SONNET ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ., OF Glen riddel, april, 1794. No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Ridde. lies! Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of wo, VERSES, 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,t Or mould'ring ruins mark 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 wo, that frantic beat her breast, And mixt her wailings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, 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, And grateful Science heaves the heartfelt sigh. "I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; 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. ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, While Summer, with a matron grace, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace While Autumn, benefactor kind, While maniac Winter rages o'er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows So long, sweet poet of the year, Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son! EPITAPH for the author's father. O YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, The pitying heart that felt for human wo; The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe, "For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side."* * Goldsmith FOR R. A., ESQ. Know thou, O stranger to the fame ON A FRIEND. An honest man here lies at rest, A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspir'd fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near: |