When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting fate, Then taking his black staff, he called his man, And gives the untasted portion you have And roused himself as much as rouse him The lad leaped lightly at his master's call. He was, to weet, a little roguish page, Save sleep and play who minded nought at all, Like most the untaught striplings of his age. This boy he kept each band to disengage, Garters and buckles, task for him unfit, But ill-becoming his grave personage, And which his portly paunch would not permit, The deep vibrations of his 'witching song; So this same limber page to all performed That, by a kind of magic power, con it. XXIII. Meantime the master-porter wide dis played Great store of caps, of slippers, and of gowns; Wherewith he those that entered in, arrayed Loose, as the breeze that plays along the downs, And waves the summer-woods when evening frowns. Oh! fair undress, best dress, it checks no vein, But every flowing limb in pleasure drowns, And heightens ease with grace. This done, right fain Sir porter sat him down, and turned to sleep again. RULE BRITANNIA. When Britain first at Heaven's command, And guardian angels sung the strain: Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves. He was named after his grandfather, who was chaplain to Charles I., and was destined for the ministry of the Church of Scotland. Having completed his studies at the University of his native THE poem on which alone rest Blair's claims to rank as a poet, from its title The Grave, could hardly be expected to yield other than a melancholy pleasure; and yet, like Gray's famous Elegy almost on the same sub-city, he travelled for some time on the ject, but published six years later, it has been largely popular; though not nearly to the same extent, nor with the same permanence. Though somewhat sermonizing in its tone, it contains many noble passages, and is perhaps the nearest approach to the style of Thomson's blank verse that we possess: a resemblance no doubt owing to its being written immediately after the Seasons. The style, however, is all that it owes to Thomson. Blair was born in Edinburgh in 1699, and was the son of the Rev. David Blair, one of the ministers of the city. Continent; and on his return was appointed to the parish of Athelstaneford, in East Lothian. His settlement took place in 1731; but The Grave must have been mostly written before this, as he informs Dr Doddridge, with whom, and with Dr Isaac Watts, he corresponded in 1742, as to its publication, that the greater part of it was written before his appointment to the ministry. Blair owed his introduction to his two distinguished English correspondents to their mutual friend, his neighbour, the celebrated Colonel Gardiner, whose death forms one of the most touching incidents of the battle of Prestonpans, and whose piety and valour are commemorated by his friend Dr Doddridge. The Grave was published in 1743, and its author died in 1746, leaving a numerous family, one of whom became Lord President of the Court of Session, and the intimate friend of Sir Walter Scott. Blair's successor in Athelstaneford was John Home, the author of the tragedy of Douglas. The Grave is a poem of over 800 lines, in paragraphs whose illustrations have no necessary sequence, and may therefore be read in any order. The specimens given are in the order of the poem, though not consecutive; yet they read almost as if they were. They have been selected as the best examples of the author's powers and style. THE GRAVE. [Specimens.] See yonder hallowed fane! the pious work Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot, Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows, And buried midst the wreck of things Who gather round, and wonder at the Friendship! mysterious cement of the And glittering in the sun! Triumphant en soul ! Sweet'ner of life! and solder of society! I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. In some thick wood have wandered heedless on, Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down Upon the sloping cowslip-covered bank, Where the pure limpid stream has slid along In grateful errors through the underwood Sweet-murmuring; methought the shrilltongued thrush tries Of conquerors and coronation pomps, In glory scarce exceed. Great gluts of people Retard the unwieldy show; whilst from the casements, And houses' tops, ranks behind ranks, close wedged, Hang bellying o'er. But tell us, why this waste? Why this ado in earthing up a carcass That's fallen into disgrace, and in the nostril Smells horrible? Ye undertakers! tell us, 'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit, Why is the principal concealed, for which You make this mighty stir? 'Tis wisely done : Mended his song of love; the sooty black- What would offend the eye in a good pic bird Mellowed his pipe, and softened every note; The eglantine smelled sweeter, and the rose Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury Of dress. O! then the longest summer's day ture, The painter casts discreetly into shades. Beauty! thou pretty plaything! dear deceit ! That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart, And gives it a new pulse unknown before! Seemed too, too much in haste: still the The Grave discredits thee. Thy charms How rich the trappings, now they're all For which the spoiler thanks thee not? unfurled, Foul feeder! |