What treasures would have then been placed
Within my reach; of knowledge graced
By fancy what a rich repast!

But why go on ?—

Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,
His grave grass-grown.

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)
Lies gathered to his Father's side,

Soul-moving sight!

Yet one to which is not denied
Some sad delight.

For he is safe, a quiet bed

Hath early found among the dead,
Harboured where none can be misled,
Wronged, or distrest ;
And surely here it may be said
That such are blest.

And oh for Thee, by pitying grace
Checked oft-times in a devious race,
May He, who halloweth the place
Where Man is laid,

Receive thy Spirit in the embrace
For which it prayed!

Sighing I turned away; but ere
Night fell, I heard, or seemed to hear,
Music that sorrow comes not near,

A ritual hymn,

Chaunted in love that casts out fear
By Seraphim.

THOUGHTS

SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF

NITH, NEAR THE POET'S RESIDENCE.

Too frail to keep the lofty vow

That must have followed when his brow

Was wreathed-"The Vision" tells us how-
With holly spray,

He faultered, drifted to and fro,

And passed away.

Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng
Our minds when, lingering all too long,

Over the grave of Burns we hung

In social grief

Indulged as if it were a wrong
To seek relief.

But, leaving each unquiet theme

Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,

And prompt to welcome every gleam

Of good and fair,

Let us beside this limpid Stream
Breathe hopeful air.

Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight :
Think rather of those moments bright
When to the consciousness of right
His course was true,

When wisdom prospered in his sight
And virtue grew.

Yes, freely let our hearts expand,
Freely as in youth's season bland,

When side by side, his Book in hand,
We wont to stray,

Our pleasure varying at command
Of each sweet Lay.

How oft inspired must he have trode
These pathways, yon far-stretching road !
There lurks his home; in that Abode,
With mirth elate,

Or in his nobly-pensive mood,
The Rustic sate.

Proud thoughts that Image overawes.
Before it humbly let us pause,

And ask of Nature, from what cause
And by what rules

She trained her Burns to win applause
That shames the Schools.

Through busiest street and loneliest glen
Are felt the flashes of his pen :

He rules mid winter snows, and when
Bees fill their hives:

Deep in the general heart of men
His power survives.

What need of fields in some far clime
Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime,
And all that fetched the flowing rhyme
From genuine springs,

Shall dwell together till old Time
Folds up his wings?

Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven
This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;
The rueful conflict, the heart riven
With vain endeavour,

And memory of Earth's bitter leaven
Effaced for ever.

But why to Him confine the prayer,
When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear
On the frail heart the purest share
With all that live?—

The best of what we do and are,
Just God, forgive!

YARROW UNVISITED.

(See the various Poems the Scene of which is laid upon the Banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, beginning

"Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow !"-)

FROM Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;

Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my "winsome Marrow,"
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow."

"Let Yarrow Folk, frae Selkirk Town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own;
Each Maiden to her Dwelling!
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The Lintwhites sing in chorus ;

There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land

Made blithe with plough and harrow :
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?

"What's Yarrow but a River bare,

That glides the dark hills under?

There are a thousand such elsewhere

As worthy of your wonder."

-Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;

My True-love sighed for sorrow;

And looked me in the face, to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow!

"Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's Holms,

And sweet is Yarrow's flowing!

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,1

But we will leave it growing.

O'er hilly path, and open Strath,

We'll wander Scotland thorough;

But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the Dale of Yarrow.

1 See Hamilton's Ballad as above.