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LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD,

OF WHITEFORD, BART.

WITH THE

LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF

GLENCAIRN.'

Thou, who thy honour as thy God reverst,
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st,
To thee this votive off 'ring I impart,
The tearful tribute of a broken heart.
The friend thou valued'st; I, the patron, lov'd;
His worth, his honour, all the world approv’d.
We'll mourn till we, too, gò as he bas gone,
And tread the dreary path to that dark world un-

known.

ON SEEING

AWOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME,

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art,

And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye!
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart !
Go live, poor wand'rer of the wood and field,

The bitter little that of life remains ;

No more the thick’ning brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest :

No more of rest, but now thy dying bed !
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,

I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the rufian's aim, and mourn thy hapless

fate.

ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,

ON CROWNING HIS BUST

AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS, 1800.

WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's

Unfolds her tender mantle green,
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,

Or tunes Eolian strains between :
While Summer with a matron grace

Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace

The progress of the spiky blade :
While Autumn, benefactor kind,

By Tweed erects his aged head,
And sees with self-approving mind,

Each creature on his bounty fed:
While maniac Wiater rages o’er

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:
So long, sweet Poet of the year!

Shall bloom that wreath thou well bast won;
While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that THOMSON was her son,

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EPITAPH
FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.
O

YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw year with pious rev'rence and attend !
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. The pitying heart that felt for human woe;

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ;

For ev’n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.'*

EPITAPH

FOR R. A. ESQ.
KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame
Of th s much-lov’d, much-honour'd name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ae'er made cold,

EPITAPH.

FOR G. H. ESQ.
The poor man weeps-here G- en sleeps,

Whom canting wretches blam’d;
But with such as he, where'er he be,

May I be sav'd or dd!

. Goldsmith.

INSCRIPTION

TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON.

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET.

Born September 5, 1751—Died October 16, 1774. No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay,

"No storied urn, nor animated bust,' This simple stone directs poor Scotia's way

To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust.

TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS,

A VERY YOUNG LAVY.

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRE

SENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR.

BEAUTIOUS rose-bud, young and gay,
Blooming on thy early May,
Never may’st thou, lovely flow'r,
Chilly shrink io sleety show'r !
Never Boreas' boary path,
Never Eurus' pois'nous breath,
Never baleful stellar lights,
Taint thee with untiniely blights !
Never, never, reptile thief
Riot on thy virgin leaf!
Nor ev’n Sol too fiercely view
Thy bosom blushing still with dew!

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Richly deck thy native stem ;
Till some evening, sober, calm,
Dropping dews and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings;

Thou amid the dirgeful sound,
Shed thy dying honours round,
And resign to parent earth
The loveliest form shee'er gave birth.

SONG.
ANNA, thy charms my bosom fire,

And waste my soul with care ;
But, ah! how bootless to admire,

When fated to despair!
Yet in thy presence, lovely fair,

To hope may be forgiv'n ;
For sure 'twere impious to despair

So much in sight of Heav'n.

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, tbou 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 sinil'd;
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds

Succeeding hopes beguil’d.

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