James Grahame

"How pleasant came thy rushing, silver Tweed! Upon my ear when, after roaming long In southern plains, Ive reachd thy lovely bank! How bright, renowned Sark, thy little stream, Like ray of columnd light chasing a shower, Would cross my homeward path! how sweet the sound When I, to hear the Doric tongues reply, Would ask thy well-known name."

"Tis thine to curb the passions maddning sway, And wipe the mourners bitter tear away; Tis thine to soothe when hope itself has fled, And cheer with angel smile the sufferers bed; To give to earth its charm, to life its zest, One only task, — to bless, and to be blest."

"The helm may rust, the laurel bough may fade, Oblivions grasp may blunt the victors blade: But that bright holy wreath which learning gives, Untorn by hate, unharmd by envy lives."

"Nature gives a parting smile. As yet the blue-bells linger on the sod That copes the sheepfold ring; and in the woods A second blow of many flowers appears, Flowers faintly tingd and breathing no perfume. But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath That circles Autumns brow."

"How still the morning of the hallowd day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushd The ploughboys whistle, and the milkmaids song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yestermorn bloomd waving in the breeze: The faintest sounds attract the ear, — the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating, midway up the hill."