STROPHE. View the wither'd beldam's face- Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace? Pity's flood there never rose. See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest! She ANTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, (A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends) Seest thou whose step, unwilling hither bends? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies; Tis thy trusty quondam mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, She, tardy, hell-ward plies. EPODE. And are they of no more avail, Omnipotent as he is here? O, bitter O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, ELEGY ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON, A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD! But now his radiant course is run, His soul was like the glorious sun, O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody! Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, O'er hurcheon hides, And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie Wi' thy auld sides! He's He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn, Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Ye hazly 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 lee; 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. VOL. III. X At At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood; 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, Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, Wham we deplore. Ye |