STROPHE. View the wither'd beldam's face- Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest- ANTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends ? Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, She, tardy, hell-ward plies. EPODE. And are they of no more avail, Oh, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON,1 A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. But now his radiant course is run, O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody: Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,3 And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn, Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel" shall mourn Frae man exil'd. Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, Where echo slumbers! Mourn, ilka grove the cushat9 kens! Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens," Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; 1 The Elegy on Captain Henderson is a tribute to the memory of a man I loved much. Poets have in this the same advantage as Roman Catholics; they can be of service to their friends after they have passed that bourne where all other kindness ceases to be of any avail.-To Dr. Moore, (Feb. 28, 1791,) who remarked, in reply, that the chief merit of the Elegy lies in its lively pictures of country scenes and things, which none but a Scottish poet, and a close observer of Nature, could have so described. 2 Rope. 6 Self. 9 Wood-pigeon. 3 Smithy. Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, In scented bow'rs; Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o' flow'rs. At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Ye maukins' whiddin2 thro' the glade, Come join my wail. Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood; He's gane for ever! Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals, Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Ye bitterns, till the Circling the lake; 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, 5 Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, Sets up her horn, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! But tales of woe; And frae my een the drapping rains 1 Hares. 2 Running. 6 Dismal. 3 Cloud. 7 Wakeful. 4 Boom. 5 Owls. Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year! Shoots up its head, Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear For him that's dead! Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, The roaring blast, Wide o'er the naked world declare The worth we've lost! Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light: Mourn, Empress of the silent night! And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, My Matthew mourn! O Henderson; the man! the brother! Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, Thou man of worth! And weep the ae1 best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth. THE EPITАРН. STOP, passenger! my story's brief, If thou uncommon merit hast, A look of pity hither cast,- If thou a noble sodger art, That passest by this grave, man, If thou on men, their works and ways, If thou at friendship's sacred ca' If thou art staunch without a stain, If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, If ony whiggish whingin' sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man; For Matthew was a rare man. LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACHI Now Nature hangs her mantle green And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies; But nought can glad the weary wight 1 Complaining. 2 Mourning. $ Whether it is that the story of our Mary, Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the enclosed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic success, I know not; but it has pleased me beyond any effort of my muse for a good while past.-R. B. |