Hew Morrison Collection > Minor poems, and translations, in verse

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.
Turn to the page o' bygane time :
How fared the sons o' song sublime Ì
In evera age — ^in evera clime —
A cheerless lot ;
Tears, an' a grave, an' then to shine :
Their wrongs forgot.
Otway ! the gleams thou didst impart
Dissolved the eye, an' thrilled the heart :
But Taste once feasted wi' thine art,
Gave puir return :
By penury's maist poignant smart
Thou died forlorn !
Chatterton ! thine is a deathless name,
Yet here thou never kent a hame ;
The man wha doth thy frailties blame,
Ke'er felt thy wounds-
Thy spirit to the world cried " Shame !"—
An' burst its boimds !
Fergusson ! thy Scottish lyre
In vain disclosed its halcyon fire :
Thy bi-ain, with striving passions tir'd,
In madness whirled —
Thou left, to seek some kinder choir,
A heartless world !