The thought-fix'd portraiture, the breathing bust, The arch with proud memorials array'd, The long lived pyramid shall sink in dust, To dumb oblivion's ever-desert shade. Fancy from comfort wanders still astray. Ah, Melancholy! how I feel thy power! Long have I labour'd to elude thy sway! But 'tis enough, for I resist no more. The traveller thus, that o'er the midnight waste Through many a lonesome path is doom'd to roam, 'Wilder'd and weary sits him down at last; For long the night, and distant far his home. EPITAPH ON ESCAPED the gloom of mortal life, a soul Like thee, I once have stemm'd the sea of life; Yet for awhile 'gainst Passion's threatful blast Let steady Reason urge the struggling oar; Shot through the dreary gloom the morn at last Gives to thy longing eye the blissful shore. Forget my frailties, thou art also frail ; Forgive my lapses, for thyself may'st fall; Nor read unmoved my artless tender tale, I was a friend, O man, to thee, to all. † James Beattie: intended for himself. The one in his xxii, the other in his xviii year. Their disconsolate father..... Erects this monument to the memory of Whose early virtues promised O thou! whose steps in sacred rev'rence tread Heaven's hidden ways to trace, for us, how vain! In early bloom of life, they left the stage: Not doom'd in lingering woe to waste their breath, One moment snatch'd them from the power of Death: They lived united, and united died; Happy the friends, whom Death cannot divide ! ELEGY. TIRED with the busy crowds, that all the day Engraved on a tomb-stone in the church-yard of Lethnet, in the shire of Angus. + Named Leitch, who were drowned in crossing the river Southesk. Hail, kind reviver ! that canst lull the cares, Now scales the cliff gay-gleaming on the morn, Or skims the main, and listens to the storms, Haply, ere long, pierced by the howling blast, Perhaps loose Luxury's enchanting smile And airs of rapture warble in the gale. Instructive emblem of this mortal state! Be taught, vain man, how fleeting all thy joys, And, sons of Sorrow! though the threatening storm Let not her frowns your inward peace deform; Through Earth's throng'd visions while we toss for lorn, 'Tis tumult all, and rage, and restless strife; But these shall vanish like the dreams of morn, SONG, IN IMITATION CF Shakspeare's' Blow, blow, thou winter wind.' BLOW, blow, thou vernal gale! To ease my aching breast; My weary soul to rest. Flow, flow, thou tuneful stream; Infuse the easy dream Into the peaceful soul; But thou canst not compose The tumult of my woes, Though soft thy waters roll, Blush, blush, ye fairest flowers! My Rosalind adorn; Nor is the Winter's blast, That lays your glories waste, Breathe, breathe, ye tender lays, Fade, fade, ye flowrets fair! Ye streams forget to glide! Since nought can soothe my pain, RETIREMENT. 1758. WHEN in the crimson cloud of even The lingering light decays, And Hesper on the front of Heaven A pensive youth, of placid mien, Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piled Ye woods, along whose windings wild Where Melancholy strays forlorn, What time the wan Moon's yellow horn To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms Ne'er drew ambition's eye, 'Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms, To your retreats I fly. Deep in your most sequester'd bower Let me at last recline, Where Solitude, mild, modest power, Leans on her ivy'd shrine. 'How shall I woo thee, matchless fair! Thy heavenly smile how win? Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care, And stills the storm within. |