Robert Burns

William Hamilton Reid?, "An Elegy to the Memory of Mr. Robert Burns, the celebrated Scots Poet" American Universal Magazine [Philadelphia] 1 (20 March 1797) 447-48.

As late I walk'd beneath the moon's pale rays,
Accusing fortune of my scanty share,
How I had spent — mispent, my youthful days,
To gain the favour of a venal fair;
Instant a form, in solemn sable clad,
Approach'd my path with heedless steps, and slow;
Pale fading laurels, hung adown her head,
And her dishevel'd hair did indicate her woe.

"Forbear," she cried, "nor think of woes but mine;
The pride of nature and these plains is dead.
The favourite songster of the tuneful nine,
Is fled forever — Is forever fled.—
COILA'S my name — with BURNS I oft' did go,
And did his bold poetic flame inspire;
Made his enraptur'd fancy smoothly flow,
And taught the bard to catch from heaven the sacred fire.

"With me he wander'd by the purling rill,
With me he stray'd upon the distant lawn,
And oft we climb'd yon cloud-capp'd distant hill,
And reach'd its summit, by the early dawn.
O Melpomene, muse of tragic woe—
Mourn him who sung of ruin and despair:
E'en smiling Thalia fraught with sprightly flow,
Lament his fate, who sung upon the banks of Ayr.

"Have we not seen him skim the dewy lawn?
And with advent'rous fingers sweep the lyre?
Have we not seen him at the early dawn,
Enraptur'd high with fancy's sacred fire?
Has not his fame in distant lands been told?
Has not his voice been pleasant to our ear?
Has not the youthful gay, the serious old,
Been highly charm'd, who now must shed the bitter tear?

"Ye sportive Naiades of the gurgling rills,
Lament his fate in Irvine, Ayr, and Doon,
Pour forth your plaints, till all the distant hills,
Do nod their sorrow to the silent moon:
For me, I'll weep while hills and streams endure;
I'll wand'ring mourn, and tell the groves my grief,
The lawn shall hear me at an early hour,
Nor shall I ever deign to take the least relief.

"I go," she cry'd, "nor ever shall return,—
I go forever from this once lov'd field,
My fate is fix'd — disconsolate I'll mourn,
Since Scotia now no longer charms can yield."
Her grief stung bosom heav'd with bitter sighs,
She seem'd prepar'd to take her distant flight;—
She turn'd and left me with her tear-swoln eyes,
And in a cloud of mist evanish'd from my sight.
W. Reid.
Kensington, Feb. 19, 1797.