O'er all the plain the mournful strains pervade,
O'er all the plain a solemn sadness spread,
Nor wak'd an echo but to murmur "dead!"
Thus sung the hapless swain-"Short is the span
Of fleeting time, allow'd to feeble man!

No sooner born, he fills the air with cries;
No sooner known, than pale he droops and dies.
To-day he laughs the dancing hours away,
To-morrow lies extended lifeless clay;

While o'er the silent corpse each weeping swain
In anguish sigh, but sigh or weep in vain.
Such was thy fate, Horatio! from this shore
Too sudden torn, ne'er to revisit more.
The rigid debt, alas! thou now hast paid;
Thee on the couch relentless Fever laid;
Thy heaving breast with dread disorder rung,
And 'plaints still trembling from thy feeble tongue;
And scarce a soul thy frequent wants to ease,
Or soothe each moan, or whisper to thee peace.
While I, far distant, on a foreign plain,
Exulting roved, unconscious of thy pain.

Oh! had I known the pangs that tore thy breast,
Had some kind power but whisper'd, 'he's distrest,'
Soon had I measur'd back my lonely way,

And sought the bed where poor Horatio lay,
Kiss'd from thy face the cold, damp, deadly dew,

And groan'd my last distracted long adieu.

"That dismal hour ne'er from my thought shall go, When black appear'd the messenger of woe; O'er all my soul a gloomy horror came, And instant trembling shook my feeble frame. Thy dying strains I read, still yet I hear The solemn counsel sounding in my ear;a Words that shall tremble on my latest breath,

And only leave me when I sink in death.

a Alluding to a letter which he wrote to the Author a few days before he died.

Frantic with grief, twice fifty miles I sped
O'er severing seas and gain'd his silent bed;
Each weeping friend confirm'd my gloomy fear,
That earth had closed on all I held most dear!
Yes, mute he lies beneath yon rising sod,
While his lone cot, of Peace the late abode,
Now grim and drear, to tottering ruin falls,
Loud blasts wild howling through the naked walls,
His flowers torn up, his garden bare and waste,
And I lone left, a solitary guest.

"Sad change indeed! ye once lov'd scenes where now
The growing bliss I felt at each fond view?
Where all that sweetness that perfum'd each flower,
That bless'd our walks and wing'd the passing hour?
For ever fled! fled with that pride of swains,
Whose presence graced these now forsaken plains!
When he appear'd, each warbler raised his note,
Each flower blow'd fresher 'midst the peaceful spot;
Ev'n while sweet Cartha pass'd the smiling scene,
She smoother flow'd, and left the place with pain.
Thrice happy times! when hid from Phœbus' beam,
From that green shade we angled in her stream,
Or wanton, stript, and from the hanging shore,
Exulting, plunged her pearly depths t' explore,
Tore from their rocky homes the pregnant dames,
And to the sun display'd the glob❜lous gems.

“But now no more amid the peaceful night,
Beneath pale Luna's azure throned light,
We'll leave the noisy town and slowly stray
Where shadowy trees branch on the moon-light way;
There wake the flute, harmonious, soft, and shrill,
While Echo warbles from the distant hill.

Gone are those times, for which, alas! I mourn;
Gone are those times, nor shall they e'er return;
Gone is my friend, and ev'n forgot his name,
And strangers rude his little mansion claim.

New schemes shall tear those blooming shrubs away,
And that green sod turn down to rugged clay.
Where rich carnations burst the ponderous pod,
Where pinks and daisies fringed the peebly road,
Where glowing roses hung the bended spray,
Where crimson'd tulips rose, neat ranged and gay;
Where all these bloom'd beneath their guardian's eye,
Hogs shall inhabit, and foul dunghills lie.
Then, oh! adieu, ye now unfriendly shores,
Another swain now claims your flowery stores;
A surly swain, puff'd up with pride immense,
And see! he comes, stern to command me hence.
Thou hoary thorn, adieu ! ere 'tis too late,
Yon lifted axe seems to announce thy fate."

Thus spoke the youth; then rising, ceased his strain, And wrapt in anguish, wander'd o'er the plain.

Epistle to Mr. Dabib Brobie,

WRITTEN ON THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR.

STAIN'D With the guilt of man's continued crimes,
The parting year prepares to wing its way,
To join the concourse of departed times,
And wait the summons of the final day.

Its sad egress no crimson'd clouds bewail,
Nor tuneful bird its parting moment cheers;
But silent, wrapt in Winter's gloomiest veil,
It leaves us trembling at the load it bears.

Far distant, in an inn's third flat uprear'd,

The sheet beneath a glimm'ring taper spread, While o'er the shadowy walls no sound is heard, Save Time's slow, constant, momentary tread.

Here, lone I sit and will you, sir, excuse

My midnight strain, while, feebly as she can,

Inspiring Silence bids the serious muse

Survey the transient bliss pursued by Man?

Deluded Man! for him Spring paints the fields, For him warm Summer rears the rip'ning grain; He grasps the bounty that rich Autumn yields, And counts those trifles as essential gain.

For him, indeed, those lesser blessings flow,
Yet why so fleeting, why so short their stay?-
To teach poor mortals what they first should know,
That all is transient as the passing day.

Short is the period since green smiled the wood, And flow'rs ambrosial bathed my morning path; Sweet was the murm'ring of the glitt'ring flood, Glad roam'd the flocks along th' empurpled heath.

With conscious joy I hail'd the rosy scene,

And join'd in concert with the woodland throng; Stretch'd by the hazel bank, or sunny plain, Where answ'ring echo warbl'd out the song.

Delightful times! but, ah! how short their stay!
Stript was the foliage from each flow'r and tree;
Grim growling Winter veil❜d the joyless day,
And roar'd imperious o'er the hail-beat lea.

Where now the fragrance of the howling wood?
Or what the pleasures we from morn can taste?
The snow-clad banks, the big brown roaring flood,
The bleak wind whistling o'er the drifted waste.

'Tis thus, dear sir, in Life's delusive dream,

We fondly sport, till Youth's wild act is o'er; Till Age-till Death-steals on in sullen stream, And worldly bubbles charm the soul no more.

But, hark! the sullen midnight tempest roars;
Loud o'er my sireless dome it wildly howls;
Th' adjoining ocean, through her rocky shores,
Majestic groans, and swells the mingled growls.

The shiv'ring muse has fled my frozen frame,
And shouts of riot strike my list'ning ear;
In sinking-mounting-sad inconstant flame,
My candle's ending with the ending year.

Adieu, my friend! may success, health and peace
Crown your each year, and ev'ry labour too;
And sure, if virtuous worth claims human praise,
Fate still in keeping holds a wreath for you.

Fraught with fresh blessings be this coming year; And should some sav'ring period of its reign Admit my steps, rejoiced I'll homeward steer, And hail your mansion, and my friend again.

FOR THE BIRTH-DAY OF OUR IMMORTAL SCOTTISH POET,
SET TO MUSIC BY A BACCHANALIAN CLUB.

YE sons of bright Phœbus, ye bards of the plough,
Shout aloud! and let gladness sublime every brow;
See the young rosy morning rejoicing returns,
That blest our fair isle with the rare Robin Burns!

Let the pure aquavita now inspire ev'ry soul,
Since whiskey can waft us at once to the pole ;
Let us laugh down the priest and the devil by turns,
And roar out the praise of the rare Robin Burns.
Hail blest Ordination! all hail Holy Fair!
Ye glorious effusions! ye thrice sacred pair!
Your pages the rake on his death-bed o'erturns,
And mixes a d--n, with " O rare Robin Burns!"