And wrap thee in a filmy pall;
Poison in thy cup be found,

Or thou in pleasure's draught be drown'd.
With the Autumn's roseate hours,

With the sunshine and the flow'rs,
Sportive creature of a day,
Unmolested pass away.

ON REVISITING MY FATHER'S GRAVE.

ARE tears forbid ?-The torrent pour'd
Down sorrow's cheek for virtue's doom,

Is surely not by heav'n abhorr'd—
"Tis soothing to the spirit's gloom--
David his Absalom deplor'd,

And Jesus wept at Lazarus' tomb!

Yes, there's a holy balm in tears

That heals the heart as soon as shed;
Heav'n to a spot unseen for years
In mercy hath my footsteps led;
How calm the solitude appears,

How sweet the mem'ry of the dead.

ON REVISITING MY FATHER'S GRAVE.

My Sire, ere winter's chilling frost

Thy debt was paid-the last and least-
The day I mourn'd a Father lost,

Was I enthrall'd, and thou releas'd;
Thou safe in port, I tempest-toss'd-
My cares begun, ere childhood ceas'd.

And how I plough'd the dang'rous sea
(My bark untravell'd o'er the deep,)
Is only known to Heav'n-and thee,
If guardian angels* vigils keep
(Immortal spirits bless'd and free,)

O'er those they lov'd and left to weep.

335

* Of all superstitions—if in truth it can be called onethe doctrine of Guardian Angels is the most pleasing. To believe, that when death has separated us from a beloved object, we are not left wholly unprotected, but that the disembodied spirit still continues to watch over us, to guard us from impending evil, and perform the office of a ministering angel, in moments of difficulty and danger, is both rational and consoling: how beautifully has Tickell illustrated this idea, in his pathetic elegy upon Addison :

“Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend,
To me thy aid, thou Guardian Genius, lend!
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms,
In silent whisp'rings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill, a frail and feeble heart;
Led thro' the paths thy virtue trod before,
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more."

336

ON REVISITING MY FATHER'S GRAVE.

And her who lov'd and mourn'd thee best,

In rev'rend age we weeping bear, (Long parted) to thy place of rest—

Her hope,-faith, suff'ring, patience, pray'rAge, spare my brow (a wearied guest) Nor plant thy snows and wrinkles there.

The palsied frame, the hoary head,

The heart grown selfish, cold, and sear, More terrors than thy grassy bed

Strike to my soul, lov'd spot! for here My hop'd-for rest, were breath'd and shed My latest sigh, my earliest tear.

MONODY

ON THE DEATH OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.

IN Dryburgh's deep romantic shade,
And ruins gray, with ivy crown'd,
A magic harp and wand are laid-
The minstrel sleeps his sleep profound:
Hush'd is the music of the glade,

The wand is broke, the spell unbound.

Ye stately turrets! arches dim!

Mourn not your ancient glories pass'd,
Though vocal once to choral hymn,
Now to the moanings of the blast!
Ye are become the shrine of him,
The noblest Druid, and the last.

Wit in her robe of fiction dress'd,

And fancy in her highest mood, All that a blessing are, and bless'd

-

The wise, the generous, and the good,
Shall each repair-a welcome guest,
As pilgrims to thy solitude.

Ꮓ

And call it not an idle dream,

That fairy footsteps print the ground By lonely glen, and wizard stream; That harps unseen a requiem sound, And spirits by the moon's pale beam, Their watchful vigils keep around;

That mountain, woodland, valley green,
To the hoarse breeze responsive sigh;
And soft and gentle dews at e'en
Weep to behold the poet die ;
And Scotia, genius of the scene,
Joins the lament, the funeral cry.

For he was cradled in her arms,—

She nurs'd and rear'd the wondrous child; Her rugged, stern, romantic charms,

Her tales of yore, and legends wild,

And deeds of chivalry and arms,

In youth's gay morn his hours beguil'd.

And as he trod the heather bloom,

By desert cave, or mountain-steep, Some holy altar, banner'd tomb,

Or battled tower, or donjon-keep,A martyr's fate, a warrior's doom,

Have bade the pilgrim pause to weep.