ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL,
OF GLEN RIDDEL, 1794.

O more, ye warblers of the wood, no more,
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my

soul;

Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest

roar.

How can ye charm, ye flowers with all your dyes?
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend;
How can I to the tuneful strain attend?

That strain flows round the untimely tomb where
Riddel lies.

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe,
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier;
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer,
Is in his narrow house for ever darkly low.

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet,
Me, memory of my loss will only meet.

(Burns.)

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

HOU lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lovest to greet the early morn,
Again thou usherest in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade,
Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallowed grove

Where, by the winding Ayr, we met

To live one day of parting love.

Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past,
Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last.

Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild wood's thickening green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar Twined amorous round the raptured scene ;

The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of wingèd day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade,
Where is thy blissful place of rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

(Burns.)

LIFE.

IFE, I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;

And when, or how, or where we met,

I own to me's a secret yet.

Life, we have been long together,

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;

'Tis hard to part when friends are dear—

Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear,—

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time,

Say not good night, but, in some brighter clime,

Bid me good morning.

(Mrs. Barbauld.)

ELEGIAC POEMS.

NINETEENTH CENTURY.