On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,-- Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; 'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 'The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-- Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown; Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth And melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. _T. Gray_ CLXXXVIII _MARY MORISON_ O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison. Yestreen when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing,-- I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 'Ye are na Mary Morison.' O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison. _R. Burns_ CLXXXIX _BONNIE LESLEY_