Page images
PDF
EPUB

Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour,
In all the' omnipotence of rule and power.-
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ;
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure.
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug,
The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug.
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts,

Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts.
But oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard,
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child-the Bard!
A thing unteachable in this world's skill,
And half an idiot too, more helpless still.
No heels to bear him from the opening dun;
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun;
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,
And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn:
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur,
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur.
In naked feeling, and in aching pride,

He bears the' unbroken blast from every side:
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.

Critics-appall'd, I venture on the name,
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame :
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monros;
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.
His heart by causeless wánton malice wrung,
By blockhead's daring, into madness stung;
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear:
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the' unequal strife,
The hapless poet flounders on through life.
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd,
And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd,

Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age,

Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page,
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's

rage!

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceas'd, For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast; By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. O dulness! portion of the truly blest! Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest; Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up: Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, They only wonder some folks do not starve.' The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, And through disastrous night they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, And just conclude that fools are fortune's care.' So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train,

Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain;
In equanimity they never dwell,

By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell.
I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe,
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear!
Already one strong hold of hope is lost,
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust;
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears,
And left us darkling in a world of tears:)

O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r! Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare! Through a long life his hopes and wishes crown; And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!

LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD,

WITH THE

OF WHITEFORD, BART.

LAMENT FOR JAMES EARL OF
GLENCAIRN.'

THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st,
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly
fear'st,

To thee this votive off'ring I impart,

The tearful tribute of a broken heart.

The friend thou valued'st; I, the patron, lov'd; His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone,

And tread the dreary path to that dark world un known.

ON SEEING

À WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME,

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barbarous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
The bitter little that of life remains:

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest ;
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy haples$ fate.

ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,

ON CROWNING HIS BUST

AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. 1800.

WHILE virgin spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green,

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between:

While summer with a matron grace
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade :

While autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his aged head,
And sees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed:

While maniac winter rages o'er

The bills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:

So long, sweet poet of the year!

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;

While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that THOMSON was her son

« PreviousContinue »