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To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?

Why bade ye else, ye powers! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire? Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes; The glorious fault of angels and of gods: Thence to their images on earth it flows, And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. Most souls, 't is true, but peep out once an age, Dull sullen prisoners in the body's cage; Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years, Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep, And close confined to their own palace, sleep.

From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky,
As into air the purer spirits flow,

And separate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breast which warmed the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:


On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates; There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, (While the long funerals blacken all the way) "Lo! these were they, whose souls the furies steeled, And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield." Thus unlamented pass the proud away,


gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! So perish all, whose breast ne'er learned to glow For others' good, or melt at others' woe.

What can atone (oh, ever injured shade!)
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier:
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned,
By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned!
What though no friends in sable weeds appear;
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe

To midnight dances, and the public show?
What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polished marble emulate thy face?

What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast;
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;


While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground now sacred by thy relics made.

So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot;

A heap of dust alone remains of thee,

'T is all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall like those they sung,
Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
E'en he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart,
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!

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What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight;
And so to bid good-night?
'T was pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride,
you awhile: They glide
Into the grave.

The Posie.


O LOVE will venture in where it daurna weel be seen,
O luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been;

But I will down yon river rove, amang the fields sae green,
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.


The primrose I will pu', the firstling of the year, And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear

For she 's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer: And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view,
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou’;
The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue:
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,
And in her lovely bosom I 'll place the lily there;
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air:
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller gray,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day;
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak' away :
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu' when the evening star is near, And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear; The violet's for modesty, which weel she fa's to wear:

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken bands o' luve, And I 'll place it in her breast, and I 'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remove :

And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.


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