Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew
The morning rose may blow;
But cold, successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low

Fair on Isabella's morn

The sun propitious smil'd;

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd.

Fate oft tears the bosom chords
That Nature finest strung;
So Isabella's heart was form'd,
And so that heart was wrung.

Dread Omnipotence alone

Can heal the wound he gave; Can point the brimful, grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave.

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow,
And fear no with'ring blast;
There Isabella's spotless worth
Shall happy be at last.

SONNET

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ., OF GLEN
RIDDEL, April, 1794.

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more,
Nor pour your descant, grating on my soul;
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole,
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.
How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes?
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend!
How can I to the tuneful strain attend?

That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies!

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of wo,
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier:
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer,
Is in his "narrow house," for ever darkly low.
Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet;
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet.

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,

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd! Her form majestic droop'd in pensive wó, The light'ning of her eye in tears imbu'd.

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war,

Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.

"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;
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! 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 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!

EPITAPH

FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.

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."*

Goldsmith