EPITAPH

ON

AN

INFAN T.

ERE Sin could blight or Sorrow fade,

Death came with friendly care;

The opening bud to Heaven convey'd

And bade it blossom there.

LINES

Written at the KING's-ARMS, ROSS,

Formerly the House of the

"MAN OF ROSS."

RICHER than MISER o'er his countless hoards,

Nobler than KINGS, or king-polluted LORDS,

Here dwelt the MAN OF Ross! O Trav'ller, hear!
Departed Merit claims a reverent tear.

Beneath this roof if thy cheer'd moments pass,
Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass:
To higher zest shall MEM'RY wake thy soul,
And VIRTUE mingle in th' ennobled bowl.
Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health,
With generous joy he view'd his modest wealth;

He hears the widow's heaven-breath'd prayer of praise,

He marks the shelter'd orphan's tearful gaze,

Or where the sorrow-shrivel'd captive lay,
Pours the bright blaze of Freedom's noon-tide ray.
But if, like me, thro' life's diftressful scene

Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been;
And if, thy breast with heart-fick anguish fraught,
Thou journeyest onward tempest-tost in thought;
Here cheat thy cares! in generous visions melt,

And dream of Goodness, thou hast never felt!

I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.

Escap'd the flashing of the noontide hours
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn)
My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn.
For not thro' pathless grove with murmur rude
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, SOLITUDE:
Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well,

The HERMIT-FOUNTAIN of some dripping cell !

Pride of the Vale! thy useful streams supply
The scatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks
With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,
Releas'd from school, their little hearts at rest,
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.
The rustic here at eve with pensive look
Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook,

Or starting pauses with hope-mingled dread

To list the much-lov'd maid's accustom'd tread : She, vainly mindful of her dame's command, Loiters, the long-fill'd pitcher in her hand. Unboastful Stream! thy fount with pebbled falls The faded form of past delight recalls,

What time the morning sun of Hope arose,

And all was joy; save when another's woes

A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,
Like passing clouds impictur'd on thy breast.