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EPITAPH

FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.

YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious reverence and attend! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, The tender father, and the generous friend. The pitying heart that felt for human woe; The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;

'For ev❜n his failings lean'd to virtue's side '.'

EPITAPH

FOR R. A. ESQ.

KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much-lov'd, much-honour'd name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.

1 Goldsmith.

VOL. II.

EPITAPH

FOR G. H. ESQ.

THE poor man weeps-here G-n sleeps,
Whom canting wretches blam'd:
But with such as he, where'er he be,
May I be sav'd or d―d!

INSCRIPTION

TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON.

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET,

Born September 5th, 1751-Died 16th October, 1774.

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay,
'No storied urn nor animated bust,'
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.

TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS,

A VERY YOUNG LADY.

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR.

BEAUTEOUS rose-bud, young and gay,
Blooming on thy early May,
Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r,
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r!
Never Boreas' hoary path,
Never Eurus' pois'nous breath,
Never baleful stellar lights,
Taint thee with untimely blights!
Never, never, reptile thief
Riot on thy virgin leaf!

Nor ev'n Sol too fiercely view
Thy bosom blushing still with dew!
May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Richly deck thy native stem;

Till some evening, sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And every bird thy requiem sings;
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,
Shed thy dying honours round,
And resign to parent earth

The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

SONG.

ANNA, thy charms my bosom fire,
And waste my soul with care;
But ah! how bootless to admire,
When fated to despair!

Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair,
To hope may be forgiv'n;
For sure 'twere impious to despair,
So much in sight of Heav'n.

ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER,

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ES2.

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S.

SAD thy tale, thou idle page,

And rueful thy alarms:

Death tears the brother of her love
From Isabella's arms.

Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew
The morning rose may blow;
But cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.

Fair on Isabella's morn

The sun propitious smil❜d;

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds

Succeeding hopes béguil'd.

Fate oft tears the bosom chords
That nature finest strung:
So Isabella's heart was form'd,
And so that heart was wrung.

Dread Omnipotence, alone,

Can heal the wound he gave; Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave.

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow,
And fear no withering blast;
There Isabella's spotless worth
Shall happy be at last.

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