Till baith at length impatient grown

To be mair fully blest,

In yonder vale they leaned them downLove only saw the rest.

What passed, I guess was harmless play,
And naething, sure, unmeet,

For ganging hame I heard him say
They liked a walk sae sweet,
And that they aften should return
Sic pleasure to renew.

Quoth Mary, "Love, I like the burn,

And aye shall follow you."

ROBERT BLAIR.

1699-1746.

Of an equal boldness with Ramsay in departing from the conventions of the school of Pope, but at the same time of a very different spirit from the author of "The Gentle Shepherd," was Robert Blair. As Ramsay was the chief exponent of Scottish humour of the time, Blair may be regarded as the apostle of melancholy. His work, with its rude pathos, strength, and keen feeling for nature, remains typical of the darker side of the Scottish spirit.

66

Grandson of Robert Blair, the celebrated Covenanter, and eldest son of a minister of the same name in Edinburgh, the poet was educated at Edinburgh University, and travelled for a time on the continent, before settling as minister of Athelstaneford in Haddingtonshire in 1731. His first printed verses appeared in the Edinburgh Miscellany in 1720, and he was the author of several pieces, but his sole title to remembrance is his chief poem, The Grave." This was begun before his settlement at Athelstaneford, but was not published till 1743. The poem was long popular, and if the rhythm does not always appear entirely harmonious, the imagery is vigorous and unhackneyed, and the style in admirable keeping with the subject. In more than one of the passages, as that on the gravedigger and on the question of a hereafter, the inspiration appears obviously Shakespearean; but the main conception is entirely original, the number of quoted phrases in a piece of no more than 750 lines is remarkable, and the final passage, the best thing Blair wrote, expresses worthily the spirit of triumphant Christian philosophy-"O Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy victory?" One of Blair's lines, that of visits "like those of angels short and far between," remains familiar in the form in which it was repeated and spoiled by Campbell.

The poet died of fever on February 4, 1746, and was succeeded in his charge by John Home, author of the tragedy of "Douglas.' Blair's wife was a daughter of Mr. Law of Elvingston, Professor of Moral Philosophy at Edinburgh University, a lovely and amiable woman, by whom he had five sons and a daughter. His fourth son afterwards became President of the Court of Session. Among numerous editions of Blair's work, that illustrated by William Blake, and published by Cromek in 1808, remains specially notable.

THE GRAVE.

WHILST some affect the sun, and some the shade,
Some flee the city, some the hermitage,
Their aims as various as the roads they take
In journeying through life;-the task be mine
To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb,
Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all
These travellers meet. Thy succours I implore,
Eternal King! whose potent arm sustains

The keys of hell and death.

The Grave, dread thing!

Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature, appalled,

Shakes off her wonted firmness. Ah, how dark

Thy long-extended realms and rueful wastes,
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark

night,.

Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun

Was rolled together, or had tried its beams
Athwart the gloom profound! The sickly taper
By glimm'ring through the low-browed, misty vaults,
Furred round with mouldy damps and ropey slime,
Lets fall a supernumerary horror,

And only serves to make the night more irksome.
Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew,

Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell
'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms,
Where light-heeled ghosts and visionary shades,
Beneath the wan cold moon, as fame reports,
Embodied thick, perform their mystic rounds.
No other merriment, dull tree! is thine.

See yonder hallowed fane! the pious work
Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot,
And buried midst the wreck of things that were:
There lie interred the more illustrious dead.
The wind is up: hark! how it howls! methinks
Till now I never heard a sound so dreary.

Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird, Rooked in the spire, screams loud. The gloomy aisles,

Black-plastered and hung round with shreds of scutcheons

And tattered coats of arms, send back the sound, Laden with heavier airs from the low vaults,

The mansions of the dead. Roused from their slumbers,

In grim array the grisly spectres rise,

Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen,

Pass and repass, hushed as the foot of night. Again the screech-owl shrieks-ungracious sound! I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill.

[The supernatural terrors of the churchyard are described, the pangs of widowed love, and the dear memories of friendship.]

Dull Grave! thou spoil'st the dance of youthful blood,

Strik'st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth,
And ev'ry smirking feature from the face;
Branding our laughter with the name of madness.
Where are the jesters now?-the men of health,
Complexionally pleasant? Where the droll
Whose ev'ry look and gesture was a joke
To clapping theatres and shouting crowds,
And made even thick-lipped, musing Melancholy
To gather up her face into a smile

Before she was aware? Ah, sullen now,

And dumb as the green turf that covers them!
Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war,
The Roman Cæsars and the Grecian chiefs,
The boast of story? Where the hot-brained youth
Who the tiara at his pleasure tore

From kings of all the then discovered globe,

And cried, forsooth, because his arm was hampered
And had not room enough to do its work?
Alas! how slim, dishonourably slim,

And crammed into a space we blush to name!
Proud royalty! how altered in thy looks,
How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue!
Son of the morning! whither art thou gone?
Where hast thou hid thy many-spangled head,
And the majestic menace of thine eyes
Felt from afar?

[A royal funeral is described, and the futility of human fame descanted on. In turn the grave is made to furnish a lesson to beauty, strength, and learning; the orator, the physician, and the hoarder of wealth are each warned of the end that waits them. The soul is brought to face the eternal gulf, and the question asked of a hereafter. The folly of pride is pointed out, for