Fade, fade, ye flowerets fair,
Gales, fan no more the air,
Ye streams forget to glide!
Be hush'd, each vernal strain !
Since nought can soothe my pain,
Nor mitigate her pride.
ON TWO YOUNG MEN OF THE NAME OF LEITCH, WHO WERE DROWNED IN CROSSING THE RIVER SOUTHESK, 1757.
O 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:
Not doom'd in lingering woe to waste their breath,
One moment snatch'd them from the
They liv'd united, and united died;
Happy the friends whom Death cannot divide!
EPITAPH, INTENDED FOR HIMSELF.
ESCAP'D 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 stemm'd the sea of life; Like thee, have languish'd after empty joys; Like thee, have labour'd in the stormy strife; Been griev'd for trifles, and amus'd with toys.
Yet, for a while, 'gainst Passion's threatful blast Let steady Reason urge the struggling oar; 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, unmov'd, my artless tender tale;. I was a friend, O man! to thee, to all.
VERSES WRITTEN BY MR. BLACKLOCK,
UN A BLANK LEAF OF HIS POEMS, SENT TO THE AUTHOR
"Si quis tamen hæc quoque, si quis
"O 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 impell'd, and fortune smil'd,
The Vocal Art my languid hours beguil'd :
Severer studies now my life engage,
Researches dull, that quench poetic rage.
"From morn to evening destin'd to explore
The verbal critic, and the scholiast's lore,
Alas, what beam of heavenly ardor 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.
"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
TO THE REVEREND MR. THOMAS BLACKLOCK.
Monstro quod ipse tibi possis dare; semita certe
Tranquillæ per virtutem patet unica vitæ.
HAIL 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;
And friends demure, who only do not blame;
And puppet-prattlers, whose unconscious throat
Transmits what the pert witling prompts by rote.
Pleas'd 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;
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;
Who longs to emulate thy tuneful art,
But more thy meek simplicity of heart;
But more thy virtue patient, undismay'd,
At once though malice and mischance invade;
And, nor by learn'd nor priestly pride confin'd,
Thy zeal for truth, and love of human kind.
Like thee, with sweet ineffable control,
Teach me to rouse or soothe th' impassion'd soul,
And breathe the luxury of social woes;
Ah! ill-exchanged for all that mirth bestows.
Ye slaves of mirth, renounce your boasted plan,
For know, 'tis Sympathy exalts the man.
But, midst the festive bower, or echoing hall,
Can Riot listen to soft Pity's call?
Rude he repels the soul-ennobling guest,
And yields to selfish joy his harden'd breast.
Teach me thine artless harmony of song,
Sweet, as the vernal warblings borne along
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