EPITAPH ON MRS. JANE CLERKE. LO! where this silent marble weeps, She felt the wound she left behind; Her infant image here below Sits smiling on a father's woe: Whom what awaits, while yet he strays A sigh; an unavailing tear; Till Time shall every grief remove, With life, with memory, and with love. E EPITAPH ON SIR WILLIAM WILLIAMS. HERE, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame, Young Williams fought for England's fair renown; His mind each Muse, each Grace adorn'd his frame, Nor Envy dared to view him with a frown. At Aix, his voluntary sword he drew, There first in blood his infant honour seal'd; From fortune, pleasure, science, love, he flew, And scorn'd repose when Britain took the field. With eyes of flame, and cool undaunted breast, Where melancholy friendship bends, and weeps. THE DEATH OF HOEL. AN ODE. HAD I but the torrent's might, With headlong rage and wild affright Upon Deïra's squadrons hurl'd To rush, and sweep them from the world! Too, too secure in youthful pride, To Cattraeth's vale in glitt'ring row Flush'd with mirth and hope they burn: HAVE ye seen the tusky boar, CONAN'S name, my lay, rehearse, |