Fancy Employed On Divine Subjects

(Summer, 1796. Text of 1818)

The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever, A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk In the bright visions of empyreal light, By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads, Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow; By chrystal streams, and by the living waters, Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found From pain and want, and all the ills that wait On mortal life, from sin and death for ever.

THE TOMB OF DOUGLAS See the Tragedy of that Name

(1796)

When her son, her Douglas died, To the steep rock's fearful side Fast the frantic Mother hied--

O'er her blooming warrior dead Many a tear did Scotland shed, And shrieks of long and loud lament From her Grampian hills she sent.

Like one awakening from a trance, She met the shock of Lochlin's lance; On her rude invader foe Return'd an hundred fold the blow, Drove the taunting spoiler home; Mournful thence she took her way To do observance at the tomb Where the son of Douglas lay.

Round about the tomb did go In solemn state and order slow, Silent pace, and black attire, Earl, or Knight, or good Esquire; Whoe'er by deeds of valour done In battle had high honours won; Whoe'er in their pure veins could trace The blood of Douglas' noble race.

With them the flower of minstrels came, And to their cunning harps did frame In doleful numbers piercing rhymes, Such strains as in the older times Had sooth'd the spirit of Fingal, Echoing thro' his father's hall.

"Scottish maidens, drop a tear O'er the beauteous Hero's bier! Brave youth, and comely 'bove compare, All golden shone his burnish'd hair; Valour and smiling courtesy Play'd in the sun-beams of his eye. Clos'd are those eyes that shone so fair, And stain'd with blood his yellow hair. Scottish maidens, drop a tear O'er the beauteous Hero's bier!"

"Not a tear, I charge you, shed For the false Glenalvon dead; Unpitied let Glenalvon lie, Foul stain to arms and chivalry!"

"Behind his back the traitor came, And Douglas died without his fame. Young light of Scotland early spent, Thy country thee shall long lament; And oft to after-times shall tell, In Hope's sweet prime my Hero fell."