"The Poet's grave is in a corner of the church-yard. We "looked at it with melancholy and painful reflections, re"peating to each other his own verses —

"Is there a man whose judgment clear, &c."

Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-traveller.

MID crowded Obelisks and Urns

I sought the untimely grave of Burns;
Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns
With sorrow true;

And more would grieve, but that it turns
Trembling to you!

Through Twilight shades of good and ill
Ye now are panting up life's hill,

And more than common strength and skill
Must ye display,

If ye would give the better will

Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware!
But if the Poet's wit ye share,
Like him can speed

The social hour for tenfold care
There will be need.

Even honest Men delight will take
To spare your failings for his sake,
Will flatter you, and fool and rake

[ocr errors]

Your steps pursue;

And of your Father's name will make
A snare for you.

Far from their noisy haunts retire,
And add your voices to the quire
That sanctify the cottage fire
With service meet;

There seek the genius of your Sire,
His spirit greet;

Or where, mid " lonely heights and hows, He paid to Nature tuneful vows;

Or wiped his honourable brows

Bedewed with toil,

While reapers strove, or busy ploughs
Upturned the soil;

His judgment with benignant ray
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;
But ne'er to a seductive lay
Let faith be given;

Nor deem that "light which leads astray,
Is light from Heaven."

Let no mean hope your souls enslave
Be independent, generous, brave;
Your Father such example gave,
And such revere;

But be admonished by his grave,
And think, and fear!





FAIR Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Upon the Braes of Kirtle,

Was lovely as a Grecian Maid
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle.
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay;
And there did they beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.

From many Knights and many Squires

The Bruce had been selected;

And Gordon, fairest of them all,

By Ellen was rejected.

Sad tidings to that noble Youth !

For it may be proclaimed with truth,

If Bruce hath loved sincerely,

That Gordon loves as dearly.

*The Kirtle is a River in the Southern part of Scotland, on

whose banks the events here related took place.

But what is Gordon's beauteous face,
And what are Gordon's crosses,

To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes
Upon the verdant mosses?

Alas that ever he was born!

The Gordon, couched behind a thorn, Sees them and their caressing; Beholds them blest and blessing.

Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts
That through his brain are travelling, -
And, starting up, to Bruce's heart
He launched a deadly javelin!

Fair Ellen saw it when it came,

And, stepping forth to meet the same, Did with her body cover

The Youth, her chosen lover.

And, falling into Bruce's arms,

Thus died the beauteous Ellen,

Thus, from the heart of her True-love,

The mortal spear repelling.

And Bruce, as soon as he had slain
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain;

And fought with rage incessant
Against the Moorish Crescent.

« VorigeDoorgaan »