By Babel no more let us languish forlorn,
Come twitch up the strings to great John Barleycorn ;
Be our friendship eternal, and, laid in our urns,
If we roar let us roar with the rare Robin Burns.
Ye nymphs of old Coila who exult in his art,
And have felt the warm raptures glide home to your
heart,
Leave your raw lifeless Clodpoles, your cows and
your churns,
And encore the great sportsman, "O rare Robin
Burns!"
Clear the road ye dull churchmen! make way for our bard,
To whose tow'ring genius no task is too hard;
Your glories, your precepts, your nonsense he spurns,
And Europe loud echoes "O rare Robin Burns!"
Rejoice ye Excisemen! resound the huzza!
Nor tremble by piecemeal in brimstone to gnaw,
Though horrors surround, he's a coward that mourns,
All hell will befriend you for rare Robin Burns.
Hark, hark! what an uproar! every ghost is afoot, How they brandish their fire-brands 'mid darkness and soot!
See legion on legion tumultuous adjourns,
To swell the loud strain of "O rare Robin Burns!"
Ye "heav'n-taught" rhymers, ye bards of the plough,
Shout aloud! and let gladness sublime every brow;
While the young rosy morning rejoicing returns
That blest our fair isle with the rare Robin Burns.
The Shepherdess' Dream.
FOUNDED ON A FACT.
WHERE Lorn's wild hills, in lonely grandeur rise
From th' Atlantic shore, till lost amid the skies,
Immensely throwing, while young morning smiles,
Their dark'ning shadows o'er the distant isles;
Here, near the border of a ragged wood,
The young Maria's rural cottage stood.
Soon as the night to western skies was borne,
And early cock proclaim'd the op'ning morn,
Forth stray'd the blooming maid, with all her train
Of bleaters, nibbling o'er th' empurpled plain.
High on the summit's brow, or braky glen,
Or heathy dale, or near the grassy fen,
Or on the hill, they fed, where blue bells hung
Their nodding heads, high throned the sweet lark
While rocks around, with lows and bleatings rung.
Here stray'd the shepherdess, while blazing day Awoke the warbling choir and flow'rets gay. Deep in the shade she shunn'd the sultry air, Or kept from startling sweep her milky care, Till in the sea bright Phoebus' chariot rolled, Then, singing, wore them homewards to the fold.
Near her lone cottage rose the rugged shore, Where foaming billows raved with ceaseless roar; High, grim, and dreadful, hung the gloomy steep, And tower'd black threat'ning o'er the low-sunk deep. And now 'twas night-the maid in bed reclined, The following prospect open'd on her mind.
She dream'd, that careless in the noontide ray, Stretch'd on a flow'ry bank, she sleeping lay, When some kind voice, soft whisper'd in her ear, "Maria! rise, thy flock hath left thee here”
Sudden she started, found herself alone,
Around all silent, and her bleaters gone.
She snatch'd her crook, flew o'er the lonely dale,
Plung'd through the brook, and gazed adown the vale;
But nought appeared. Again she sought the heath,
Each creek, each hollow view'd with panting breath;
Till, toil'd and faint, the airy steep she gains,
And views enraptured, views them on the plains-
Cows, sheep, and goats, at once burst on her eye,
Some crop the herbs, while others peaceful lie,
Her little heart expands in an exulting cry.
Yet still she thought, between her and the flock,
Arose a shelvy, black, impervious rock,
Which oft she strove to pass, but strove in vain,
Some pow'r unseen still pull'd her back again.
With toil fatigued she view'd them as they fed,
And on the rock reclined her heavy head.
Thus dream'd the maid, and waking midst the night, Beheld, good gods! beheld a horrid sight.
High on a rock's dread verge, hung o'er the main,
Whose far-sunk surge wheel'd round her giddy brain,
Amazed she found herself, half-clad, alone;
Her hand laid leaning on a jutting stone,
Dark was the night, save where the shrouded moon,
'Midst dusky clouds, shone on the waste aroun',
And show'd the horrid steep, a dreadful sight,
Cliff hung o'er cliff, in grim stupendous height.
Back from the threat'ning scene she headlong fled,
Lest the whole mass might yield beneath her tread:
Then raised the maid to heav'n her streaming eyes,
And pour'd her grateful soul in fervent sighs,
To that kind Pow'r, who feeble mortals keeps,
Whose eye, all-seeing, slumbers not nor sleeps ;
To whom each being owes all that he hath,
Each pulse's throb, and each returning breath,
Implor'd his presence still to guard her path,
Then, rising, sought her cot along the lonely heath.
Thoughts in a Church-Yard.
Earth's highest station ends in, here he lies ;
And, dust to dust, concludes her noblest song.
AGAIN, O Sadness! soft'ning pow'r, again
I woo thee, thoughtful, from this letter'd stone;
And, hail, thou comes! to view the dreary scene
Where ghastly Death has fixed his awful throne.
How lone, how solemn seems each view around?
I see, at distance, oh! distracting sight!
I see the tomb-the humbly grassy mound,
Where he now lies, once all my soul's delight!
A youth more gen'rous, more humanely kind,
A friend more loving, or a heart more brave,
Ne'er breathed a being from th' eternal mind,
Nor fell a victim to the cruel grave.
But, cease ye tears, nor thus incessant flow,
And still these tumults, oh! thou bleeding heart;
Methinks his shade soft whispers, "Wait the blow,
And soon we'll meet, ne'er, ne'er again to part."
Here stands the artist's tomb, in splendour rear'd,
And all the pomp surviving art can give;
But will hoar Time the pillar'd dome regard,
And shall its pride to endless ages live?
No-though the marble seems to start to life,
Though firm as rock the structure rears its head,
Time's cank'ring jaws will end the daring strife,
And lay it level with th' unhonour'd dead.
Ye lonely heaps, ye bones, ye grim sculls, say,
Must I be stretch'd cold, lifeless in the dust;
Must this poor head be wrapt in putrid clay,
And glare like you?Ye murmur back- "it
must."
Then what avail thy fleeting joys, O Time!
Thy bliss uncertain, when such truths are sure; May these scenes teach me to contemn this clime,
And seek that bliss, those joys that shall endure.
These are thy spoils, thou grisly monarch, Death!
Grim pleased thou stalks above the low-laid train ;
Each sculptured stone, each poor low grassy wreath,
Thou eyes as trophies of thy dreadful fame.
But know, proud lord, thy reign shall have an end,
Though nought on earth can now resist its force;
Yet, shalt thou fall beneath a mightier hand,
And yield thy weapons, and thy meagre horse.
In that dread day, when from the bellowing clouds, The trump's loud sound shall shake th' affrighted earth,
When these, and millions, struggling from their shrouds,
Shall wake to mis'ry or to endless mirth:
When Time shall cease in scanty stream to flow,
And earth and stars in endless ruin sink,
Then heaven's high King with one triumphant blow,
Shall dash thee headlong from existence's brink.
But, see! sad ev'ning spreads her sable veil,
The chilly breeze bleak ruffles o'er the lawn;
For once, adieu; ye silent heaps, farewell,
Perhaps I join you ere to-morrow's dawn.
Oft let me stray where these lone captives lie,
And, sad and thoughtful, o'er the deep grave bend;
This is the place, truth tells us with a sigh,
Where all our sorrows and our sighings end.
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