Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world : "My patriot Son fills an untimely grave!" With accents wild and lifted arms she cried"Low 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; "My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, "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. ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, BOXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, While Summer with a matron grace While Autumn, benefactor kind, While maniac Winter rages o'er Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows: So long, sweet poet of the year, Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son. EITPAPH FOR THE AUTHORS' FATHER. O'YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, The pitying heart that felt for human wo; The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe "Forev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side*."' FOR R. A. ESQ. KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame * Goldsmith. ON A FRIEND. AN honest man here lies at rest, A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Is there a Bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by! But with a frater-feeling strong, Here heave a sigh. Is there a man, whose judgment clear, Here pause and thro' the starting tear, The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, But thoughtless follies laid him low, Reader attend-whether thy soul Know, prudent, cautious, self-control, VERSES. ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, Born in peculiar circumstances of Family Distress. SWEET Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, What heart o' stane wad thou na move. |