Ο

That guiding star, whose radiant form,
In triumph led us through the storm,
While blackest clouds did round us roar,
Is set to gild our sphere no more.

O'er regions far remote and nigh,
The fatal tidings swiftly fly,

Each startled bosom heaves with woe,
And tears of deepest sorrow flow.
The young, the aged, wise, and brave,
Approach in solemn grief his grave,
In silent anguish to bemoan,
Their hero, friend, and father gone.

JHymn I.

WHERE'ER I turn my weary eyes,
Surrounding sorrows wait;
For vain are all the passing joys,
And fairest smiles of Fate.

Full oft, through life's perplexing maze,
We chase some distant gain;

Death comes we leave the mad pursuit,
And sigh that all is vain.

And is all vanity below?—

Religion mild replies,

"No other joys, save those I give,

Can make thee good or wise."

YE dazzling stars above,

That deck the midnight sky,

Say, whence the mighty power that thus

Suspended you on high.

O

Wide o'er the vast expanse

Your glittering numbers roll;

And thus, methinks, in solemn strains,
You whisper to the soul:

"For thee, from age to age,

Here silently we shine,

To lift thy thoughts from things below,
And lead them to divine."

GLAD Morning now unfolds her wing,
And shakes the dews of night away,
The birds, from airy branches, sing,
To hail the near approach of day.

How sad to them when Sol retires!
How welcome his returning rays!
When love their every breast inspires,
To chant the great Creator's praise.

Come then, my soul! that Power adore,
While light, and life, and time remain;
Soon will my day of life be o'er,

And death's descending darkness reign.

SLOW sinks the sun amid the ruddy main,
While silence seals each closing eye to rest;

The weary bird steals softly to its nest,

While, from the town, the sounds of labour cease,
And all around is universal peace.

Now while the moon begins her nightly course,
While mild the air, and silent sleeps the breeze,
And shadows stretch beneath the branching trees,
There, musing deep, let Contemplation stray,
Far from the noise and discontents of day.

Hymn Y.

WHY fails my courage now?
Why tremble I at death?

Why sweats my throbbing brow,
To yield that trifle-breath?
Alas! some power within

Incessant seems to say,

That I, in deepest sin,

Have trifled life away.
Oh! save me from the deep,
That life I may renew;
Suspend the blow, but keep
Death ever in my view.

Hymn VI.

AGAIN the fading fields

Announce wild Winter nigh;

Each shed the harvest shields
From the inclement sky.

Low lower the clouds

And o'er the plain

Fast pours the rain,

And swells the floods.

Loud o'er the lonely height

The lashing tempest howls; And through the tedious night Wild scream the wailing owls; While round the shores Of Albion wide, In foaming pride,

Old Ocean roars.

pmn VII.

To Him who bids the tempests roll,
Or lulls the noontide blaze,
In joyful anthems let your soul
Proclaim his boundless praise.

Where'er yon glorious orb of day
Dispels the dreary night;
Where'er his bright refulgent ray
Dispenses life and light;

In one triumphant chorus high,
Let all unite around,
Till loud along the vaulted sky,
The lofty song resound.

Epitaph on Auld Janet.

A wh-e's a pitfall, and a scold's a rod;
An honest wife's a noble work of God!

CLEAN dead and gane-beneath this stane
Auld Janet lies, of Torry ;a

Life warmed her blude, and hale she stood,
Till time saw her right hoary.

Weel lo'ed by a' she gaed fu' braw,
Clean, snod, and wondrous gawsey;

A sonsier dame, or sappier wame,
Ne'er hotcht alangst the cawsey.

Her blithsome bield to ilka chield
Wha bore a pack, was fenny,
Where safe and soun', they might lie down,
Syne rise and pay their penny.

a Torryburn, a small coast town on the western extremity of Fifeshire.

Till spitefu' death closed up her breath,
And a' our daffin humbled;
For through the head he shot her dead,
And down puir Janet tumbled.
Ye pedlars now, oh! mournfu' view
This stane reared by a brither,
And as ye pass, greet owre the grass
That co'ers your auld kind mither!

For me-Oh dear! the waefu' tear
Starts at the dismal story;—
I'll gar ilk vale sad echoing wail,
That Janet's dead, of Torry.

Epigram.

I ASKED a poor fav'rite of Phoebus t' other night, Whom to see, I had toiled seven proud stories height, If his wit could inform me what cause can be for it, That poets incline so to live in a garret?

"There are many," quoth he, "don't you know that sly reynard

When traced from the hen-roost, the fold or the vineyard,

How by turnings and doubling he endeavours to fleece

Each hound of its aim, then repose him in peace?

So we, (such you see are the terms of Apollo)
Still in dread of the Bailiff or Dun's horrid hollo,
Mount winding and circling through a labyrinth of

stairs,

To our own airy regions of hunger and cares.

"Another, moreover, might likewise be given— We're nearer Apollo, the Muses and Heaven,

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