96

A BARD'S EPITAPH

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool?
Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng?

Oh, pass not by !

But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave?

Here pause and, through the starting tear,
Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stained his name!

Reader, attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole

In low pursuit ;

Know prudent, cautious, self-control
Is wisdom's root.

Robert Burns.

97

THE LOSS OF FRIENDS

(Extempore effusion on the Death of James Hogg, 1835.)

WHEN first, descending from the moorlands,
I saw the stream of Yarrow glide
Along a bare and open valley,

The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.

When last along its banks I wandered,
Through groves that had begun to shed
Their golden leaves upon the pathways,
My steps the Border-Minstrel'led.

The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer,
Mid mouldering ruins low he lies;
And death upon the braes of Yarrow,
Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes;

Nor has the rolling year twice measured,
From sign to sign, its steadfast course,
Since every mortal power of Coleridge
Was frozen at its marvellous source;

The rapt One, of the godlike forehead,
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth;
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle,
Has vanished from his lonely hearth.

Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits,
Or waves that own no curbing hand,
How fast has brother followed brother,
From sunshine to the sunless land!

Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber
Were earlier raised, remain to hear
A timid voice, that asks in whispers,
'Who next will drop and disappear?'

Our haughty life is crowned with darkness,
Like London with its own black wreath,
On which with thee, oh Crabbe, forth-looking,
I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath.

As if but yesterday departed,

Thou too art gone before; but why,
O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered,
Should frail survivors heave a sigh?

Mourn rather for that holy Spirit,
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep;
For her who, ere her summer faded,
Has sunk into a breathless sleep.

No more of old romantic sorrows,

For slaughtered youth or love-lorn maid!
With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten,

And Ettrick mourns with her their poet dead.

98

William Wordsworth.

THE LAST MAN

ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,

The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume

Its immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep

That gave my spirit strength to sweep

Adown the gulf of Time!

I saw the last of human mould

That shall Creation's death behold
As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,

The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man.

Some had expired in fight,-the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some;

Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb.

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm passed by,

Saying 'We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go.

For thou ten thousand, ten thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears
That shall no longer flow.

'What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill,

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth
The vassals of his will;

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrownèd king of day,
For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang
Healed not a passion or a pang

Entailed on human hearts.

'Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,

Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh upon the wrack
Of pain again to writhe,
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword

Like grass beneath the scythe.

'Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sunless agonies,
Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall;
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

'This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,

Who robbed the grave of Victory,

And took the sting from Death!

‘Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up On Nature's awful waste,

To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste,-
Go, tell the night that hides thy face
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,
On Earth's sepulchral clod,

The darkening universe defy
To quench his immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!'

Thomas Campbell.