The absent lover, minor heir, And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) This day's propitious to be wise in. Another year is gone for ever.' And what is this day's strong suggestion? w Since then, my honour'd, first of friends, Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, EXTEMPORE, on the late Mr. William Smellie, Author of the Philosophy of Natural History, and Member of the Antiquarian and Royal Societies of Edinburgh. To Crochallan came The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same; His bristling beard just rising in its might, 'Twas four long nights and days to shaving-night, His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd,! A head, for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd; Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. F 2 POETICAL INSCRIPTION For an Altar to Independence, at Kerroughtry, the Seat of Mr. Heron; written in Summer, 1795. Thou of an independent mind, With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd; Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, Virtue alone who dost revere, Thy own reproach alone dost fear, Approach this shrine, and worship here. SONNET OF THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. OF GLEN RIDDEL; APRIL, 1794. No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round the' untimely tomb where Riddel lies. Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet; Me, mem❜ry of my loss will only meet. MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glistened! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, How dull is that ear which to flattery so listened! If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, Thou diedst unwept as thou livedst unlov'd. Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam thro' the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e'er approach'd her but ru'd the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. THE EPITAPH. Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, ANSWER to a Mandate sent by the Surveyor of the Windows, Carriages, &c. to each Farmer, ordering him to send a signed List of his Horses, Servants, Wheel-Carriages, &c., and whether he was a married Man or a Bachelor, and what Children they had. SIR, as your mandate did request, |