THE VISION. Still, as in Scottish story read, She boasts a race To every nobler virtue bred, And polished grace. By stately tower or palace fair, Or ruins pendent in the air, Bold stems of heroes, here and there, I could discern; DUAN SECOND. WITH musing deep, astonished stare, When, with an elder sister's air, Some seemed to muse-some seemed to dare, All hail! my own inspired bard! With feature stern. My heart did glowing transport feel, And brandish round the deep-dyed steel While back-recoiling seemed to reel His country's saviour, mark him well! And he whom ruthless fates expel There, where a sceptered Pictish shade Bold, soldier-featured, undismayed, Through many a wild, romantic grove, An aged judge, I saw him rove, With deep-struck reverential awe Brydone's brave ward I well could spy In me thy native Muse regard; I come to give thee such reward Know the great genius of this land As arts or arms they understand, They Scotia's race among them share: 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore They ardent, kindling spirits pour; Or 'mid the venal senate's roar They, sightless, stand, To mend the honest patriot lore, And grace the land. And when the bard, or hoary sage, Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; 633 To lower orders are assigned The humbler ranks of human kind: All choose, as various they 're inclined, When yellow waves the heavy grain, With tillage skill; And some instruct the shepherd train, Blythe o'er the hill. Some hint the lover's harmless wile; Some, bounded to a district-space, And careful note each op'ning grace- Of these am I-Coila my name; I marked thy embryo tuneful flame, With future hope I oft would gaze, I saw thee seek the sounding shore, Struck thy young eye. Or when the deep green-mantled earth Warm cherished every flow'ret's birth, And joy and music pouring forth I saw thee eye the general mirth When ripened fields and azure skies To vent thy bosom's swelling rise When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, I taught thee how to pour in song, I saw thy pulse's maddening play By passion driven; But yet the light that led astray Was light from Heaven. I taught thy manners-painting strains, And some, the pride of Coila's plains, Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, With Shenstone's art; Yet all beneath th' unrivalled rose Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows Then never murmur nor repine; Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, Let friendship pour her brightest blaze, Expanding all the bloom of soul; And mirth concentre all her rays, And point them from the sparkling bowl; And let the careless moments roll In social pleasures unconfined, And confidence that spurns control, Unlock the inmost springs of mind! And lead his steps those bowers among, Where elegance with splendor vies, Or science bids her favored throng To more refined sensations rise; Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, And freed from each laborious strife, There let him learn the bliss to prize That waits the sons of polished life. Then, whilst his throbbing veins beat high And shroud the scene in shades of night; And let despair with wizard light Disclose the yawning gulf below, And pour incessant on his sight Her spectred ills and shapes of woe; And show beneath a cheerless shed, His fond parental succour claim, A husband's and a father's name. 'Tis done the powerful charm succeeds; His high reluctant spirit bends; In bitterness of soul he bleeds, Nor longer with his fate contends. An idiot laugh the welkin rends As genius thus degraded lies; Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, And wave thy heaths with blossoms red; But never more shall poet tread Thy airy heights, thy woodland reignSince he, the sweetest bard, is dead That ever breathed the soothing strain. WILLIAM ROSCOE AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH. I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold, So sadness comes from out the mould And have I then thy bones so near, And both my wishes and my fear Off weight,-nor press on weight!-away Dark thoughts!-they came, but not to stay; With chastened feelings would I pay The tribute due To him, and aught that hides his clay Fresh as the flower whose modest worth With matchless beams. The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, I mourned with thousands-but as one Alas! where'er the current tends By Skiddaw seen; BURNS. True friends, though diversely inclined; May even by contraries be joined The tear will start, and let it flow; Have sat and talked where gowans blow, What treasures would have then been placed Within my reach! of knowledge graced By fancy what a rich repast! But why go on ?— O. spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, There, too, a son, his joy and pride, Yet one to which is not denied For he is safe, a quiet bed Hath early found among the dead— And surely here it may be said And O! for thee, by pitying grace Receive thy spirit in the embrace Sighing, I turned away; but ere Chanted, in love that casts out fear, 637 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 faltered, drifted to and fro, And passed away. Well might such thoughts, dear sister, throng Our minds when, lingering all too long, Indulged as if it were a wrong But, leaving each unquiet theme Let us beside this limpid stream Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight! Yes, freely let our hearts expand, Our pleasure varying at command How oft, inspired, must he have trod The rustic sate. |