How blest the spot, where HORNER's steps delay'd
To seek for health beneath a milder sky,
Where closed his eyes upon this world of shade,
When Britain's fondest hopes were doom'd to die!
There Italy, the land of heroes, lies,
And kindred frames are blended with the dust,
That tasted freedom in their native skies,
And hated tyranny, and loved the just.
How soon has Heaven resumed the gift it gave,
As too aspiring for a longer stay,
To early excellence an early grave:
His powers were not intended to decay:
His was a mind to sacred virtue dear
A soul that, spurning far each crooked art,
With learning deep, with love of honour clear,
Shew'd the directness of a noble heart:
Form'd still the Patriot's glory to command,
To lighten wisdom in its loftiest dome,
To throw a lustre on his native land,
To be the sunshine of his native home.
Full many an eye that watch'd his bright career,
Along the path where perfect honour lies,
Was dimm'd with sorrow as it left the sphere;
For who shall tell the loss when HORNER dies!
Departed now to join the glorious few,
Where all the great of every age are met,
Hearts to their country's good for ever true,
The lights of other worlds that never set.
Oh! fain would he whose hand attempts to twine
A with'ring garland for his honour'd grave,
To real bards the lofty theme resign,
And mourn in silence o'er the print they gave.
Full many a sun has tinged those mould'ring tow'rs,
Since first th' abode of liberty they rose;
And often shall they soothe the wanderer's hours,
Before the ev'ning of their glory close:
There glides the Arno in Etrurian pride,
By Pisa's walls, when hast'ning to the sea, There, too, shall Memory o'er his tomb preside, To point to all what statesmen ought to be. Aberdeen, 9th March, 1817.
On receiving the Scenes of Infancy from a Lady.
DEPARTED patriot of the Border land,
Leyden, I love thy animated lay,
That swell'd, though mouldering fast into decay,
The magic harp of ancient Teviot's strand;
Which, tuned to harmony at thy command,
Flings its wild notes by glen and flowery brae,
Then sweeps along the wold, and dies away
In solemn cadence by the breezes fann'd.
But O! if e'er I loved these strains of thine,
I love them more that thou'rt forever gone
To worship at a pure and heavenly shrine;
Yet more I love them, being the gift of one
To me a friend, of all friends most sincere,
And dearer even than thy Aurelia dear!
RECITED AT THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS,
25th January, 1817.
O FOR that heart-subduing strain,
That rang o'er thy lamented bier,
Glencairn! the generous and the good,
For thou wast to our poet dear!
Had friends been all as thee-sincere,
And sever'd only by the tomb,
This night might not have claim'd a tear
Of anguish, for his wayward doom!
O for those bold and trancing tones,
That thrill'd each passion's inmost cell!
Obedient to their potent power,
For I have tale of woe to tell;
Although a deeper requiem fell,
What time his cold green turf was spread!
Yet deeper sorrow shall not swell,
Beside his dark and narrow bed.
Yes! I have tale of woe to tell,
With nature's ruth unmix'd, unshared: Ah Scotland! why, with alien look,
Didst thou behold thy native bard? When poison'd shafts assail'd him hard, Wing'd on the chilling blasts of fate, Why coldly linger'd that regard
Which came at last, but came too late?
Why from his plough, on fallow-field,
Didst thou seduce the peasant boy,
As crafty fowler lures his prey,
With bribes, and smiles but to destroy? There, long he might have lived in joy, And sung among his blithe compeers, Of home-delights that never cloy,
And all that humble life endears.
Who, in the meteor gleam of wealth,
Or rank, or fashion, may confide?
Fie on the glare of polish'd life,
With all its selfishness and pride!
Give me the cottage-ingle side-
Sincerity still lingers there;
And Truth, with Reason for its guide,
Around the lowly hearth repair.
Peace to the cottage evening-fire,
Blazing so merrily and clear,
When ancient tale and song go round,
Of wizard-spell, or deed of weir!
O let us ever mind, that here
Our bard in Fancy's school was bred;
And saw her airy form appear,
To bind the holly round his head.
How glow'd his youthful spirit then!
The pulses of his heart beat high,
For new was life, and love, and hope,
And nature to his ardent eye.
He saw her workings in the sky,
When Winter spread its pall of gloom,
When Spring laugh'd through a dewy eye,
Or Autumn shed its yellow bloom.
Like sunny smiles before the storm,
These days of transient rapture end,
And wants and woes, in length'ning train,
Where'er he turn'd his steps attend:
Ah! why was then no helping hand
Stretch'd forth to succour and to save,
Till kindred nations vainly blend
Their griefs o'er an untimely grave?
Land of our fathers! bleak and stern,
Who now shall raise the patriot lay,
And sing on thy romantic hills,
The glories of thine early day?
Thy Doric harp hangs in decay,
Unheeded, on the elder-tree;
Its master mouldering in the clay,
Who waked its wildest minstrelsy!
Written extempore, at the house of R—B—, Esq. by one of the Gentlemen present, when BURNS's Punch-Bowl (after dinner,) was introduced, full primed with excellent whisky-toddy.
THOU bonie, tosh, wee, modest bowl,
When wayward fate would dare to scoul,
How aft thou's cheer'd Burns' drooping soul,
When prim'd wi' nappy,
Round him and thee care then might growl,
The Possessor of a Table and Wine-Glasses which belonged to Thomson the Poet.
FRIEND CHALMERS, 'tis a noble treat
At Thomson's hallowed board to meet-
The bard of Nature's sphere-
The bard who, long as ages roll,
And nature animates the whole,
Taste, virtue will revere.
'Tis surely form'd of Britain's oak,
That bears her thunder's dreadful stroke
O'er all her subject main:-
For, lo! Britannia's sacred laws,
And Liberty's congenial cause,
Inspired his patriot strain.
Not Arthur's, with his knights around,
By fond tradition long renown'd,
Should equal thine in fame.
Nor that where plates the Trojans ate,
Portentous of a happier fate,
Though graced with Virgil's name.
The poet's goblets, too, are thine-
With votive bumpers let them shine,
In Thomson's praise to ring,
Whose Works, through Summer's parching glow,
Sear'd Autumn, Winter's blighting snow,
Will bloom in endless Spring.
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