On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates; There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, (While the long funerals blacken all the way) "Lo! these were they, whose souls the furies steeled, And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield." Thus unlamented pass the proud away,

The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!

So perish all, whose breast ne'er learned to glow
For others' good, or melt at others' woe.

What can atone (oh, ever injured shade!)
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier:
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned,
By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned!
What though no friends in sable weeds appear;
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe

To midnight dances, and the public show?
What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polished marble emulate thy face?
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast;
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;

While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground now sacred by thy relics made.

So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;

A heap of dust alone remains of thee,

"T is all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall like those they sung, Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. E'en he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,

The muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!

To Blossoms.

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past;

But you may stay yet here awhile;
To blush and gently smile;
And go at last.

POPE.

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight;
And so to bid good-night?

'T was pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though near so brave:
And after they have shown their pride,
you awhile: They glide
Into the grave.

Like

The Posie.

HERRICK.

O LUVE will venture in where it daurna weel be seen,
O luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been;
But I will down yon river rove, amang the fields sae green,
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.

The primrose I will pu', the firstling of the year, And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear

For she 's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer: And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view,
For it 's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou';
The hyacinth 's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue:
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,

And in her lovely bosom I 'll place the lily there;
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air:
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller gray,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day;
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak' away:
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu' when the evening star is near, And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear; The violet 's for modesty, which weel she fa's to wear: And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken bands o' luve, And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remove: And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.

BURNS.

Autumn Woods.

ERE, in the northern gale,

The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn all around our vale
Have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold,

In their wide sweep, the coloured landscape round Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown

The upland, where the mingled splendours glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone

In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,

The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,—
The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,

Verdure and gloom where many branches meet;
So grateful, when the noon of summer made
The valleys sick with heat?