And ancient faith that knows no guile;
And industry embrown'd with toil;
And hearts resolv'd, and hands prepar❜d,
The blessings they enjoy to guard!

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF R. BURNS,
The Scottish Poet.

REAR high thy bleak majestic hills,
Thy shelter'd vallies proudly spread,
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills,
And wave thy heaths with blossoms red!
But, ah! what poet now shall tread
Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign,
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead,
That ever breath'd the soothing strain ?

As green thy tow'ring pines may grow, As clear thy streams may speed along, As bright thy summer suns may glow, And wake again thy feath'ry throng: But now unheeded is my song,

And dull and lifeless all around:

For his wild harp lies all unstrung—

And cold the hand that wak'd its sound!

What tho' thy vig'rous offspring rise,
In arts, in arms, thy sons excel;
Though beauty in thy daughters' eyes,
And health in ev'ry feature dwell,
Yet, who shall now their praises tell,
In strains empassion'd, fond, and free,
Since he no more the song shall swell
To love, and liberty, and thee.

With step-dame eye, and frown severe,
His hapless youth why didst thou view?
For all thy joys to him were dear,

And all his vows to thee were due:
Nor greater bliss his bosom knew,
In hopeful youth's delightful prime,
Than when thy fav'ring ear he drew
To listen to his chaunted rhyme !

Thy lonely wastes, and frowning skies,
To him were all with rapture fraught;

He heard with joy the tempest rise

That wak'd him to sublimer thought:

And oft thy winding dells he sought,

Where wild-flow'rs pour'd their sweet perfume,

And, with sincere devotion, brought

To thee the summer's earliest bloom.

But ah! no fond maternal smile
His unprotected youth enjoy'd;
His limbs inur'd to early toil,

His days with early hardships try'd!
And, more to mark the gloomy void,
And bid him feel his misery,
Before his infant eyes would glide
Day-dreams of inmortality.

Yet, not by cold neglect deprest,
With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil,
Sunk with the ev'ning sun to rest,

And met at morn his earliest smile!
Wak'd by his rustic pipe, meanwhile,
The pow'rs of fancy came along,
And sooth'd his lengthen'd hours of toil
With native wit, and sprightly song!

Ah! days of bliss too swiftly fled !
When vig'rous health from labour springs,
And bland contentment smooths the bed,
And sleep his ready opiate brings;
And, hov'ring round on airy wings,
Float the light forms of young desire,
That of unutterable things.

The soft and shadowy hope inspire!

Now spells of mightier pow'r prepare ;
Bid brighter phantoms round him dance:
Let flatt'ry spread her viewless snare,

And fame attract his vagrant glance;
Let sprightly pleasure too advance,
Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zonę,
Till, lost in love's delicious trance,

He scorn'd the joys his youth had known!

Let friendship pour its brightest blaze,
Expanding all the bloom of soul;

And mirth concentre all her rays,

And point them from the sparkling bowl; And let the careless moments roll In social pleasures unconfin'd; And confidence, that spurns control, Unlock the inmost springs of mind:

And lead his steps those bow'rs among,
Where elegance with splendour vies,
Or science bids her favour'd throng.
To more refin'd sensations rise;
Beyond the peasant's humble joys,

And, freed from each laborious strife,
There let him learn the bliss to prize
That waits the sons of polish'd life!

2 F

Then, whilst his throbbing veins beat high With ev'ry impulse of delight,

Dash'd from his lips the cup of joy

And shroud the scene in shades of night! Then let despair, with wizard light, Disclose the yawning gulph below, And pour incessant on his sight Her spectred ills, and shapes of woe!

And shew, beneath a cheerless shed,

With sorrowing heart, and streaming eyes, In silent grief where droops her head— The partner of his early joys!

And let his infants' tender cries,

His fond paternal succour claim, And bid him hear in agonies

A husband's and a father's name!

'Tis done-the powerful charm succeeds;
His high reluctant spirit bends;
In bitterness of soul he bleeds,

Nor longer with his fate contends!

An ideot-laugh the welkin rends,
As genius thus degraded lies,
Till pitying heav'n the veil extends

That shrouds the poet's ardent eyes!