LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. And thou, my last, best, only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the bard Thou brought from Fortune's mirkest gloom. "In Poverty's low barren vale, Thick mists obscure involve me round; "Oh! why has worth so short a date, "The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been ; The mother may forget the child, That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me!" BURNS. R 137 The Mother. SHE had her children too; for Charity Each under other by degrees they grew, In numbering o'er his future Roman race, came. Nor Cybele, with half so kind an eye, Proud, shall I say, of her immortal fruit? The babe had all that infant care beguiles, The tender age was pliant to command; It turn'd to habit; and, from vices free, Goodness resolved into necessity. DRYDEN. [From "Eleonora."] W On Shakespeare. HAT needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a live-long monument. For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavouring art Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took ; MILTON. The Past. HOW wild and dim this life appears! One long, deep, heavy sigh, When o'er our eyes, half closed in tears, The images of former years Are faintly glittering by! And still forgotten while they go! As, on the sea-beach, wave on wave, The amber clouds one moment lie, Soon as the radiance melts away, We scarce believe it shone! Where music never play'd! Dreams follow dreams, through the long night-hours, Each lovelier than the last ; But, ere the breath of morning-flowers, And many a sweet angelic cheek, Whose smiles of love and fondness speak, Glides by us on this earth; While in a day we cannot tell Where shone the face we loved so well, In sadness, or in mirth! PROFESSOR WILSON. |