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The end of iiinn'n existence I diicerned, Who from ignoble games and revelry Could draw, when we had parted, vain

delight While (cars were thy best pastime, — day

and night:

And while my youthful peers,before my eyes, (Each Hero following his peculiar bent) Prepared themselves for glorious enterprize By martial sports,—or, seated in the tent, Chieftains and Kings in council were detained; What time the Fleet at Aulis lay enchained.

The wish'd-for wind wns given:—I then

revolved Our future course, upon the silent sea; And, if no worthier led the way, resolved That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.

Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang
When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife!
On thee too fondly did my memory hang
And on the joys we shared in mortal life,—
The paths whieti we had trod—these fount-
My new-planned cities and unfinished towers.

Rut should suspense permit the foe to cry:
"Behold they tremble! — haughty their

array, Yet of their number no one dares to die?" In soul I swept the indignity away: Old frailties then recurred: — but lofty

thought, In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.

And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak

In rensnn, in self-government too slow;

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek

Our blest re-union in the shades below.

The invisible world with thee hath sympathised;

Be thy affections raised and solemnized!

Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend Towards a higher object:—Love was given, Enconraged, sanctioned, chiefly for this end. For this the passion- to excess was driven— That Self might be annulled; her bondage

prove The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.—

Alond she shrieked; for Hermes re-appears! Round the dear Shade she would have clung —'tis vain:

The hours are past, too brief had they been

years; And him no mortal effort can detain: Swift tow'rd the realms that know not

earthly day, He through the portal takes his silent way— And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse she


Ah, judge her gently who so deeply lot ed! Her, who, in reason's spite, yet without

crime, Was in a trance of passion thus removed; Delivered from the galling yoke of time And these frail elements—to gather flowers Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.

Yet tears to human suffering are due;

And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrowa

Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.

As fondly lie believes.—I'pon the side

Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)

A knot of spiry trees for ages grew

From out the tomb of him for whom she

died; And ever, when snch stature they had pain, d That Ilium's wallswere subject to their view. The trees' tall summits wither'd at the sight; A constant interchange of growth and blight!


Hart Lean-Well is a small spring of water, abnoi five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, aard sear the side of the road which leads from Richmond to Askrk'ir. Its name is derived from a remartable Chase, the memory of which in presorted) by the monument* spoken of in the second part of the following Poem, which moanmesl* da saw eiist as I have there described them.

The Knight had ridden down from Wensley

moor With the slow motion of a summer's cloud; He turned aside towards a Vassal's door. And: Rring another Horse! he cried aload.

Another Horse! — That shout the Vi

heard. And saddled his best steed, a comely gray; Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser's eyes; The Horse and Horseman are a happy pair; But though Sir Walter like a falcon flies. There is a doleful silence in the air.

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall. That as they galloped made the echoes roar; But Horse and Man are vanished, one and all: Such race, I think, was never seea'hrfarr

Sir Walter, restless ns a veering wind, Hills to the few tired Dogs that yet remain: Braeh, Swift, and Music, noblest of their

kind, Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.

The Knight hallooed, he chid and cheered them on

With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;

Hut breath and eye-sight fail; and one by one,

The Dogs arc stretched among the mountain-fern.

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
—This Chase it looks not like an earthly

Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.

The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died;
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.

Dismounting then, he leaned against a thorn;
He had no follower, Dog, nor Man, nor Boy;
Be neither smacked his whip, nor blew his

horn, Rut gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, Stood his dumb partner in this glorious act; Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned; And foaming like a mountain-cataract.

lTpon his side the Hart was lying stretched: His nose half-touched a spring beneath a

hill, And with the last deep groan his breath

had fetched The waters of the spring were trembling still.

And now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Was never man in *uch a joyful case!)
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south,

and west. And gazed and gazed upon that darling place.

And climbing up the hill—(it was at least Nine roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found Three several hoof-marks which the hunted

Beast Had left imprinted on the verdant ground.

Sir Walter wiped his face and cried: "Till now Suth sight was never seen by living eyes: Three leaps have borne him fronfthis lofty

brow, Down to the very fountain where he lies.

I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot, And a small Arbour, made for rural joy; 'Twill be the Traveller's shed, the Pilgrim's

cot, A place of love for Damsels that are coy.

A cunning Artist will I have to frame
A bason for that Fountain in the dell,
And they, who do make mention of the same,
From this day forth, shall call it Hart-

And, gallant brute! to make thy praises

known, Another monument shall here he raised; Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn

Stone, And planted where thy hoofs the turf have


And, in the summer-time when dnys are long,
I will come hither with my Paramour,
And with the Dancers, and the Minstrel's

song, We will make merry in that pleasant Bower.

Till the foundations of the mountains fail My Mansion with its Arbour shall endure;— The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!"

Then home he went, and left the Hart, stonedead,

With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring.

— Soon did the Knight perform what he had said,

And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.

Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered, A Cup of Stone received the living Well; Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared, And build a House of Pleasure in the dell.

And near the fountain flowers of stature tall
With trailing plants and trees were inter-
Which soon composed a little sylvan Hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.

And thither, when the summer-days were

long. Sir Walter journey'd with his Paramour; And with the Danrers and the Minstrel's song Made merriment within that pleasant Bower.

The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of

And his bones lie in his paternal vale.—
But there is matter for a second rhyme.
And I to this would add another tale.


The moving accident is not my trade:
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts:
"Tin my delight, alone in summer-shade,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
It chanced that 1 saw standing in a dell
Three Aspens at three corners of a square,
And one, not four yards distant, near a Well.

What this imported I could ill divine:
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
I saw three Pillars standing in a line,
The last Stone-Pillar on a dark hill-top.

The trees were gray, with neither arms nor

head; Halfr wasted the square Mound of tawny

green; So that you just might say, as then I said: Here in old time the hand of man hath been.

I looked upon the hill both far and near, More doleful place did never eye survey; It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, And Nature here were willing to decay.

I stood in vnrious thoughts and fancies lost, When onc,who was in shepherd's garb attired, Came up the hollow:—Him did I accost. And what this place might be I then inquired.

The Shepherd stopped, and that same story

told, Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. A jolly place, said he, in times of old! But somcthingails it now; the spot is curst.

You see these lifeless stumps of aspen-wopd— Some say that they are bceches.otherselms— These were the Bower; and here a Mansion

stood, The finest palace of a hundred realms.

The Arbour does its own condition tell; You see the Stones, the Fountain, and the

Stream; But as to the great Lodge! you might as well Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

There's neither dog, nor heifer, horse nor

sheep, Will wet his lips within that Cup of stone; And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.

Some say that here a murder has been done. And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part,

I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun. That it was all for that unhappy Hart.

What thoughts must through the Creature's brain have passed!

Even from the top-most Stone, upon the Steep,

Are but three bounds — and look, Sir, at this last—

—O Master! it has been a cruel leap.

For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;
And in my simple mind we cannot tell
What cause the Hart might have to love

this place. And come and make his death-bed near the


Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank. Lulled by this Fountain in the summer-tide; This water was perhaps the first he drank When he had wandered from his mother's


In April here beneath the scented thorn,
He heard th,e birds their morning-carols sing;
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was

born Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.

But now here's neither grass nor pleasant

shade; The sun on drearier hollow never shone; So will it be, as I have often said. Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain all are


Gray - headed Shepherd , thou hast spoken

well; Small difference lies between thy creed and

mine: This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell; His death was mourned by sympathy divine.

The Being, that is in the clouds and air.
That is in the green leaves among the groves,
Maintains a deep and reverential care
For the unoffending creatures whom he

The Pleasure-house is dust:—behind, before.
This is no common waste, no common gloom;
But Nature, in due course of time, once

more Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

She leaves these objects to a slow decay. That what we are, and hat e been, may be

known; Rut, at the coming of the milder day, These monuments shall ail be overgrown. One lemon, Shepherd, let tin two divide, Taught both by what she shews, and wlint

conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.


A famous Man is Robin Hood,

The English Ballad-singer's joy!

And Scotland has a Thief as good,

An Outlaw of as daring mood,

She has her linn r Rob Roy!

Then clear the weeds from ofT his Grave,

And let us chaunt a passing Stave

In honour of that Hero brine!

Hbivkn gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart.
And wondrous length and strength of arm:
Nor craved he more to quell his foes,
Or keep his friends from harm.

Yet was Rol> Roy as irise as brave;
Forgive me if the phrase be strong ;—
A Poet worthy of Rob Roy
Must scorn a timid song.

Say, then, that he was wise ns brave;
As wise in thought as bold in deed:
For in the principles of things
He sought his moral creed.

Said generous Rob: "What need of bonks?
Burn all the statutes and their shelves:
They stir us up against our kind;
Aad worse, against ourselves.

We have a passion, make a law,
Too false to guide us or rontroul!
And for the law itself we fight
In bitterness of soul.

And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose
Distinctions that are plain and few:
1 hue find I graven on my heart:
That tells me what to do.

The Creatures see of flood and field,
And those that travel on the wind!
With them no strife can last; they live
In peace, and peace of mind.

For whyY—becanse the good old Rule
Wfireth them, the simple Plan,
fnat they should take who have the power,
And they should keep who can.

A lesson which is quickly learned,
A signal this whirh all can sec!
'nus nothing here provokes the Strong;
To wanton cruelty.

All freakishnrss of mind is checked;
He tamed, who foolishly aspires;
While to the measure of his might
Each fashions his desires.

AH Kinds, and Creatures, stand and fall
By strength of prowess or of wit:
'Tis God's appointment who must sway,
And who is to submit.

Since, then, the rule of right is plain,
And longest life is but a day;
To have my ends, maintain in v rights,
I'll take the shortest way."

And thus among these rocks he lived,
Through summer's heat and winter's snow:
The Eagle, he was Lord above,
And Rob was Lord below.

So was it—would, at least, have been
But through untnwarriness of fate—
For Polity was then too strong—
He came an age too late;

Or shall we say an age too soon?
For, were the bold Man living now,
How might he flourish in his pride,
With buds on every bough!

Then rents and factors, rights of chase,
Sheriffs, and Lairds and their domains
Would nil have seem'd but paltry things,
Not worth a moment's pains.

Rob Roy had never linger'd here.
To these few meagre vales confin'd;
But thought how wide the world, the times
How fairly to his mind!

And to his Sword he would have said:
"Do Thou my sovereign will enact
From land to land through half 'the earth!
Judge thoua of law and fact!

'Tis fit that we should do our part;
Becoming, that mankind should learn
That we are not to be surpass'd
In fatherly concern.

Of old things nil are over old,
Of good things nunc arc good enough:—
We'll shew that we can help to frame
A world of other stuff.

I, too, will have my Kings that take
From me the sign of life and death:
Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds,
Obedient to-my breath."

And, if the word had been fulfill d.
As might have been, then, thought of joy t
France would have had her present Boast;
And we our brave Rob Roy!

Oh! say not so; compare them not;
I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!
Would wrong thee no where; least of all
Here standing by thy Grave.

For Thou.although with some wild thoughts,
Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan!
Hadat this to boast of: thou didst love
The liberty of Man.

And, had it been thy lot to live
With us who now behold the light,
Thou wouldst have nobly stirr'd thyself,
And battled for the right.'

For thou wert still the poor man's stay,
The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand;
And all the oppress'd, who wanted strength,
Had thine at their command.

Bear witness many a pensive sigh
Of thoughtful herdsman when he strays
Alone upon Loch Veol's heights,
And by Loch Lomond's braes!

And, far and near, through vale and hill,
Are faces that attest the same;
And kindle, like a fire new stirr'd,
At aound of Rob Roy's name.



Father's GRAVE.

(Angnat 14th, 1801.)

Ye now are panting up life's hill!
'TIS twilight-time of good and ill,
And more than common strength and skill

Must ye display
If ye would give the better will

Its lawful sway.

Strong-bodied if ye be to beor
Intemperance with less harm, beware!
But if your Father's wit ye share,

Then, then indeed,
Ye Sons of Burns! for watchful care

There will be need.

For honest men delight will take
To shew you favor for his sake,
Will flatter you; and Fool and Rake

Your steps pursue:
And of your Father's name will make

A snare for you

Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
Re independent, generous, brave!
Your Father such example gave,

And such revere!
But be admonish'd by his Grave,—

And think, and fear!


(At lmermcyde, upon Loch Lomond.)

Sweet Highland-Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head: And these gray rocks; this household-lawn; These trees, a veil just half withdrawn; This fall of water, that doth make A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode; In truth together ye do seem Like something fashion'd in a dream; Such Forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! Yet, dream and vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart: God shield thee to thy latest years! I neither know thee nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.

With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away: For never saw I mien, or face, In which more plainly I could trace Renignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here, scattered like a random seed, Remote from men. Thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress. And maidenly shamefaccdness: Thou wearst upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a Mountaineer. A face with gladness overspread! Sweet looks, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as spring* From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts, that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind. Seen birds of tempest-loving kind. Thus beating up against the wiad.

What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful T O happy pleasure! here to dwell Reside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways and drew, A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess! Rut I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality: Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could. Though but of common neighbourhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder Brother I would he. Thy Father, any thing to thee!

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