No horns, but those by luckless Hymen word, is 50's And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn ::

!T No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur, Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur. In naked feeling, and in aching pride, He bears the unbroken blast from ev'ry side; Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.

Critics—appall’d I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame: Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes; He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, By blockheads' daring into madness stung; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear ;) Foil'd bleeding, tortur'd in the unequal strife,

16 The hapless poet flounders on thro' life, Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd," : bill And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd, ! !.,A Low sunk, in squalid, unprotected age, Dead even resentment for his injured page, :-), I He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage !T

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceas'd,
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast; if
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone,
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son.

O dulness ! portion of the truly blest!
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest!
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams.
If mantling high she fills the golden cup,
With sober selfish ease they sip it up;

1

Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,
They only wonder "some folks' do not starve.
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope,
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope,
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear,
And just conclude that ' fools are fortune's care.'
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox,

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train,
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain;
In equanimity they never dwell,
By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell.

I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe,
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear!
Already one strong-hold of hope is lost,
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust;
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears,
And left us darkling in a world of tears :)
Oh! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray’r!
Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare !
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown,
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down !
May bliss domestic smooth his private path;

ve energy to life ; and sooth his latest breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!

The wind blew hollow frae the hills,

By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream: Beneath a craigy steep, a bard,

Laden with years and meikle pain, In loud lament bewail'd his lord,

Whom death had all untimely ta’en.

He lean’d him to an ancient aik,

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years ;' His locks were bleached white wi' time!

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! And as he touch'd his trembling harp,

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,

To echo bore the notes alang.

“ Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing,

The reliques of the vernal quire!
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds

The honours of the aged year!
A few short months, and glad and gay,

Again ye'll charm the ear and ee;
But nocht in a' revolving time

Can gladness bring again to me.

1

“I am a bending aged tree,

That long has stood the wind and rain; But now has come a cruel blast,

And my last hold of earth is gane: Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring,

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; But I maun lie before the storm,

And ithers plant them in my room.

“ I've seen sae mony changefu' years,

On earth I am a stranger grown; I wander in the ways of men,

Alike unknowing and unknown: Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd,

I bear alane my lade o' care, For silent, low, on beds o’ dust,

Lie a' that would my sorrows share.

“ And last (the sum of a' my griefs !)

My noble master lies in clay; The flow'r amang our barons bold,

His country's pride, his country's stay; In weary being now I pine,

For a' the life of life is dead, And hope has left my aged ken,

On forward wing for ever fled.

“ Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!

The voice of woe and wild despair! Awake, resound thy latest lay,

Then sleep in silence evermair ! And thou, my last, best, only friend,

That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the bard

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom.

“ In poverty's low barren vale,

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round; Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye,

Nae ray of fame was to be found : Thou found'st me, like the morning sun

That melts the fogs in limpid air; The friendless bard, and rustic song,

Became alike thy fostering care.

“ Oh! why has worth so short a date,

While villains ripen grey with time? Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great,

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime! Why did I live to see that day?

A day to me so full of woe ! Oh! had I met the mortal shaft

Which laid my benefactor low!

“ The bridegroom may forget the bride

Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown

That on his head an hour has been; The mother may forget the child

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

And a' that thou hast done for me!”