How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd! How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd! If sorrow and anguish their exit await,

From friendship and dearest affection remov'd, How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate,

Thou diedst unwept as thou livedst unlov'd! Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear; But come all ye offspring of Folly so true,

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam thro' the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower,

For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed.

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay;
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre;
There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey,
Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from
her ire.

THE EPITAPH.

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect,
What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam;
Want only of wisdom denied her respect,
Want only of goodness denied her esteem.

ELEGIES

ELEGY ON MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO.

LIFE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize,

As Burnet, lovely, from her native skies;
Nor envious Death so triumph'd in a blow,
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low.

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?
In richest ore the brightest jewel set!

In thee, high Heaven above was truest shewn,
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is known.
In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves;
Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves,
Ye cease to charm-Eliza is no more!
Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens ;
Ye mossy streams with sedge and rushes stor❜d;
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens,
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord.

Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth,
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail?
And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth,
And not a Muse in honest grief bewail?

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride,
And virtue's light, that beans beyond the spheres;
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,
That heart now sunk, a prey to grief and care;
So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree,
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare.

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 woe,
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier :
The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer
Is in his narrow house for ever darkly low.
Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet;
Me, men.'ry of my loss will only meet.

ON THE DEATH OF

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR.

THE lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave;
The inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air,
And hollow whistl'd in the rocky cave.

Lone, as I wander'd by each cliff and dell,

Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ; Ormus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd well, Or mould'ring ruins mark'd 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 woe that frantic beat her breast,

And mix'd 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 woe, The light'ning of her eye in tears imbued.

The King's Park, at Holyrood-house.
St. Anthony's Well.
St. Anthony's Chapel.

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 criedLow 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 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—and shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name? No; every 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.

ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER,

THE DEATH OF JOHN 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 her love

From Isabella's arms.

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.

ELEGY ON

CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON,

A Gentleman who held the Patent for his Honours immediately from Almighty God!

But now his radiant course is run,
For Matthew's course was bright:
His soul was like the glorious sun,
A matchless, heavenly light!

O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The muckle Devil wi' a woodie"

Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,"

O'er hurcheonx hides,

And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie!

u A halter.

Wi' thy auld sides!

w Smithy.

* Hedgehog.

y An anvil.-An allusion is here had to the beating of dried stock-fish, to make them tender.