ELEGY

To the memory of James Beattie, L. L. D. Aberdeen.

TH

HE garish day-star sunk beneath the hill,

And matron-like, mild Eve stole down the vale;
The mellow moon-beam glanced along the rill;
The cheerful reaper whistled o'er the dale;
In plaintive whispers breathed the western gale,
As through the weeping birch it gently played ;
While thus a Minstrel, poured his artless wail,

From the deep bosom of a darkening shade,

While soft, and slow, the sad notes echoed o'er the glade.

Awake my pipe, pour forth a pensive strain ! Even Night's dull ear shall open to your moan; The sweetest MINSTREL of dear Scotia's plain,

To fairer fields, and brighter skies has flown;

And left his EDWIN wandering here alone,

Through life's thick tangled maze untaught to stray;

To weep

for others' woes, to feel his own,

Amidst a thoughtless race, for ever gay,

Who careless, in the summer sun-beams ceaseless play.

And must the Muses' darling sink to rest;
No parting requiem o'er his grave be sung;
No sigh be heard to heave the sorrowing breast,
To see his harp on weeping willows hung?
No more it echoes-silent, and unstrung;

No more his pulse at Pity's note shall swell;
Beneath the green-turf lies his tuneful tongue,

That all the melodies of morn could tell." And dimmed in Death, that eye, whence living lustre fell!

• Come ye, who long by meteor-light beguiled, Beheld with dread, life's darksome, dreary way;

Or lost in metaphysic's mazy wild,

Were on his boundless shores condemned to stray;

In grateful strains, your pious sorrows pay,

He led you gently, from these shades of night; When TRUTH displayed her philosophic ray,

That pointed to the sacred Source of light,

Where one eternal day shines forth in radiance bright.

Ye sportive train, who lost in Fancy's dreams,
Now scorn
"the lore that deadens young desire,"
Well pleased, who wander by Castalian streams,

And swell the song amidst Love's joyous choir;
Breathe softer notes-with sadness strike the wire;
In solemn dirges o'er his ashes mourn;

His mouldering dust shall every breast inspire,
That sorrowing bends above his sacred urn,
Till the rapt soul with Virtue's hallowed ardour burn,

Oft as I wander forth, to meet the morn,
While wood-notes-wild delight my ravished ear,

Or lingering late, beneath the scented thorn,
To mark the gloom of rocks and ruins drear ;
Still to my bosom shall his name be dear,
Whose potent song has many a care beguiled;
Has on my eye restrained the starting tear,

And spread delight amidst life's gloomy wild,
Till suns resplendent shone, and all the prospect smiled.

Ye heath-clad mountains, tow'ring to the storms, Whose dark-brows o'er the valley rise sublime, Let wintry fogs surround your stately forms,

To mourn the ravage of all-conquering Time:

Ye waters, winding through his native clime,
(Dear to his soul was each deep pictured shore,)
In murmurs, soft as his melodious rhyme,

His absence from your flowery banks deplore,
Whose frequent foot shall trace your tufted haunts no more!

Ye fertile fields, that joyous, laugh, and sing;
Ye summer breezes, breathing rich perfume;
To deck his grave, your varied treasures bring;
Ye verdant vallies, spread your vernal bloom!
Ye twinkling stars, that cheer the midnight gloom;
Thou queen of night, slow rising from the wave;
Your brightest beams shed o'er his honoured tomb,

Pure as the light heaven to his bosom gave,

“And many an evening sun shine sweetly on his grave."

The lines within inverted Commas quoted from " The Minstrel."