"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 drooping arts surround their patron's bier,
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh.
"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;
I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow;
But ah! how hope is born but to expire!
Relentless fate has laid this guardian low.
"My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung,
While empty greatness saves a worthless name?
No; every 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.
TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT
EDNAM, BOXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS.
WHILE Virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green,
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between ;
While Summer with a matron grace
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade;
While Autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his aged head,
And sees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed;
While maniac Winter rages o'er
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,
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.
O YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw near with pious rev'rence, and attend
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,
The tender father, and the gen'rous friend.
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."*
KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name;
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart Death ne'er made cold.
AN honest man here lies at rest,
As e'er God with his image blest;
The friend of man, the friend of truth;
The friend of age, and guide of youth:
Few hearts, like his, with virtue warm'd,
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd;
If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.
A BARD'S EPITAPH.
Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near:
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.
Is there a Bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,
O, pass not by!
But with a frater-feeling strong,
Here heave a sigh,
Is there a man whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,
Wild as the wave;
Here pause-and thro' the starting tear,-
Survey this grave.
The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame,
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stain'd his name!
Reader, attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkly grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit;
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control,
Is wisdom's root.
ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD,
Born in pcculiar circumstances of Family Distress.
SWEET Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,
And ward o' monie a pray'r,
What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!
November hirples o'er the lea,
Chill on thy lovely form;
And gane, alas! the sheltering tree,
Should shield thee frae the storm.
May He who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving show'r,
The bitter frost and snaw!
May He, the friend of wo and want,
Who heals life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother-plant,
And heal her cruel wounds.
But late she flourished, rooted fast,
Fair on the summer morn;
Now, feebly bends she in the blast,
Unshelter'd and forlorn.
Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unscath'd by ruffian hand;
And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land.
TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP
OF DUNLOP.
SENSIBILITY, how charming,
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell;
But distress with horrors arming,
Thou hast also known too well.
Fairest flower, behold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray;
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley,
See it prostrate on the clay.
Hear the wood-lark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys;
Hapless bird! a prey the surest,
To each pirate of the skies.
Dearly bought the hidden treasure,.
Finer feelings can bestow;
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,
Thrill the deepest notes of we.
ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW
HAD JUST SHOT AT.
INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye:
May never pity sooth thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!
Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
-The bitter little that of life remains;
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.
Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.
Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.
ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH TURIT, A WILD
SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OUGHTERTYRE.
WHY, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties ?-
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free;
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock,
Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace;
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below;
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.
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