« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
DWELLER in yon dungeon dark,
STROPHE. View the wither'd beldam's faceCan thy keen inspection trace Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace? Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, Pity's flood there never rose. See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, Hands that took—but never gave. Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest'
ANTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, (A while forbear, ye tort’ring fiends,)
Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends ?
And are they of no more avail, Ten thousand glittring pounds a year ? In other worlds can Mammon fail, Omnipotent as he is here? O, bitter mock’ry of the pompous bier, While down the wretched vital part is driv'n! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n.
ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDER
A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HO
XOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD!
But now his radiant course is run,
For Matthew's course was bright;
A matchless, Heav'nly Light !
O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
O'er hurcheon hides,
Wi' thy auld sides!
He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn,
By wood and wild,
Frae man exil'd.
Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,
Where echo slumbers ! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers !
Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens !
Wi' toddlin din,
Frae lin to lin.
Mourn little harebells o'er the lee;
In scented bow'rs;
The first o'flow'rs.
At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head, At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed,
the rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade,
Come join my wail.
Mourn, ye wee songsters o'the wood; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; Ye curlews calling thro' a clud;
Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood;
He's gane for ever!
Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals, Ye fisher herons, watching eels; Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels
Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.
Mourn, clam’ring craiks at close o' day, 'Mang fields o’ flow'ring clover gay ; And when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.
Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r,
Sets up her horn,
Till waukrife morn!
O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! Oft have he heard my canty strains : But now, what else for me remains
But tales of woe ; And frae my een the drapping rains
Maun ever flow.
Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year! Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : Thou, simmer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head, Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear,
For him that's dead !
Thou, autumn, wi'thy yellow hair,
The roaring blast,
The worth we've lost !