DWELLER in yon dungeon dark, STROPHE. View the wither'd beldam's face- Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace? Pity's flood there never rose. See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest ANTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, (A while forbear, ye tortʼring fiends,) Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies; 'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, She, tardy, hell-ward plies.. EPODE. And are they of no more avail, 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. X 2 ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDER SON, A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD! But now his radiant course is run, O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody! O'er hurcheon hides, And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn, The ae best fellow e'er was born! Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn By wood and wild, Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 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! Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, Mourn little harebells o'er the lee; In scented bow'rs; Ye roses on your thorny tree, 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, I'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, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 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, Wide o'er the naked world declare The worth we've lost! |