Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down.
Unblasted by foul tongues.

Here friends and foes

Lie close, unmindful of their former feuds.
The lawn-robed prelate, and plain presbyter,
Ere-while that stood aloof, as shy to meet,
Familiar mingle here like sister streams
That some huge interposing rock had split.
Here is the large-limbed peasant, here the child
Of a span long, that never saw the sun,

Nor pressed the nipple, strangled in life's porch;
Here is the mother, with her sons and daughters,
The barren wife, and long-demurring maid,
Whose lonely unappropriated sweets
Smiled like yon knot of cowslips on the cliff,
Not to be come at by the willing hand;
Here are the prude severe, and gay coquet,
The sober widow, and the young green virgin
Cropped like a rose before 'tis fully blown,
Or half its worth disclosed. Strange medley here.
Here garrulous old age winds up his tale,
And jovial youth, of lightsome vacant heart,

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,
This world's care is vain, Jean,
We'll meet and aye be fain

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,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

(Collins.)

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
CHURCHYARD.

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,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl doth to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

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,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

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,
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 bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

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

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave
Await alike the inevitable hour,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.