ON PARTING WITH A FRIEND ON A JOURNEY. WRITTEN IN 1797. As o'er the downs expanding silver-gray You pass, dear friend, your altered form I view As oft I turn to gaze with fond delay. - While fame or fortune's dizzy heights we scale, Or through the mazy windings of the vale - Of busy life pursue our separate way. Too soon the moments of affection fly, Ah! that when life's brief course so soon is o'er, ON AN OLD MAN DYING FRIENDLESS. WRITTEN IN 1798. To thee, thou pallid form, o'er whose wan cheek Nor e'er shalt hear beneath the ridgy mould For thee, no tongue that breathes to heaven the Vow, No hand to wipe the death-drops from thy brow, No looks of love thy fainting soul to cheer! Then go, forlorn to thee it must be sweet Thy long-lost friends beyond the grave to meet. WRITTEN AT ST. ANDREWS, IN 1798. ALONG the shelves that line Kibriven's shore grow, And listen to the weltering ocean's roar. When o'er the crisping waves the sun-beams gleam, And from the hills the latest streaks of day Recede, by Eden's shadowy banks I stray, And lash the willows blue that fringe the stream; And often to myself, in whispers weak, I breathe the name of some dear gentle maid; Or some lov'd friend, whom in Edina's shade I left when forc'd these eastern shores to seek ! And for the distant months I sigh in vain To bring me to these favourite haunts again. TO RUIN. WRITTEN IN 1798. DIRE Power! when closing autumn's hoary dews Proud waving woods, and vales expanding green, When yawning gulfs wide peopled realms devour, With ceaseless torment on my spirit preys : While man's vain knowledge in his fleeting hour Serves but to show how fast himself decays. MELANCHOLY. WRITTEN IN 1798. WHERE its blue pallid boughs the poplar rears And muse whence flows the silent stream of time; Which streaks the mist that winds along the stream, Bathing the harebell with eve's dewy tears. Ah! blissful days of youth, that ne'er again Revive, with scenes of every fairy hue, And sunny tints which fancy's pencil drew, Are you not false as hope's delusive train? For, as your scenes to memory's view return, You ever point to a lóv'd sister's urn. |