XXII.

Let them extended on the decent bier, Convey the corse in melancholy state, Thro' all the village spread the tender tear, While pitying maids our wond'rous loves relate.

THE

TEARS

OF

SCOTLAND.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXLVI.

I.

Mourn, hapless CALEDONIA, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!

Thy sons, for valour long renown'd, Lie slaughter'd on their native ground; Thy hospitable roofs no more, Invite the stranger to the door; In smoaky ruins sunk they lie, The monuments of cruelty.

II.

The wretched owner sees afar His all become the prey of war; Bethinks him of his babes and wife, Then smites his breast, and curses life.

Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks: Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain; Thy infants perish on the plain.

III.

What boots it then, in every clime, Thro' the wide spreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?

Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke.

What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage, and rancour fell.

IV.

The rural pipe, and merry lay No more shall chear the happy day: No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night: No strains, but those of sorrow flow, And nought be heard but sounds of woe; While the pale phantoms of the slain Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

V.

Oh baneful cause, oh! fatal morn, Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!

The sons, against their fathers stood, The parent shed his children's blood.

Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd, The victor's soul was not appeas'd: The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel!

VI.

The pious mother doom'd to death, Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath, The bleak wind whistles round her head, Her helpless orphans cry for bread, Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, She views the shades of night descend, And stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies, Weeps o'er her tender babes and dies.

VII.

Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins, And unimpair'd remembrance reigns; Resentment of my country's fate, Within my filial breast shall beat; And, spite of her insulting foe, My sympathizing verse shall flow, "Mourn, hapless CALEDONIA, mourn "Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn."

AN ELEGY.

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD.

The Curfeu tolls, the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness, and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds; Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Or drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Save, that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The mopeing owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefather's of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The c.o.c.k's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouze them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bow'd the woods beneath their st.u.r.dy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joy, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boasts of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour, The paths of glory, lead but to the grave.

Forgive, ye proud, the involuntary fault, If memory to these no trophies raise, Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, Hands that the reins of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repress'd their n.o.ble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desart air.

Some village-HAMPDEN that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood: Some mute inglorious MILTON here may rest, Some CROMWELL guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes Their lot forbad: nor circ.u.mscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense, kindled at the muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ign.o.ble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the pa.s.sing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply, And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to dye.

For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the chearful day, Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Still in their ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, Haply some h.o.a.ry-headed swain may say, 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 'Brushing with hasty dews away, 'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 'That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 'His listless length at noontide wou'd he stretch, 'And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 'Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, 'Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, 'Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, 'Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; 'Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

'The next with dirges due in sad array, 'Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.

'Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 'Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.

'There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, 'By hands unseen, are show'rs of violets found; 'The red-breast loves to build and warble there, 'And little footsteps lightly print the ground.

THE EPITAPH.