The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, linnet 45

The mavis mild and mellow;

thrush

The robin pensive autumn cheer,

In all her locks of yellow.

This, too, a covert shall ensure,

To shield them from the storms; And coward maukins sleep secure,

Low in their grassy forms:

The shepherd here shall make his seat,
To weave his crown of flowers;

Or find a sheltering safe retreat,
From prone descending showers.

And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair,

Despising worlds, with all their wealth,
As empty idle care.

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ares

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The flowers shall vie in all their charms

Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,
Mild-chequering through the trees,
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream,
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool

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My lowly banks o'erspread,

And view, deep-bending in the pool,

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Their shadows' watery bed!

Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest

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My craggy cliffs adorn;

And, for the little songster's nest,

The close embowering thorn.

So may old Scotia's darling hope,

Your little angel band,

Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
Their honour'd native land!

So may through Albionugh's farthest ken,

To social-flowing glasses,

The grace be—“Athol's honest men,

And Athol's bonnie lasses!"

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BURNS.

EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON.

TAKE, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear: Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave: To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care

Her faded form; she bow'd to taste the wave, And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the line? 5 Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm?

Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine :

Ev'n from the grave thou shalt have power to charm.

Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee;
Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move;
And if so fair, from vanity as free;

As firm in friendship, and as fond in love,
Tell them, though 't is an awful thing to die,

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('T was ev'n to thee) yet the dread path once trod, Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high,

And bids "the pure in heart behold their God."

MASON.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S

PICTURE.

O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,

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The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim

To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

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O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bids me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own ;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

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A momentary dream, that thou art she.

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My Mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew

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A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such ?-It was.-Where thou art gone

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,

The parting word shall pass my lips no more!

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Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believed,
And disappointed still, was still deceived;
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,

Till, all my
I learn'd at last submission to my lot,

stock of infant sorrow spent,

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

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Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt, "T is now become a history little known, That once we call'd the pastoral house our own.

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Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd:
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,

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That humour interposed too often makes;

All this still legible in memory's page,

And still to be so to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay

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Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 75 The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,)
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
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Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.—
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,

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