Oh! let me still, from these low follies free,
This sordid malice and inglorious strife,
Myself the subject of my censure be,

And teach my heart to comment on my life.
With thee, Philosophy, still let me dwell,
My tutor'd mind from vulgar meanness save,
Bring peace, bring quiet, to my humble cell,
And bid them lay the green turf on my grave.

ELEGY,

Written in Jamaica, in 1788.

MACNEIL.

RELENTLESS death! ah! why so soon,
Cut down the flowret fair to view!
Pale gleam'd the light of yonder moon,
When pest'lence shed her deadly dew!

The morn arose serene and clear,

The sun refulgent glow'd at noon;
But nought the drooping flower could cheer,
Ah! wherefore droop'd the flower so soon!

By yonder tree (his fav'rite shade,

Where late he joyed with sports and play) They dig his grave; there, lowly laid, Sleeps Campbell's silent senseless clay!

Ah! what avails the tear and sigh

That close lov'd boy! thy fun'ral gloom! The doleful dirge, and frantic cry

Of Afric's mourners round thy tomb!

Ah! what avails! But cease the strain;
Ye weeping parents, dry the tear,

See Philomela joins the train,

And chaunts a requiem o'er his bier.

Sweetly she warbles, perch'd on high,
Far from her mate and haunts of even;
She comes an herald from the sky,
To greet the cherub soul to heaven.

Yet here should pensive pilgrim stray
At soft'ning eve or fervent noon,
Here may he heave the sigh and say

"Ah wherefore droop'd the flower so soon ;"

ELEGIAC STANZAS ON MYSELF.

DERMODY.

TO pleasure's wiles an easy prey,
Beneath this sod a bosom lies;
Yet spare the meek offender's clay,
Nor part with dry averted eyes.

O stranger! if thy wayward lot

Thro' folly's heedless maze has led, Here nurse the true, the tender thought, And fling the wild flower on his head.

For he by this cold hillock clad,

Where tall grass twines the pointed stone, Each gentlest balm of feeling had,

To sooth all sorrow but his own.

For he, by tuneful fancy rear'd,
(Tho' ever dumb he sleeps below)
The stillest sigh of anguish heard,
And gave a tear to every woe.

Oh! place his dear harp by his side,
(His harp, alas! his only hoard,)

The fairy breeze at even tide

Will trembling kiss each weeping chord.

Oft on yon crested cliff he stood,

When misty twilight stream'd around, To mark the slowly heaving flood,

And catch the deep wave's sullen sound.

Oft when the rosy dawn was seen

'Mid blue to gild the blushing steep, He trac'd o'er yonder margent green The curling cloud of fragrauce sweep.

Oft did he pause, the lark to hear,
With speckled wing the skies explore;
Oft paus'd to see the slow flock near:
But he shall hear and see no more.

Then, stranger, be his foibles lost;

At such small foibles virtue smil'd: Few was their number, large their cost; For he was nature's orphan-child.

The graceful drop of pity spare,

(To him the bright drop once belong'd:) Well, well his doom deserves thy care; Much, much he suffer'd,-much was wrong'd.

When taught by life its pangs to know,
Ah! as thou roam'st the chequer'd gloom,
Bid the sweet night-bird's numbers flow,
And the last sun-beam light his tomb.

O, form'd for boundless bliss! immortal soul,
Why dost thou prompt the melancholy sigh,
While evening shades disclose the glowing pole,
And silver moon-beams tremble o'er the sky.

There glowing stars shall fade, this moon shall fall,
This transitory sky shall melt away,
Whilst thou triumphantly surviving all,
Shall glad expatiate in eternal day.

Sickens the mind with longings vainly great,
To trace mysterious wisdom's secret ways,
While chain'd and bound in this ignoble state,
Humbly it breathes sincere, imperfect praise?

Orglows the beating heart with sacred fires,

And longs to mingle in the worlds of love? Or, foolish trembler, feeds its fond desires Of earthly good? Or dreads life's ills to prove

Back does it trace the Hight of former years,
The friends lamented, and the pleasures past?
Or wing'd with forecast vain, and impious fears,
Presumptuous to the clouds bid future haste;
Hence, far begone, ye fancy-folded pains,
Peace, trembling heart, be every sigh supprest:
Wisdom supreme, eternal goodness reigns,
Thus far is sure: to heaven resign the rest.

ELEGY,

Written in Spring.

BRUCE.

rage;

"TIS past; the iron north has spent his
Stern winter now resigns the length'ning day;
The stormy howlings of the winds assuage,
And warm o'er ether western breezes play.
Of genial heat and cheerful light the source,
From southern climes beneath another sky,
The sun, returning, wheels his golden course;
Before his beams all noxious vapours fly..

Far to the north grim winter draws his train,

To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore; Where, thron'd on ice, he holds eternal reign; Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempests

roar.

Loos'd from the bands of frost, the verdant ground
Again puts on her robe of cheerful green,
Again puts forth her flow'rs; and all around,
Smiling, the cheerful face of spring is seen.

Behold the trees new deck their wither' d' boughs;:
Their ample leaves the hospitable plane,

The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose:

The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene..