Why do I see that generous bosom gored? 50 What rudeness ruffled that disordered hair? Why, blameless shade, that mournful aspect wear? And Heaven itself approve of Wolfe and thee. Yes, thou art blessed above the rolling sphere; 55 'Tis for myself, not thee, I shed the tear. Where shall I now such blameless friendship find, 60 65 A sudden death recalls him from below; A moment's bliss is paid with years of woe. What boots the rising sigh? in vain we weep, We, too, like him, anon must fall asleep ; 70 Life, and its sorrows too, shall soon be o'er, And the heart heave with bursting sighs no more; Death shed oblivious rest on every head, And one dull silence reign o'er all the dead. THE EARL MARISCHAL'S WELCOME ΤΟ HIS NATIVE COUNTRY. An Ode 1, attempted in the manner of Pindar. "TWAS when the full-eared harvest bow'd Beneath the merry reaper's hand; When here the plenteous sheafs were strew'd, And there the corns nod o'er the land; When on each side the loaden'd ground, Breathing her ripen'd scents, the jovial season crown'd; The arrival of their lord attend; The blythsome shepherds haste to join, 10 Nor orphan nor lone widow mourns; • Inserted with the initials (J. M.), in the Scots Magazine for September 1760; reprinted with the name in Blacklock's Collection, Vol. II. p. 170. 25 Then from the grass Melanthus rose, The arbitrator of the plains, And silent all stood fixed to hear The Tityrus of Mernia's swains; For with the Muse's fire his bosom glow'd, "Now the wished-for day is come, At length, what time the ploughman leads 30 35 45 And the early kine rise from their dewy seat." Stretch'd forth his hand, and thus resum'd the strain: 65 Our brave forefathers wore, In Kenneth's wars, and Bruce's days, And when the Romans fled their dreadful wrath of yore. 75 O'er every hill, o'er every dale, Big with his joys of youth the old man stood; Dunnotyr's ruin'd towers then caught his eye; He stopp'd, and hung his head in pensive mood, And from his bosom burst the unbidden sigh. Then turning, with a warrior look, Shaking his hoary curls, the old man spoke : "Virtue, O Fortune! scorns thy power, Thou can'st not bind her for an hour; Virtue shall ever shine; And endless praise, her glorious dower, His sword with thine, and backs thy cause; Yes, thou art doubly safe, thy cause is just. "With dread the Turks have oft beheld 110 |