Sweetly deckt with pearly dew
     The morning rose may blow;
     But cold successive noontide blasts
     May lay its beauties low.

     Fair on Isabella’s morn
     The sun propitious smil’d;
     But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
     Succeeding hopes beguil’d.

     Fate oft tears the bosom chords
     That Nature finest strung;
     So Isabella’s heart was form’d,
     And so that heart was wrung.

     Dread Omnipotence alone
     Can heal the wound he gave—­
     Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes
     To scenes beyond the grave.

     Virtue’s blossoms there shall blow,
     And fear no withering blast;
     There Isabella’s spotless worth
     Shall happy be at last.

Elegy On The Death Of Sir James Hunter Blair

     The lamp of day, with—­ill presaging glare,
     Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave;
     Th’ inconstant blast howl’d thro’ the dark’ning air,
     And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.

     Lone as I wander’d by each cliff and dell,
     Once the lov’d haunts of Scotia’s royal train;^1
     Or mus’d where limpid streams, once hallow’d well,^2
     Or mould’ring ruins mark the sacred fane.^3

     Th’ increasing blast roar’d round the beetling rocks,
     The clouds swift-wing’d flew o’er the starry sky,
     The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,
     And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.

     [Footnote 1:  The King’s Park at Holyrood House.—­R.  B.]

     [Footnote 2:  St. Anthony’s well.—­R.  B.]

     [Footnote 3:  St. Anthony’s Chapel.—­R.  B.]

     The paly moon rose in the livid east. 
     And ’mong the cliffs disclos’d a stately form
     In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast,
     And mix’d her wailings with the raving storm

     Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,
     ’Twas Caledonia’s trophied shield I view’d: 
     Her form majestic droop’d in pensive woe,
     The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.

     Revers’d that spear, redoubtable in war,
     Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl’d,
     That like a deathful meteor gleam’d afar,
     And brav’d the mighty monarchs of the world.

     “My patriot son fills an untimely grave!”
     With accents wild and lifted arms she cried;
     “Low lies the hand oft was stretch’d to save,
     Low lies the heart that swell’d with honest pride.

     “A weeping country joins a widow’s tear;
     The helpless poor mix with the orphan’s cry;
     The drooping arts surround their patron’s bier;
     And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh!

     “I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;
     I saw fair Freedom’s blossoms richly blow: 
     But ah! how hope is born but to expire! 
     Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.