And those who scorn'd to cheer his humble home,
Too late repentant, rais'd the splendid dome.

But marble monuments to dust shall turn,
And silent time o'erthrow the sculptur'd urn;
A nobler record of his fame we find

In the rich treasures of his matchless mind,
Who makes our bosoms glow at his command,
And rules the passions with his magic wand.

Say, is there one whose aspirations rise
To Him whose throne is fix'd above the skies?
Who would not with the pious cottars kneel,
His full heart panting for the hopes they feel?
Each parent, sure, must feel the hallow'd fire,
And every child revere the hoary sire.

Who would not sigh for innocence betray'd-
"Sweet artless blossom of the rural shade?"
What bosom bleeds not o'er his tale of woe,
When love's keen shaft produc'd th' anguish'd throw?
Or lives the man by love e'er doom'd to mourn,
Who would not weep o'er Highland Mary's urn?

His Mountain Daisy, and the Mouse's Nest,
Wake keen reflection in each thinking breast,
Inspire dur sympathy, excite our fears,
And raise our views beyond this vale of tears.

But when, in vision wrapt, he sings sublime,
And boundless Fancy soars o'er space and time,
With living light the fairy landscape glows,
And green the holly glistens round his brows!
When tempests howl, and thunder shakes the skies,
Where Alloway's old haunted ruins rise,
The picture lives ;-in Promethean fire
The figures start at his enchanting lyre;
And such the magic of his wizard spell,
We mark each motion in the imps of hell.

The faithful paintings of his glowing page
Delight the young, and soothe the cares of age;
Their years forgot, they mingle in each scene;
List to his Dogs; sport in his Hallow-e'en ;
Fond Fancy guides them to the glen and grove,
To whisper, soft, their wonted tales of love;
Or lone, complaining to the Harvest Moon,
Address the Banks and Braes o' bonny Doon;"
Or join the Plough-boy, whistling o'er the plain,
And, joyous, live their youthful years again.

Peace to his shade! and sacred be his fame!
While Scotia's sons revere the Muses' flame,
While blushing loves her daughters' checks adorn,
Their bosoms spotless as the dews of morn;
So long his lays shall over time prevail,
Speed with the light, and float upon the gale;
Till love and beauty, song and Scotian lore,

Brown hills, green vales, and music charm no more!

THE fox was sleeping in his secret lair,
The tim'rous hare close in her covert lay,
Dim fogs and darkness curtain'd o'er the air,

And crisping hoar-frost cloth'd the leafless spray;

Edina's streets display'd a blaze of light,

The prying watchman slowly went his round, While ceaseless, on the drowsy ear of night,

Burst many a blithe and strange commingling sound; When lo! on old St Giles's towering spire

A spectre stood, of tall majestic mien;
Encircled round with bright electric fire,

With snow-white locks and countenance serene :
From his broad shoulders wings were seen to wave;
He held an hour-glass in his trembling hand,
And many a glance and earnest look he gave,
To mark its trickling, nearly-wasted sand!

A scythe of pond'rous size the spectre shook,
And seem❜d to stretch it o'er the gazing crowd;
He rais'd his eye, with melancholy look,

And thus, in solemn accents, spoke aloud:

"My race is o'er! fast speeds my closing hour;
But few remaining sands have now to run;
Yet I have had my day of pomp and power,
And, in my course, have spoils and triumphs won.

""Twas mine to burst Oppression's iron chain;
From Superstition's eyes to lift the veil ;
To see Columbia spurn the yoke of Spain,
And Freedom's banner floating on the gale-

"To see the shades of 'mighty dead' descend;
On plains of Marathon again to gaze:—
I saw their sons in glorious strife contend-
Their fathers, smiling, fann'd the fervid blaze.
""Twas mine a vanquish'd hero's eyes to close,
Whose blighted laurels long had ceas'd to bloom;
And bid a hapless queen in peace repose,

And end her devious wand'rings in the tomb.

"But I have seen Ambition's restless strife Pervade the cot, the altar, and the throne;

Seen party rancour poison social life;

Heard the oppressor's shout-his victims groan.
"I've seen a despot draw the murdʼrous steel,
In vengeance, on a poor degraded race;
Beheld the abject cowards crouching kneel,

Their country's stain, their ancestor's disgrace! "I've seen the warm enthusiast fondly dream; Heard Sophistry confounding right and wrong;

Scen Folly basking in the meteor's gleam;

Heard Courtly Flattery chant the venal song.

"And now, I see, from this time-honour'd seat, Which long has brav'd stern winter's wildest storm, A splendid city spread beneath my feet,

And rising still in renovated form.

"She stands sublime in venerable pride,
With castled cliff and massive hoary pile;
Her modern glory grows on every side,
Each coming day beholds new beauties smile.

"Her spacious streets to right and left extend,
Her tow'ring columns proudly seek the sky;
Unrivalled shall Edina's name descend,

Her modern fame with ancient Athens vie.

"But ah! her sons, in pride of polish'd art,
Have Nature's nobler beauties rudely torn;
With ruthless hand, and cold, unfeeling heart,
Insensate, they her finest features scorn.

"Yon beetling cliffs*, whose gray heads rise sublime,
In hoary grandeur and majestic pride,
Whose rugged crags have brav'd the hand of time,
The piercing frost, and fiery bolt defied,

"Must yield their honours to plebeian hands,
And, shiver'd, fall beneath a peasant's toil!
For tasteless Wealth the sacrifice demands,
That Avarice may riot in the spoil!

"Oh! yet be warn'd; the mandate stern revoke,
And Nature's fine romantic features spare;
Edina! stop the sacrilegious stroke-

Oh! do not thou the guilty plunder share!

"For dissolution dwells in every stone,

Each crumbling cliff accelerates thy doom;
And thou, who hast so long unrivall'd shone,
Shalt, in the palace, build thy splendid tomb!

"In plenitude of pomp thou may'st rejoice,
And proudly sit, fair Caledonia's Queen ;
But list, attentive to my warning voice,
Remember-Tadmor was-and Troy has been !

"But thou canst boast in richer, nobler pride,
Than lofty towers or splendid domes supply;
When these are swallow'd in oblivion's tide,
The memory of thy sons shall never die.
"They stand recorded on the roll of fame,

For song and science, in exhaustless store;
And thou shalt live in many a mighty name
Of sages fam'd for philosophic lore.

"Yes, these shall live, while ages roll away,
When pomp and pride in dust forgotten sleep;
Thy children's children, to time's latest day,
Shall their lov'd names in fond remembrance keep.
"Yet, what the poor ephemeral being, man?
An insect, sporting in the summer beam;
An atom, in the universal plan;

A feather, floating on time's rapid stream.

Salisbury Craigs.

VOL. X.

K

"The sun descends, and seals the insect's doom,
The atom mingles in the general mass,
The feather glides to occean's ample womb;
So man decays, and generations pass!

"Yet breathes a spark, to triumph o'er the urn,
Beyond earth's bounded narrow span to soar,
In happier climes, with purer light to burn,

When worlds dissolve, and time shall be no more."
With withering hand Time touch'd the mid-night bell→→→
The speaker paus'd, and bow'd his reverend head;
While slowly peal'd the deep sonorous knell,
In viewless air the hoary spectre fled.

THE THANE OF FIFE

THE distinguished author of the poem whose title we have now copied, was first known to the literary world as the bard of "Anster Fair," incomparably the best Mock Heroic in the English language; and we are singularly happy, that, after a long interval, he has once more come forward as a candidate for poetical renown. Knowing him to be a man of various learning, of inexhaustible invention, and of great originality, and allowing for the Horatian care and patience with which we have no doubt he elaborates his performances we certainly opened" The Thane of Fife" with highly-excited expectations of a rich and varied intellectual and imaginative banquet; and it affords us no common pleasure to state, that we were not wholly disappointed; but, on the contrary, discovered a mastery over language, a concentration and vividness of thought, a fertility of incident, and a diversity of character, seldom to be met with in the naked, pompous, and pretending compositions of still more celebrated writers. But, while the beauties of "The Thane of Fife" are so marked and conspicuous, the faults and blemishes are no less prominent; so much so, indeed, that were the beauties and the faults to be placed in the opposite scales of a critical balance, we are not quite sure which side would preponderate. But it may be said, in extenuation, that great faults are the tax which we pay for splendid beauties; and that the mind feels but little interest in, or sympathy with,

those too polished, and smoothed, and monotonous compositions, which, like a level and newly-shaven lawn, present no elevations on which the eye can repose, and no inequalities of landscape, to give the charm of contrast, and the buoyancy of expectation. This is, no doubt, to a certain degree, true; but, before we deliver our opinion more in detail, we shall present our readers with a brief outline of the incidents of the

poem.

Garnard, the son of Brude," who lately reigned in Pictland, o'er her every shire and shore," being " constrained to leave the realm" his father had oppressed by his misrule, had, for many years, wandered an exile, for the purpose of " exciting kings to arm and vindicate his throne." In the course of his peregrinations, he visited the king of the "Cimbrie Chersonese," or Denmark, who, actuated by the roving and buccaneering propensities of his countrymen of that day, rather than guided by any enlightened principles of legitimacy, readily seized the pretence of restoring young Garnard, to make a descent on the coast of Scotland. Accordingly, having made the necessary préparations himself, and been joined by "Harald, the bastard of the Swedish king," the invading force set sail, but encountered a violent storm, which threatened them with summary destruction, as they approached the coast of Caledonia; which they would never have lived to witness, but for a memorable prayer and vow of King Hungar.

By the Author of "Anster Fair." Edinburgh; Constable and Co.