When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting

fate,

Then taking his black staff, he called his man,

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,

strained

Toenter in, pell-mell, the listeningthrong, Heaps poured on heaps, and yet they slipped along,

In silent ease; as when beneath the beam

Of summer-moons the distant woods

among,

Or by some flood all silvered with the gleam,

The soft-embodied fays through airy portal

stream.

[THE PORTER OF INDOLENCE.]

XXI.

Waked by the crowd, slow from his bench arose

A comely full-spread porter, swollen

with sleep;

His calm, broad, thoughtless aspect breathed repose;

And in sweet torpor he was plungèd deep, Ne could himself from ceaseless yawning keep;

While o'er his eyes the drowsy liquor ran, Through which his half-waked soul would faintly peep,

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,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,

And guardian angels sung the strain : Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves.

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 subject, 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.

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 city, he travelled for some time on the 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,

which 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,

Rocked 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,

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.
Oft have I proved the labours of thy love,
And the warm efforts of thy gentle heart
Anxious to please. Oh! when my friend
and I

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 :

Thy roses faded, and thy lilies soiled, What hast thou more to boast of? Will thy lovers

Flock round thee now, to gaze and do thee homage?

Methinks I see thee with thy head low laid,

Whilst, surfeited upon thy damask cheek, The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes rolled, Riots unscared. For this was all thy caution?

For this thy painful labours at thy glass T'improve those charms, and keep them in repair,

unfurled,

Foul feeder!