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Their name, their years, spell'd by th' unletter'd Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
To teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing, anxious being, e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

If, 'chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dew away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.1

1 Here, in his first MS., followed this stanza :-
"Him have we seen the greenwood side along,

While o'er the heath we hied, our labour done;

Oft as the woodlark piped her farewell song,

With wisful eyes pursue the setting sun."

"Hard by yon wood, now, smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn, I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up

the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

“The next—with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borneApproach, and read—for thou canst read-the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."


Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown:
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;

Heaven did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Misery all he had,—a tear;

He gained from Heaven-'twas all he wish'd-a friend.

1 In the poem, as originally printed, the following beautiful stanza preceded the epitaph :


"There scattered oft, the earliest of the year,

By hands unseen are showers of violets found:
The redbreast loves to build and warble there,
And little footsteps lightly print the ground."

It was afterwards omitted, because he thought it too long a parenthesis

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode(There they alike in trembling hope repose!)-The bosom of his Father and his God!


DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power,

Thou tamer of the human breast,

Whose iron scourge and torturing hour*
The bad affright, afflict the best!
Bound in thy adamantine chain
The proud are taught to taste of pain,
And purple tyrants vainly groan

With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

When first thy Sire to send on earth
Virtue, his darling child, design'd,
To thee he gave the heavenly birth,
And bade to form her infant mind.
Stern rugged Nurse! thy rigid lore
With patience many a year she bore:

What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,

And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe

Scared at thy frown terrific, fly

Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,

Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,

And leave us leisure to be good.

Light they disperse, and with them go

The summer Friend, the flattering Foe;

By vain Prosperity received

To her they vow their truth, and are again helieved.

Wisdom in sable garb array'd

Immersed in rapturous thought profound,

And Melancholy, silent maid,

With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
Still on thy solemn steps attend:
Warm Charity, the general friend,
With Justice, to herself severe,

And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.

O, gently on thy suppliant's head

Dread Goddess, lay thy chastening hand!

Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,

Not circled with the vengeful band

(As by the impious thou art seen)

With thundering voice, and threatening mien,
With screaming Horror's funeral cry,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty:

Thy form benign, O Goddess, wear,

Thy milder influence impart,

Thy philosophic train be there

To soften, not to wound my heart. The

generous spark extinct revive, Teach me to love and to forgive, Exact my own defects to scan,

What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.

Allan Ramsay.


FAREWELL to Lochaber! and farewell, my Jean,

Where heartsome with thee I hae mony day been!

For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more!

These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear,

And no for the dangers attending on war,

Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind,
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind;
Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained;
By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained;
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave,
And I must deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse;
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee,
And without thy favour I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame,
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

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