When I forget thee, WILLIE CREECH, May never wicked Fortune touzle him! Then to the blessed new Jerusalem, NOTE TO MR. RENTON OF LAMERTON YOUR billet, Sir, I grant receipt; Tho' 'twere a trip to yon blue warl', The following poem is the work of some hapless son of the Muses who deserved a better fate. There is a great deal of "The voice of Cona" in his solitary, mournful notes; and had the sentiments been clothed in Shenstone's language, they would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet.—R. B. STRAIT is the spot and green the sod From whence my sorrows flow; And soundly sleeps the ever dear Pardon my transport, gentle shade, Not one poor stone to tell thy name, I'll sit me down upon this turf, Dark is the dwelling of the dead, I saw the grim Avenger stand Unseen by thee, his deadly breath Pale grew the roses on thy cheek, Thus wasted are the ranks of men- Behold where, round thy narrow house, The graves unnumber'd lie; The multitude that sleep below Existed but to die. Some, with the tottering steps of age, Yet these, however hard their fate, Amid their weeping friends they died, From thy lov'd friends, when first thy heart Far, far remov'd, the ruthless stroke At the last limits of our isle, Wash'd by the western wave, Pensive he eyes, before him spread And while, amid the silent dead Like thee, cut off in early youth, Him too the stern impulse of Fate And the same rapid tide shall whelm The tear of pity which he sheds, Let but his poor remains be laid His grief-worn heart, with truest joy, O my dear maid, my Stella, when THE BARD AT INVERARY WHOE'ER he be that sojourns here, Unless he comes to wait upon The Lord their God,-His Grace. There's naething here but Highland pride, EPIGRAM TO MISS JEAN SCOTT O HAD each Scot of ancient times ON THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ. Brother to a young Lady, a particular friend of the Author. SAD thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms: Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms. Sweetly deckt with pearly dew Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smil'd; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Fate oft tears the bosom chords Dread Omnipotence alone Can heal the wound he gave- Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES THE lamp of day with ill-presaging glare, Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train;1 Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd well,2 Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. 1 The King's Park, at Holyrood House.-R. B. 2 St. Anthony's well.-R. B. 3 St. Anthony's Chapel.-R. B. |