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 for ever?
And hast thou crossed 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,
the ae best fellow's fate
STOP, passenger!-my story's brief,
And truth I shall relate, man;
I tell nae common tale o' grief-
For Matthew was a great man.
If thou uncommon merit hast,
Yet spurned at Fortune's door, man,
A look of pity hither cast-
For Matthew was a poor man,
If thou a noble sodger art,
That passest by this grave, man, There moulders here a gallant heartFor Matthew was a brave man.
If thou on men, their works and ways,
Canst throw uncommon light, man,
Here lies wha weel had won thy praise--
For Matthew was a bright man.
If thou at friendship's sacred ca'
Wad life itself resign, man,
The sympathetic tear maun fa'-
For Matthew was a kin' man!
If thou art staunch without a stain,
Like the unchanging blue, man,
This was a kinsman o' thy ain-
For Matthew was a true man.
If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire,
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man,
This was thy billie, dam, and sire-
For Matthew was a queer man.
If ony whiggish whingin' sot,
To blame poor Matthew dare, man,
May dool and sorrow be his lot!-
For Matthew was a rare man.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD, OF
DWELLER in yon dungeon dark,
Hangman of creation! mark
Who in widow-weeds appears,
Laden with unhonoured years,
Noosing with care a bursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly curse!
View the withered beldam's face
Can thy keen inspection trace
Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace?
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows,
Pity's flood there never rose.
See those hands, ne'er stretched to save,
Hands that took-but never gave.
Keeper of Mammon's iron chest,
Lo! there she goes-unpitied and unblest!
She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!
Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes,
(A, while forbear, ye torturing fiends,)
Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends?
No fallen angel, hurled from upper skies;
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate,
Doomed to share thy fiery fate,
She, tardy, hell-ward plies.
Are they of no more avail,
Ten thousand glittering pounds a year?
In other worlds can Mammon fail,
Omnipotent as he is here?
Oh, bitter mockery of the pompous bier,
While down the wretched vital part is driven !
The cave-lodged beggar, with a conscience clear,
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to heaven.
ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, BORN UNDER PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY
SWEET Floweret, pledge o' meikle love,
And ward o' mony a prayer,
What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!
November hirples o'er the lea,
Chill on thy lovely form;
And gane, alas! the sheltering tree
Should shield thee frae the storm.
May he who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving shower,
The bitter frost and snaw!
May he, the Friend of woe and want,
Who heals life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,
And heal her cruel wounds!
But late she flourished, rooted fast,
Fair on the summer morn;
Now feebly bends she in the blast,
Unsheltered and forlorn:
Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unscathed by ruffian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land!
ELEGY ON MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO.
LIFE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies;
Nor envious Death so triumphed in a blow,
As that which laid th' accomplished Burnet low.
Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?
In richest ore the brightest jewel set!
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown,
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is known.
In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves;
Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore;
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves,
Ye cease to charm-Eliza is no more!
Ye heathy wastes, immixed with reedy fens;
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stored;
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens,
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord.
Princes, whose cumbrous pride was all their worth,
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail?
And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth,
And not a muse in honest grief bewail?
We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride,
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres ;
But, like the sun eclipsed at morning tide,
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears.
The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee,
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care!
So deckt the woodbine sweet yon agèd tree;
So from it ravished, leaves it bleak and bare.
ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, of GLENRIDDEL.
No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more!
Nor pour your descant, grating on my soul:
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend! How can I to the tuneful strain attend?
That strain flows round the untimely tomb where Riddel
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