Than from the cottage to the palace spread,

And told the world the bard of Ayr was dead:
The soft infection thro' Edina ran,

And mourn'd alike the poet and the man.
Nor empty sighs alone attend thy hearse,
But nobler griefs from many a plaintive verse;
E'en I must pour these numbers from my heart,
Whilst grief unfeign'd supplies the place of art.
Oh! that my simple song could half repay
The tuneful lessons that thy lines convey.

"" Sing, Muse of Scotia, sing the mournful strain," And weep for ever, tho' you weep in vain,

The verdant herbs, the flowers, the tender shoots,
The opening buds, the blossoms, and the fruits,

In every year renew their painted pride,
By winter wither'd, but by spring supplied.
But we, the wise, the great, the lords of all,
One season flourish, then for ever fall;

Nor spring's mild breeze, nor summer's genial ray, Can burst the tomb to animate our clay.

And thou, sweet bard, tho' all the world shall weep, Till angels wake thee, must for ever sleep.

Nor all the songs the pensive village maid

Chaunts o'er thy grave to soothe her poet's shade,
Shall break the silence of thy peaceful shrine,
No music reach thee tho' the strain were thine.

"Sing, Muse of Scotia, sing the mournful strain ;"

Can sorrow enter where the Muses reign?

Alas! unhappy bard! thy timeless fate *

Would half confess it, did I dare relate

The editor of Burns' works draws a veil over his misfortunes, which it would be an unhallowed labour to remove. Thus much, however, must be said, that the difficulties with which the poet had to struggle did not altogether arise from his own imprudence, but rather from that suspicion which the activity of a man of genius always creates in the bosom of dunces. Of the patronage which they conferred upon the poet the Scotch have not much reason to boast, nor can praise be bestowed upon their acknowledgment of his merits when dead, whom they would not support whilst living.

Thy many struggles ere thy worth was known,

The

envy,

and the want that weigh'd thee down;

The slow relief that came too late to save

The broken spirit from an early grave.

Oh! that the world, tho' wide and bad, should hold

One head so wicked, and one heart so cold;
Whom Burns' simple numbers fail'd to charm,
Whom Burns' artless virtues could not warm.

Sing, Muse of Scotia, sing the mournful strain;" Nor want, nor envy, could that virtue stain:

But they, if such there were, whom envy fir'd,
T'oppress the man, by every Muse inspir'd,
Shall all unpitied to the grave descend,

Live without love, and die without a friend.
Whilst Burns endures an ever-glorious name,
Grav'd on the column of eternal fame;

Burns died in his 38th year, at a time when his taste must have been improved, his judgment strengthened, and all his faculties matured —at a time when many others have scarcely entered upon their

course.

Of all his honours, this the least reward,

That I must rev'rence and lament the bard:
And to his much-lov'd memory grateful raise
This simple altar of unpolish'd lays.

Trin. Coll. Camb. 1804.

ON

THE DEATH OF

A YOUNG LADY.

Cecidit, velut prati

Ultimi flos, prætereunte postquam

Fractus aratro est

CATULLUS.

FROM learned solitudes where science reigns

With undivided sway o'er Granta's plains;

From cloisters echoing with no vulgar noise,

But vocal only to the Muses voice;

Say, should the murmur of a sigh arise?

Should tears e'er glisten in a student's eyes?

Can study ease the soul to grief a prey,

Books soothe the mind, and charm our woes away?