ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
, "Elegy. To the Memory of Robert Burns" Edinburgh Magazine or Literary Miscellany NS 8 (December 1796) 465-67.
1786: Henry Mackenzie
1787: J. B.
1787: Helen Maria Williams
1787: William Cowper
1787: Anna Seward
1788: Gavin Turnbull
1788: J. J-n
1788: J. R-d
1788: James Maxwell
1788: James Macaulay
1789: Rev. Thomas Blacklock
1791: William Gifford
1791 ca.: James Graham
1791: Thomas Scotus
1791: Helen Maria Williams
1792: Samuel Thomson
1793: William Yates
1794: Rev. James Grahame
1796: William Roscoe
1796 ca.: Charlotte Smith
1796: J. H.
1796: Alexander Balfour
1796: W. B.
1796: E. Hyslop
1796: A Lady
1796: An Auld Fifeshire Ploughman
1797: A. W.
1797: William Hamilton Reid
1797: Edward Rushton
1797: William Roscoe
1797: A Mourner
1797: Thomas Mounsey Cunningham
1798: John Struthers
1798: David Crawford
1800: Charles Lamb
1800: William Roscoe
1800: J. F. D.
1800: Thomas Sanderson
1802: Leigh Hunt
1802: James Pace
1803: William Wordsworth
1804: David Irving
1805: Rev. Henry Boyd
1805: A. M. A.
1805: J. G. Bagshaw
1805: Thomas Stott
1806: Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges
1806: John Struthers
1806: Alexander Wilson
1806: H. C.
1806: Hamilton Paul
1807: William Wordsworth
1807: Lady Anne Hamilton
1807: Robert Tannahill
1807: A. M. P.
1808: John-Henry Kenney
1808: A Young Lady of Sixteen
1809: A Caledonian
1810: Robert Tannahill
1812: George Dyer
1812: A. Kyne
1813: Mary Russell Mitford
1813: Lord Byron
1814: Earl of Buchan
1814: W. Jos. Walter
1815: William Henry Ireland
1816: George Colman the Younger
1816: Thomas Campbell
1816: John Mayne
1816: T. W. Lake
1816: An English Lady
1817: Hugh Campbell
1818: John Keats
1818: Charles Lamb
1818: John Keats
1818: S. A. N.
1818: A Lowland Laddie
1818: Richard Hatt
1819: John Wilson
1819: James Thomson of London
1819: A Literary Gentleman
1819: John Gibson Lockhart
1820: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
1820: James Montgomery
1820: Nicholas Toms Carrington
1820: James Boswell the Younger
1820: W. G.
1821: Mary Leman Rede
1821: Anne Powell
1822: Fitz-Greene Halleck
1822: James B. Sheys
1822: J. D. C.
1823: Rev. William Gillespie
1824: William Hazlitt
1824: Allan Cunningham
1824: Bryan Waller Procter
1825 ca.: Henry Mackenzie
1825: James B. Sheys
1825: Allan Cunningham
1826: Herbert Barton
1826: Richard Ryan
1827: Sir Walter Scott
1828: Walter Savage Landor
1828: Thomas Carlyle
1829: Anna Brownell Jameson
1829: J. S.
1830 ca.: Rev. Henry Francis Cary
1830: Rev. George Barrell Cheever
1831: John Wilson
1832: James Hogg
1833: James Montgomery
1836: L. L.
1840: Thomas Carlyle
1842: Robert Story
1842: C. H. Timperley
1843: John Holland
1844: John Wilson
1844: Dr. David Macbeth Moir
1851: Dr. David Macbeth Moir
1866: Bryan Waller Procter
1880: John Service
1882: Epes Sargent
1796: Robert Burns
1796: Dr. John Wolcot
1800: Thomas Campbell
1803: James Beattie
1807 ca.: David Carey
1820 ca.: Thomas Gray
1820: Thomas Pringle
The ling'ring sun's last parting beam
On mountain tops had died away,
And Night, the friend of Fancy's dream,
Stole o'er the fields in dusky grey.
Tir'd of the busy bustling throng,
I wander'd forth along the vale,
To list the widow'd blackbird's song,
And breathe the balmy ev'ning gale.
Stretch'd on a bank of verdant hue,
Beneath a sweetly sylvan shade,
Where waving willows seem'd to bow,
And weep above their wat'ry bed.
'Twas here my muse without controul
Essay'd on flutt'ring wing to rise;
When listless langour seiz'd my soul,
And drowsy slumbers seal'd my eyes.
In Morpheus's arms supinely laid,
My vagrant fancy rov'd astray;
When, lo! in radiant robes array'd,
A spirit wing'd its airy way!
With dumb surprise and solemn awe,
I wond'ring gazed, 'till by my side
A maid of matchless grace I saw,
Array'd in more than mortal pride.
Her eye was like the lightning's gleam,
That can thro' boundless space pervade,
But sorrow seem'd to shade its beam,
And pallid grief her cheek o'erspread.
A flow'ry wreathe with bays entwin'd,
Fresh blooming from her girdle hung;
Then on the daisied bank reclin'd,
She touch'd a harp for sadness strung:
The trembling strings — the murm'ring rill—
The hollow breeze that breath'd between—
Responsive echo from the hill—
All join'd to swell the solemn scene.
The maid in accents sadly sweet
To sorrow gave unbounded sway;
My throbbing heart forgot to beat
While thus she pour'd the plaintive lay"
"I am the muse of Caledon',
From earliest ages aye admir'd;
Thro' her most distant corners known,
Oft has my voice her sons inspir'd.
"My charms once fir'd a royal breast,
A King who Scotia's sceptre bore;
I sooth'd his soul, with trouble prest,
When captive on a foreign shore:
"My bays have on a Soldier's brow,
Amidst his well-known laurels twin'd,
Inspir'd his soul with martial glow,
And call'd his country's wrongs to mind.
"The warblings of my harp have won
A mitred son from Holy See;
Who oft from morn to setting sun,
Would hold a carnival with me.
"But chief of all the tuneful train,
Was BURNS, my last — my latest care;
I nurs'd him on his native plain,
But now his absence is despair!
"I hail'd his happy natal hour,
And o'er his infant cradle hung;
Ere Fancy's wild unbounded pow'r,
Or Reason's earliest bud was sprung.
"I saw the young ideas rise
Successive, in his youthful mind;
Nor could the peasant's garb disguise
The kindling flame that lay confin'd.
"Oft have I met him on the dale,
Companion of the thoughtless throng;
And led him down the dewy vale,
To carrol forth some artless song.
"Unseen by all but him alone,
I chear'd his labours through the day;
And when the rural task was done,
We sought some wild sequester'd way.
"On Coila's hills, or woodlands wild,
By Stinchar's banks, or Luggar's stream,
There would I place my darling child,
And soothe him with some pleasing dream.
"These haunts to him were blissful bow'rs,
Where all the soul was unconfin'd;
And Fancy cull'd her choicest flow'rs,
To warm her youthful Poet's mind.
"Nurs'd on the healthful happy plains,
Where Love's first blush from Virtue springs,
'Twas Nature taught the heart-felt strains,
That o'er the vassal'd cot he sings.
"Keen Poverty with wither'd arms,
Compress'd him in her cold embrace;
And mental Grief's ungracious harms
Had furrow'd o'er his youthful face.
"Yet there, the dear delightful flame
Which rules the breast with boundless sway;
Resistless fir'd his melting frame,
And taught the love-lamenting lay.
"A friend to mirth and foe to care,
Yet form'd to feel for worth opprest;
His sympathetic soul could share
The woes that wrung a brother's breast.
"Ah, gentle bard! thy tend'rest tear
Was o'er a hapless orphan shed!
But who shall thy sweet prattlers chear,
Now that a green-turf wraps thy head?
"He that can still the raven's voice,
And deck the lily's breast like snow;
Can make thy orphan train rejoice,
And soothe thy widow's song of woe.
"Ye souls, of sympathetic mind,
Whom smiling Plenty deigns to crown;
Yours be the task — their wounds to bind,
And make their sorrows all your own.
"To banish Want and pale-faced Care,
To wipe the tear from Mis'ry's eye,
Is such a bliss as Angels share,
And tell with joy above the sky!
"Where are the strains of heart-felt woe,
That echoed o'er Glencairn's sad urn?
And where is now Oppression's foe,
Who taught, that 'Man was made to mourn?'
"Why, when his morning calmly smil'd,
Did Hope forebode a lengthen'd day?
My promis'd joys are now beguil'd,
Since darkness hides my darling's clay.
"Yet rest in peace, thou gentle shade,
Although the narrow-house be thine;
No pious rite shall pass unpaid,
No hands unhallow'd stain thy shrine!
"The torrent dashing down the steep,
The wild-wave foaming far below;
In Nature's notes for thee shall weep,
With all the majesty of Woe:
"When Winter howls across the plain,
And spreads a thick obscuring gloom;
His winds on Coila shall complain,
And hoarsely murmur o'er thy tomb.
"There virgin Spring shall first be seen,
To deck with flow'rs thy dewy bed;
And Summer, rob'd in richest green,
Shall hang her roses o'er thy head:
"When Autumn calls thy fellow swains,
(Companions now, alas! no more,)
To reap "the plenty of their plains,"
Their mingling sighs shall thee deplore.
"The artless maid, who never knew
To feign the joy her heart deny'd,
Resolv'd to bless her shepherd true,
And vanquish all her virgin pride;
"Beneath the silent star of night,
With him shall bend above thy shrine;
There, mutual love the pair shall plight,
And heav'n approve the deed divine.
"O pour a tear of tend'rest woe,
Ye breasts who boast congenial fire;
Let sympathetic wailings flow,
And Sorrow's song attune the lyre.
"Ye warblers flitting on the wind,
Chaunt forth your saddest plaintive strain;
And weep, for ye have lost a friend,
Ye little wand'rers of the plain!
"This garland for my bard entwin'd,
No brow but his shall ever wear;
Around his turf these flow'rs I'll bind,
And wet them nightly with my tear.
"While dews descend upon his tomb,
So long the Muse shall love his name;
Nor shall this wreath forget to bloom,
Till latest ages sing thy fame.
"Ye wand'rers in the wilds of song,
On whom I have not smil'd in vain,
Would ye the blissful hours prolong,
Oh shun seductive Pleasure's train!
"The bays that flourish round her bow'rs,
Are venom'd o'er with noxious dews;
The thorns that lurk amidst her flow'rs,
A rankling poison oft infuse.
"Tho' Lux'ry's lap seem softly spread,
The couch of joy, and blest repose;
Yet hissing furies haunt her bed,
And rack the mind with poignant woes!
"The hedge-row'd plain, the flow'ry vale,
Where rosy Health delighted roves,
Where Labour tells his jocund tale,
And village maidens sing their loves,
"'Tis there the Muse unfolds her charms,
From thence her sons should never stray—
Ye souls whom boundless Fancy warms,
Still keep this calm sequester'd way.
"So may that wide-spread well-won praise,
Which echoes o'er my darling's tomb;
Congenial bloom amidst your bays,
And heav'n bestow a happier doom!"
She ceas'd her song of sorrow deep,
Her warbling harp was heard no more:
I waked — and wish'd again to sleep,
But ah! the pleasing dream was o'er.
My infant muse, untaught to sing,
Has marr'd the vision's solemn strain;
Too harshly touch'd the pensive string,
To soothe thy shade, lamented swain!
Unskill'd to frame the venal lay,
That flows not from a heart sincere;
'Tis mine, this artless meed to pay—
The heart-felt sigh — and silent tear!