The following poem is the work of some hapless son of the Muses who deserved a better fate. There is a great deal of "The voice of Cona" in his solitary, mournful notes; and had the sentiments been clothed in Shenstone's language, they would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet.--R.B.

Strait is the spot and green the sod From whence my sorrows flow; And soundly sleeps the ever dear Inhabitant below.

Pardon my transport, gentle shade, While o'er the turf I bow; Thy earthy house is circ.u.mscrib'd, And solitary now.

Not one poor stone to tell thy name, Or make thy virtues known: But what avails to me--to thee, The sculpture of a stone?

I'll sit me down upon this turf, And wipe the rising tear: The chill blast pa.s.ses swiftly by, And flits around thy bier.

Dark is the dwelling of the Dead, And sad their house of rest: Low lies the head, by Death's cold arms In awful fold embrac'd.

I saw the grim Avenger stand Incessant by thy side; Unseen by thee, his deadly breath Thy lingering frame destroy'd.

Pale grew the roses on thy cheek, And wither'd was thy bloom, Till the slow poison brought thy youth Untimely to the tomb.

Thus wasted are the ranks of men-- Youth, Health, and Beauty fall; The ruthless ruin spreads around, And overwhelms us all.

Behold where, round thy narrow house, The graves unnumber'd lie; The mult.i.tude that sleep below Existed but to die.

Some, with the tottering steps of Age, Trod down the darksome way; And some, in youth's lamented prime, Like thee were torn away:

Yet these, however hard their fate, Their native earth receives; Amid their weeping friends they died, And fill their fathers' graves.

From thy lov'd friends, when first thy heart Was taught by Heav'n to glow, Far, far remov'd, the ruthless stroke Surpris'd and laid thee low.

At the last limits of our isle, Wash'd by the western wave, Touch'd by thy face, a thoughtful bard Sits lonely by thy grave.

Pensive he eyes, before him spread The deep, outstretch'd and vast; His mourning notes are borne away Along the rapid blast.

And while, amid the silent Dead Thy hapless fate he mourns, His own long sorrows freshly bleed, And all his grief returns:

Like thee, cut off in early youth, And flower of beauty's pride, His friend, his first and only joy, His much lov'd Stella, died.

Him, too, the stern impulse of Fate Resistless bears along; And the same rapid tide shall whelm The Poet and the Song.

The tear of pity which he sheds, He asks not to receive; Let but his poor remains be laid Obscurely in the grave.

His grief-worn heart, with truest joy, Shall meet he welcome shock: His airy harp shall lie unstrung, And silent on the rock.

O, my dear maid, my Stella, when Shall this sick period close, And lead the solitary bard To his belov'd repose?

The Bard At Inverary

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, I pity much his case, Unless he comes to wait upon The Lord their G.o.d, His Grace.

There's naething here but Highland pride, And Highland scab and hunger: If Providence has sent me here, 'Twas surely in his anger.

Epigram To Miss Jean Scott

O had each Scot of ancient times Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art; The bravest heart on English ground Had yielded like a coward.

On The Death Of John M'Leod, Esq,

Brother to a young Lady, a particular friend of the Author's.

Sad thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms: Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms.

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew The morning rose may blow; But cold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low.

Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smil'd; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd.

Fate oft tears the bosom chords That Nature finest strung; So Isabella's heart was form'd, And so that heart was wrung.

Dread Omnipotence alone Can heal the wound he gave-- Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave.

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, And fear no withering blast; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last.

Elegy On The Death Of Sir James Hunter Blair

The lamp of day, with--ill presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train;^1 Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd well,^2 Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.^3

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.

[Footnote 1: The King's Park at Holyrood House.--R. B.]

[Footnote 2: St. Anthony's well.--R. B.]

[Footnote 3: St. Anthony's Chapel.--R. B.]

The paly moon rose in the livid east.

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast, And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd: Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.