And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stained his name!

Reader, attend,-whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit ; Know prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root.

ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW
HENDERSON.

HE's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e'er was born!
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn
By wood and wild,
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn,
Frae man exiled.

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns,
That proudly cock your cresting cairns!
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns

Where echo slumbers!

Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz❜lly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens,
Wi' toddlin din,

Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin.

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,
In scented bow'rs;
Ye roses on your thorny tree,
The first o' flow'rs.

At dawn, when every grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at its head,
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed,
I' th' rustling gale,
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade,
Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud;

Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood; He's gane forever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;
Ye fisher herons, watching eels;
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels
Circling the lake;
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day,
'Mang fields o' flow'ring claver gay;
And when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.

Ye howlets, frae your ivy bow'r,
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r,
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r,
Sets up her horn,

Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour
Till waukrife morn.

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! Oft have ye heard my canty strains; But now, what else for me remains But tales of woe?

And frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow.

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year!
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear;
Thou, Summer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head.

Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear
For him that 's dead!

Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, Winter, hurling thro' the air
The roaring blast,
Wide o'er the naked world declare
The worth we've lost!

Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light;
Mourn, Empress of the silent night!
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,
My Matthew mourn!
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight,
Ne'er to return.

O Henderson; the man! the brother! And art thou gone, and gone forever! And hast thou crost that unknown river, Life's dreary bound! Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around?

Go to your sculptured tombs, ye Great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state!

But by thy honest turf I'll wait, Thou man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth.

at sea,

And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;

I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee',

Said, “Jeannie, for their sakes, will ye na marry me?"

My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back;

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;

The ship it was a wrack-why didna Jamie dee?

Or why do I live to say, Wae 's me?

My father urged me sair : my mither didna speak;

But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break;

They gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea;

And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to

me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he,

Till he said, "I'm come home, love, to marry thee.'

O, sair did we greet, and muckle say of a'! I gie'd him but ae kiss, and bade him gang awa':

I wish I were dead! but I'm no like to dee;

And why do I live to cry, Wae 's me?

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin I daurna think on Jamie, for that, wad be a sin;

But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For auld Robin Gray, he is kind to me.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

[1757-1827.]

THE TIGER.

TIGER! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Burned the fire of thine eyes?
In what distant deeps or skies
What the hand dare seize the fire ?
On what wings dare he aspire?

And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thine heart?

And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?
Did He, who made the Lamb, make thee?

Tiger Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

TO THE MUSES.

WHETHER on Ida's shady brow

Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, which now From ancient melodies have ceased;

Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,

Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air, Where the melodious winds have birth,

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, sea,

Beneath the bosom of the Wandering in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry,

How have you left the ancient lore
That bards of old engaged in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.

I hear below the water roar,

The mill wi' clacking din,
And Lucky scolding frae the door,
To ca' the bairnies in.

O, no! sad and slow,

These are nae sounds for me;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It creeps sae drearily.

I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam,
A snood o' bonnie blue,

And promised, when our trysting cam',
To tie it round her brow.

O, no! sad and slow,

The mark it winna' pass;
The shadow o' that dreary bush
Is tethered on the grass.

O now I see her on the way!

She's past the witch's knowe;

She's climbing up the brownies brae;
My heart is in a lowe,

O, no! 't is not so,

"T is glamrie I hae seen;

The shadow o' that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.

My book o' grace I'll try to read,
Though conned wi' little skill;
When Collie barks I'll raise my head,
And find her on the hill.

O, no! sad and slow,

The time will ne'er be gane;
The shadow o' our trysting bush
Is fixed like ony stane.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

[1762-1831.]

THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE
SWARD.

THE gowan glitters on the sward,
The lav'rock's in the sky,

And Collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.

O, no! sad and slow,

And lengthened on the ground;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It wears so slowly round.

My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I love best,
Alack! I canna hear.

O, no! sad and slow,

The shadow lingers still;
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.

LADY CAROLINE NAIRN.

[1766-1845.]

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

I'm wearin' awa', Jean,
Like snaw in a thaw, Jean,
I'm wearin' awa'

To the Land o' the Leal.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day is ever fair

In the Land o' the Leal.

You've been leal and true, Jean,
Your task is ended noo, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the Land o' the Leal.

87

At first he looked distrustful, almost shy,

And cast on me his coal-black steadfast

eye,

And seemed to say, - past friendship to

renew,

"Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?" While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still,

On beds of moss spread on the windowsill,

I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green,

And guessed some infant hand had placed it there,

And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling

rose;

My heart felt everything but calm repose; I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor

years,

But rose at once, and bursted into tears; Then, like a fool, confused, sat down

again,

And thought upon the past with shame and pain;

I raved at war and all its horrid cost, And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost.

On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused,

And cursed the murdering weapons I had used.

Two shadows then I saw, two voices

heard,

One bespoke age, and one a child's appeared.

In stepped my father with convulsive start,

And in an instant clasped me to his heart. Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid;

And stooping to the child, the old man said,

"Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again;

This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain."

The child approached, and with her fingers light

Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight.

But why thus spin my tale, thus tedious be?

Happy cld soldier! what's the world to me?