Blush, blush, ye fairest flowers! Beauties surpassing yours My Rosalind adorn; Nor is the Winter's blast, That lays your glories waste, So killing as her scorn. 4 Breathe, breathe, ye tender lays, That linger down the maze Of yonder winding grove; O let your soft control Bend her relenting soul To pity and to love. 5 Fade, fade, ye flowerets fair! Gales, fan no more the air! Ye streams, forget to glide; Be hush'd each vernal strain; Since nought can soothe my pain, Nor mitigate her pride. TO LADY CHARLOTTE GORDON, DRESSED IN A TARTAN SCOTCH BONNET, WITH PLUMES, ETC. 1 Why, lady, wilt them bind thy lovely brow With the dread semblance of that warlike helm; That nodding plume, and wreath of various glow, That graced the chiefs of Scotia's ancient realm? 2 Thou know'st that Virtue is of power the source, And all her magic to thy eyes is given; We own their empire, while we feel their force, Beaming with the benignity of heaven. 3 The plumy helmet and the martial mien Might dignify Minerva's awful charms; But more resistless far the Idalian queen-- Smiles, graces, gentleness, her only arms. EPITAPH: BEING PART OF AN INSCRIPTION DESIGNED FOR A MONUMENT ERECTED BY A GENTLEMAN TO THE MEMORY OF HIS LADY. Farewell, my best beloved! whose heavenly mind Genius with virtue, strength with softness join'd; Devotion, undebased by pride or art, With meek simplicity, and joy of heart: Though sprightly, gentle; though polite, sincere; And only of thyself a judge severe: Unblamed, unequall'd in each sphere of life, The tenderest daughter, sister, parent, wife. In thee, their patroness the afflicted lost; Thy friends their pattern, ornament, and boast; And I--but ah, can words my loss declare, Or paint the extremes of transport and despair! O thou, beyond what verse or speech can tell-- My guide, my friend, my best beloved, farewell! EPITAPH ON TWO YOUNG MEN OF THE NAME OF LEITCH, WHO WERE DROWNED IN CROSSING THE RIVER SOUTHESK. 1757. O thou! whose steps in sacred reverence tread These lone dominions of the silent dead; On this sad stone a pious look bestow, Nor uninstructed read this tale of woe; And while the sigh of sorrow heaves thy breast, Let each rebellious murmur be suppress'd; Heaven's hidden ways to trace, for us how vain! Heaven's wise decrees, how impious to arraign! Pure from the stains of a polluted age, In early bloom of life they left the stage: Not doom'd in lingering woe to waste their breath, One moment snatch'd them from the power of Death: They lived united, and united died; Happy the friends whom Death cannot divide! EPITAPH, INTENDED FOR HIMSELF. 1