Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down. Here friends and foes Lie close, unmindful of their former feuds. Nor pressed the nipple, strangled in life's porch; Whose every day was made of melody, Hears not the voice of mirth; the shrill-tongued shrew, Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding; Here are the wise, the generous, and the brave, Now fare ye well, my ain Jean, In the land o' the leal. (Lady Nairn.) ODE, 1746. OW sleep the Brave, who sink to rest By all their Country's wishes blest? When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung, (Collins.) ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homewards plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care, No children run to lisp their sire's return, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. |