUTHESK, 1757.

30

THOU! whose steps in sacred reverence tread

These lone dominions of the silent

dead;

On this sad stone a pious look bestow,
Nor uninstructed read this tale of woe;

And while the sigh of sorrow heaves thy breast,
Let each rebellious murmur be supprest;
Heaven's hidden ways to trace, for us, how vain!
Heaven's wise decrees, how impious, to arraign!
Pure from the stains of a polluted age,

In early bloom of life, they left the stage: 10

Not doomed in lingering woe to waste their breath, One moment snatched them from the power of

Death:

They lived united, and united died;

Happy the friends whom Death cannot divide!

EPITAPH, INTENDED FOR HIMSELF.

SCAPED the gloom of mortal life, a soul

Here leaves its mouldering tenement

of clay,

Safe, where no cares their whelming billows roll, No doubts bewilder, and no hopes betray.

Like thee, I once have stemmed the sea of life; Like thee, have languished after empty joys; Like thee, have laboured in the stormy strife; Been grieved for trifles, and amused with toys. Yet, for a while, 'gainst Passion's threatful blast Let steady Reason urge the struggling oar; 10 Shot through the dreary gloom, the morn at last Gives to thy longing eye the blissful shore.

Forget my frailties, thou art also frail;

Forgive my lapses, for thyself may'st fall;
Nor read, unmoved, my artless tender tale,
I was a friend, O man! to thee, to all.

VERSES WRITTEN BY MR. BLACKLOCK,

ON A BLANK LEAF OF HIS POEMS, SENT TO THE AUTHOR.

-Si quis tamen hæc quoque, si quis

Captus amore leget.

VIRGIL.

THOU! whose bosom inspiration fires! For whom the Muses string their favourite lyres!

Though with superior genius blest, yet deign

A kind reception to my humbler strain.

"When florid youth impelled, and fortune smiled,
The Vocal Art my languid hours beguiled.
Severer studies now my life engage,
Researches dull, that quench poetic rage.

"From morn to evening destined to explore
The verbal critic, and the scholiast's lore,
Alas! what beam of heavenly ardour shines
In musty lexicons and school-divines?

"Yet to the darling object of my heart
A short but pleasing retrospect I dart;
Revolve the labours of the tuneful choir,
And what I cannot imitate, admire.

10

"O could my thoughts with all thy spirit glow, As thine melodious could my accents flow; Then thou approving might'st my song attend, Nor in a Blacklock blush to own a friend."

20

AN EPISTLE

TO THE REVEREND MR. THOMAS BLACKLOCK.

Monstro quod ipse tibi possis dare; semita certe
Tranquillæ per virtutem patet unica vitæ.

JUVENAL, Sat. x.

AIL to the Poet! whose spontaneous

lays

No pride restrains, nor venal flattery

sways.

Who nor from Critics, nor from Fashion's laws,
Learns to adjust his tribute of applause;
But bold to feel, and ardent to impart
What nature whispers to the generous heart,
Propitious to the Moral Song, commends,
For Virtue's sake, the humblest of her friends.
Peace to the grumblers of an envious age,
Vapid in spleen, or brisk in frothy rage!
Critics, who, ere they understand, defame;

10

And friends demure, who only do not blame;
And puppet-prattlers, whose unconscious throat
Transmits what the pert witling prompts by rote.
Pleased, to their spite or scorn I yield the lays
That boast the sanction of a Blacklock's praise.
Let others court the blind and babbling crowd:
Mine be the favour of the Wise and Good.

O thou, to censure, as to guile unknown!

Indulgent to all merit but thy own!

Whose soul, though darkness wrap thine earthly frame,

Exults in Virtue's pure ethereal flame;

20

Whose thoughts, congenial with the strains on high,
The Muse adorns, but cannot dignify;

As northern lights, in glittering legions driven,
Embellish, not exalt, the starry Heaven:
Say thou, for well thou know'st the art divine
To guide the fancy, and the soul refine,
What heights of excellence must he ascend,
Who longs to claim a Blacklock for his friend; 30
Who longs to emulate thy tuneful art;
But more thy meek simplicity of heart;
But more thy virtue patient, undismayed,
At once though malice and mischance invade;
And, nor by learned nor priestly pride confined,
Thy zeal for truth, and love of human kind.

Like thee, with sweet ineffable control,
Teach me to rouse or soothe the impassioned soul,
And breathe the luxury of social woes;

Ah! ill-exchanged for all that mirth bestows. 40

M