FROM thee, Eliza, I must go, They never, never can divide II. Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, A boding voice is in mine ear, We part to meet no more. But the last throb that leaves my heart, While death stands victor by, That throb, Eliza, is thy part, And thine that latest sigh' 11* YE banks, and braes, and streams around Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, Wi' many a vow, and lock'd embrace, We tore oursels asunder: But oh! fell death's untimely frost That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary! O, pale, pale now, those rosy lips, And clos'd, for ay, the sparkling glance TO MARY IN HEAVEN. THOU ling'ring star, with less'ning ray Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest! Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget? Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where, by the winding Ayr, we met, Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace! Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild-woods, thick'ning, green The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, The birds sang love on ev'ry spray, Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, Where is thy blissful place of rest? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO. LIFE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize AS BURNET, lovely, from her native skies; Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? In thee, high Heav'n above was truest shown, In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, Ye heathy wastes, inmix'd with reedy fens, To you I fly-ye with my soul accord. Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth, We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, But, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, VERSES, ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF JOUN M'LEOD, ESQ., BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, a parTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR's. SAD thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms! Death tears the brother of ner love From Isabella's arms |