Old Coila, first whose brakes among,
Thy infant hands the wild harp strung,
Shall flourish in thy deathless song
With lasting fame;

And Ayr shall henceforth roll along,
A classic stream.

But thou,

Bard, in silence laid

Ah! what shall soothe thy pensive shade, For worth and genius ill repaid,

With bounty scant;

And hours of sorrow unallay'd,
And toil and want?

See o'er thy song, as loud it swells,
The lordly Thane delighted dwells;
Or to his fair his rapture tells,
By thee inspir'd;

His bosom, as the strain impels,
Or thaw'd or fir'd.

Around him, see, to guard his state,
A train of pamper'd minions wait;
And see, to form his daily treat,
Each climate join;

While Iceland's frost, and Asia's heat,
Their gifts combine.

Yet, whilst he revels unconfin'd
Thro' all the treasures of thy mind,
No gen'rous boon to thee consign'd,
Relieves thy care;

To Folly or to Vice assign'd

What Pomp can spare!

For rights withheld, or freedom sold,
Corruption asks the promis'd gold;
Or in licentious splendor bold,
Some titled Dame

Squanders, in riot uncontroll'd,

What Worth should claim!

From hill to hill, from plain to plain,
Wide spreads the Chieftain's proud domain,
That, half a desart, asks in vain

For culture due;

Whilst cold inaction chills thy vein,
And rusts thy plough,

Meanwhile thy youthful vigour flies,
The storms of life unpitying rise,
And wounded Superstition tries

To thwart thy way;

And loath'd Dependance ambush'd lies,
To seize her prey.

Yet high above thy reptile foes
Thy tow'ring soul unconquer'd rose-
Love and the Muse their charms disclose-
The hags retire;

And thy expanded bosom glows

With heav'nly fire.

Go, Builder of a deathless name!
Thy Country's glory, and her shame!
Go, and th' immortal guerdon claim,
To Genius due;

Whilst rolling centuries thy fame

Shall still renew!

DIRGE,

On the much lamented Death of the beautiful Maria Linley.

"Larded all with sweet flowers,
She bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers."

SHAKSPEARE.

BY THE LATE C. LEFTLEY, ESQ.

UNDERNEATH this ebon shade,

Mark'd by a rudely-sculptur'd stone,
The lov'd Maria, low is laid:

Soft be the turf she rests upon.

These flowers that grow around her tomb,

All bear a paler hue,

And die almost before they bloom;
Their sympathy so true.

The pensive powers who haunt the grove,
Shall here their vigils keep;
Chaunt their wild requiems o'er my love,
And soothe her lasting sleep,

Pity for her shall touch the string,
And breathe her softest sigh ;
And here her holy strains shall sing,
Of heaven-taught melody.

For she was sweet as opening buds,
Mild as the hours of May,
Bright as the sun-beam on the floods,
And constant as the day.

Friend of my youth! for thee my tears
Spontaneously shall flow;

And memory through a length of years
Shall nurse the sighs of woe.

For thee, when autumn glows around,
An offering sad I'll pay,

Deck with fresh wreaths thy hallow'd ground,
And mourn the fatal day.

On thee, amid life's varied part,

My tenderest thought shall rest, Bemoan'd while love can warm my heart, Or friendship cheer my breast.

SONG.

WAVE thy fair head, thou early flower,
And the fleeting sunshine borrow;
For the scornful wind and the driving shower
Shall lay thee low to-morrow.

Fond beauty! whose love-lighted eye
The smile of joy is wearing,
Cherish the beam; for love shall die,
And leave thy soul despairing.

The blossom of Spring's untimely birth,
To the lingering storm is given;
And love is a flower may bud on earth,
But only blows in heaven.

P. M. J.

MOSES VIEWING THE PROMISED LAND*.

"And Moses went up from the Plains of Moab unto the Moun tains of Nebo, to the top of Pisgah, that is over against Jericho. And the Lord shewed him all the Land of Gilead, unto Dan, and all Naphtali, and the Land of Ephraim and Manasseh, and all the Land of Judah unto the utmost Sea, and the South, and the Plain of the Valley of Jericho, the City of Palm Trees unto Zoar. And the Lord said unto him, This is the Land which I sware unto Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, saying, I will give it unto thy seed: I have caused thee to see it with thine eyes, but thou shalt not go over thither." DEUT. xxxiv. 1—4.

As some poor pilgrim, long condemn'd to roam
A pensive wand'rer from his cheerful home,
Pants to return the dear delights to hail,
Which breathe their influence o'er his native vale;
If chance, at length, he scales some mountain's height,
And all his country swells upon the sight:
What sudden joy his languid eye inspires!

How his cold bosom burns with ancient fires!

So warn'd by Him, whose all-commanding power
Calls man to life, and marks his destin'd hour,
Long doom'd to wander on the thirsty waste,
Long doom'd to toil beneath the scorching blast,

*This Poem has been attributed to C. Grant, Esq. Author of the Prize Poem on the Restoration of Learning in the East,