Press'd in unrighteous fight, with just disdain
To wrench so many darts, and wrench in vain,
Much pondering in his mind, the chief revolv'd
Each rising thought; at last he springs resolv'd;
Full at the warrior steed the hostile wood
He threw, that pierc'd his brain and drank the blood.
Stung with the pain, the steed up-rear'd on high
His sounding hoofs, and lash'd the yielding sky;
Prone fell the warrior from his lofty height,
His shoulders broad receiv'd the courser's weight.
From host to host the mingling shouts rebound,
Deep echoing all in fire the heav'ns resound;
Unsheath'd his flaming blade, Æneas flies,
And thus address'd the warrior as he lies:
"Say, where is now Mezentius great and bold,
That haughty spirit, fierce and uncontrol'd?”
To whom the Tuscan, with recover'd breath,
As faint he view'd the skies, recall'd from death;
"Dost thou the stroke, insulting man! delay?
Haste! let thy vengeance take its destin'd way:
Death never can disgrace the warrior's fame
Who dies in fight; nor conquest-was my aim:
Slain, savage! by thy hand in glorious strife,
Not so my Lausus bargain'd for my life:
Depriv'd of him, sole object of my love,
I seek to die;-for joy is none above.
Yet, piteous of my fate, this grace allow,
If pity to the vanquish'd foe be due,
Suffer my friends my gather'd bones to burn,
And decent lay me in the funeral urn:
Full well I know my people's hate, decreed
Against the living, will pursue the dead;
My breathless body from their fury save,
And grant my son the partner of my grave."
He said, and steadfast eyed the victor foe;
Then gave his breast undaunted to the blow.
The rushing blood distain'd his arms around;
The soul indignant sought the shades profound.

THE CORYCIAN SWAIN.

FROM GEORGICS, IV.-LINE 116.
BUT, were I not, before the favouring gale,
Making to port, and crowding all my sail,
Perhaps I might the garden's glories sing,
The double roses of the Pæstan spring;
How endive drinks the rill, and how are seen
Moist banks with celery for ever green;
How, twisted in the matted herbage, lies
The bellying cucumber's enormous size;
What flowers Narcissus late, how Nature weaves
The yielding texture of acanthus' leaves:
Of ivy pale the culture next explore,

And whence the lover-myrtle courts the shore.
For I remember (where Galesus yields
His humid moisture to the yellow fields,
And high Oebalia's tow'rs o'erlook the plain,)
I knew in youth an old Corycian swain;
A few and barren acres were his share,
Left and abandon'd to the good man's care;
Nor these indulg'd the grassy lawn, to feed
The fattening bullock, nor the bounding steed,
Nor gave to cattle browze, nor food to kine,
Bacchus averse refus'd the mantling vinc.
What happy nature to his lands denied,
An honest, painful industry supplied;
For, trusting pot-herbs to his bushy ground,
For becs, fair candid lilies flourish'd round,

Vervain for health, for bread he poppies plants,`
With these he satisfied all nature's wants,
And late returning home from wholesome toil,
Enjoy'd the frugal bounty of the soil.
His mind was royal in a low estate,
And dignified the meanness of his fate.
He first in Spring was seen to crop the rose,
In Autumn first t' unload the bending boughs;
For every bud the early year bestow'd,
A reddening apple on the branches glow'd.
Ev'n in the midst of Winter's rigid reign,
When snow and frost had whiten'd o'er the plain,
When cold had split the rocks, and stript the woods,
And shackled up the mighty running floods,
He then, anticipating Summer's hopes,
The tendrils of the soft acanthus crops;
His industry awak'd the lazy Spring,
And hasten'd on the Zephyr's loitering wing.
For this with pregnant bees he chief was known
T' abound: the balmy harvest all his own.
Successive swarms reward his faithful toil;
None press'd from richer combs the liquid spoil.
He crown'd his rural orchard's plain design,
With flowering lime-trees, and a wealth of pine.
He knew in graceful order to dispose
Large-bodied elms, transplanted into rows.
Hard pear-trees flourish'd near his rustic dome,
And thorns already purple with the plum;
Broad planes arose to form an ample bow'r,
Where mirth's gay sons refresh'd the sultry hour,
But I this grateful subject must discard,
The pleasing labour of some future bard.

THE

TWENTIETH ODE OF ANACREON, FAIR Niobe, old times survey'd,

In Phrygian hills, a marble maid.
Chang'd Pandion! to the swallow's hue,
On swallow's wings thy daughter flew.
But I a looking-glass would be,
That thou might'st see thyself in me.
No; I would be a morning gown,
That so my dear might me put on.
But I a silver stream would flow,
To wash thy skin, as pure as snow.
I would myself in ointment pour,
To bathe thee with the fragrant show'r,
But I would be thy tucker made,
Thy lovely swelling bosom's shade.
I would, a diamond necklace, deck

The comely rising of thy neck.

I would thy slender feet enclose,
To tread on me transform'd to shoes.

TRE

TWENTY-FIRST ODE OF ANACREON. FILL with Bacchus' blessings fraught, Ye virgins, fill a mighty draught: Long since dried up by heat, I faint, I scarcely breathe, and feverish pant. O! with these fresher flowers, renew The fading garland on my brow, For oh! my forehead's raging heat Has rifled all their graces sweet;

The rage of thirst I yet can quell,

The rage of heat I can repel,

But, love! thy heat which burns my soul,

THE

TWENTY-SECOND ODE OF ANACREON.

COME, sit beneath this shade with me,
My lovely maid, how fair the tree!
Its tender branches wide prevail,
Obedient to each breathing gale;
Summer's loom industrious weaves
In mazy veins the silken leaves,
Soft as the milky veins I view,
O'er thy fair breast meandering blue;
Hard by a fount with murmuring noise
Runs a sweet persuasive voice;-
What lover, say, my lovely maid,
So foolish as to pass this shade?

ON LORD BARGENY.

Go hence instructed from this early urn,
Wise as you weep, and better as you mourn;
This urn, where titles, fortune, youth repose,
How vain the fleeting good that life bestows!
Learn, age, when now it can no more supply,
To quit the burden, and consent to die;
Secure, the truly virtuous never tell

How long the part was acted, but how well:
Youth, stand convicted of each foolish claim,
Fach daring wish of lengthen'd life and fame;
Thy life a moment, and thy fame a breath,
The natural end, oblivion and death;
Hear then this solemn truth, obey its call,
Submiss adore, for this is mankind's all.

EPITAPHS.

ON LORD NEWHALL.

To fame let flattery the proud column raise,
And guilty greatness load with venal praise,
This monument, for nobler use design'd,
Speaks to the heart, and rises for mankind;
Whose moral strain, if rightly understood,
Invites thee to be humble, wise, and good.
Learn here, of life, life's every sacred end;
Hence form the father, husband, judge, and friend:
Here wealth and greatness found no partial grace,
The poor look'd fearless in th' oppressor's face;
One plain good meaning through his conduct ran,
And if he err'd, alas! he err'd as man.
If then, unconscious of so fair a fame,
Thou read'st without the wish to be the same,
Though proud of titles, or of boundless store,
By blood ignoble, and by wealth made poor,
Yet read; some vice perhaps thou may'st resign,
Be ev'n that momentary virtue thine,
Heav'n in thy breast here work its first essay,
Think on this man, and pass unblam'd one day.

ON LORD BINNING.

BENEATH this sacred marble ever sleeps,
For whom a father, mother, consort weeps
Whom brothers', sisters', pious griefs pursue,
And childrens' tears with virtuous drops bedew:
The Loves and Graces grieving round appear,
Ev'n Mirth herself becomes a mourner here;
The stranger who directs his steps this way
Shall witness to thy worth, and wondering say,-
"Thy life, though short, can we unhappy call?
Sure thine was blest, for it was social all:
O may no hostile hand this place invade,
For ever sacred to thy gentle shade!
Who knew in all life's offices to please,
Join'd taste to virtue, and to virtue ease;
With riches blest, did not the poor disdain,
Was knowing, humble, friendly, great, humane;

ON SIR JAMES SUTTIE.

THIS unambitious stone preserves a name
To friendship sanctified, untouch'd by fame;
A son this rais'd, by holy duty fir'd,
These sung a friend, by friendly zeal inspir'd.
No venal falsehood stain'd the filial tear;
Unbought, unask'd, the friendly praise sincere;
Both for a good man weep, without offence,
Who led his days in ease and innocence.
His tear rose honest; honest rose his smile;
His heart no falsehood knew, his tongue no guile;
A simple mind with plain just notions fraught,
Nor warp'd by wit, nor by proud science taught;
Nature's plain light still, rightly understood,
That never hesitates the fair and good-
Who view'd self-balanc'd, from his calm retreat,
The storms that vex the busy and the great,
Unmingling in the scene, whate'er befel
Pitied his suffering kind, and wish'd them well;
Careless if monarchs frown'd, or statesmen smil'd,
His purer joy, his friend, his wife, or child;
Constant to act the hospitable part,
Love in his look, and welcome in his heart;
Such unpriz'd blessings did his life employ,
The social moment, the domestic joy,

A joy beneficent, warm, cordial, kind,
That leaves no doubt, no grudge, no sting behind:
The heart-born rapture that from virtue springs,
The poor man's portion God withheld from kings.
This life at decent time was bid to cease,
Finish'd among his weeping friends in peace:
Go, traveller, wish his shade eternal rest,
Go, be the same, for this is to be blest.

ON MR. BAILLIE, OF JERVISWOOD. THE pious parent rais'd this hallow'd place A monument for them, and for their race: Descendants! be it your successive cares, That no degenerate dust e'er mix with their's.