Critics-appall'd, I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame: Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes; He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by causeless wanton 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 thro' 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 gen'rous 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 thro' 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 heav'n, 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!

Thro'

Thro' 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!

LAMENT

LAMENT

FOR

JAMES EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

THE wind blew hollow frae the hills,
By fits the sun's departing beam
Look'd on the fading yellow woods

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream:

Beneath a craigy steep, a bard,

Laden with years and meikle pain, In loud lament bewail'd his lord, Whom death had all untimely ta'en.

He

He lean'd him to an ancient aik,

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years;

His locks were bleached white with time,
His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears;
And as he touch'd his trembling harp,
And as he tun'd his doleful sang,
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,
To echo bore the notes alang.

"Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing,
"The reliques of the vernal quire!
"Ye woods that shed on a' the winds
"The honours of the aged year!
"A few short months, and glad and gay,
Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e;

66

"But nocht in all revolving time

"Can gladness bring again to me.

"I am a bending aged tree,

"That long has stood the wind and rain ; "But now has come a cruel blast,

"And my last hald of earth is gane; "Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, "Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; "But I maun lie before the storm, "And ithers plant them in my room.

"I've seen sae mony changefu' years, "On earth I am a stranger grown;

VOL. III.

Y

"I wander