Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour, Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. He bears the' unbroken blast from every side: Critics-appall'd, I venture on the name, Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 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; By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell. 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 THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'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, Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 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 ; 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, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, While summer with a matron grace While autumn, benefactor kind, 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 |