POETICAL INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, At Kerroughtry, the Seat of Mr. Heron. [Written in Summer, 1795.] THOU of an independent mind, With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd; Virtue alone who dost revere, Thy own reproach alone dost fear, SONNET, SONNET, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. OF GLEN RIDDEL. April, 1794. 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 flow'rs, with all your dyes? Yes, Robert Riddel, Esq. of Friar's Carse, a very worthy character, and one to whom our bard thought himself under many obligations. It is a curious circumstance, that the two concluding lines express a sentiment exactly similar to one of the most beautiful passages in the "Pastor Fido," from the 7th to the 10th line of the Monologue, at the opening of the 3d Act; yet Burns had no acquaintance with Guarini's work. Feeling dictates to genius in all ages, and all countries, and her language must be often the same. E. Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier : The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, Is in his "narrow house" for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet, Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. MONODY, MONODY, ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glistened! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, How dull is that ear which to flattery so listened! If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection removed; How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, Thou diedst unwept as thou livedst unloved. Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear: But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. We'll We'll search through the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle so typical, shower, For none e'er approached her but rued the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. THE EPITAPH. Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, What once was a butterfly gay in life's beam: Want only of wisdom denied her respect, Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 1. The |