THE midnight hour was come- that solemn hour
When they, the forms divine, whose mystic lay
Breathes not to mortal ear, on earth have power
Till bright Astarte's lingering fires decay:
Fairies and Genii, hovering o'er the earth,
Now downward bend their flight, and in the glen,
Or ruined tower, pursue their frolic mirth,
Joining in airy dance unseen of men:

Whilst others, far above the rest in place,
Kind guardian spirits of the human race,
Intent on good to man, forsake the sky,
And their bright forms disclose to many a gifted eye.
But each, and all of this aërial train,
Fulfil some end, obey some high behest,
All, save one beauteous Maid, whose plaintive strain
Told the deep anguish of her throbbing breast:
'Twas Coila,- who, beneath the witching beam
Of night's pale Planet, mourned her Poet dead:
Sad she reclined by Ayr's romantic stream,
Downcast her eye, and all its lustre fled:
The Moon's faint ray stole thro' the breaking cloud,
And the hoarse angry winds were heard aloud,
Whilst Ayr's sad murmurs due accordance kept,
As by his troubled stream she pensive sat, and wept.

No mantle now, enrich'd with various hues,
Bespoke with graceful pomp the Scottish Muse ;
But, dark as her sad thoughts, the mournful Maid
In robes of solemn black her form arrayed.
Thrown o'er a broken harp her arm appears,
(That harp still wet with Coila's bitter tears,)
And, fallen from her fair hand, a circlet green
Half hid beneath her sable veil was seen.
The night-breeze slowly waved her golden hair,
As thus she mourned in deep despair
The early fate, the fortunes hard,
Of Burns, 'her own inspired Bard.''
'Oh harp, (she cried,) whose potent tone
'Shall ne'er again awakened be;
'Ne'er speak of joy, nor with thy master moan,
'Responsive to his soul's despondency:

'Oh never more, on Scotia's gales,
'Thy melody shall steal along,
'Oh never more her flowery vales
'Re-echo to her Poet's song
'Filled with true poetic fire,
'Oft did his lofty lay to heaven aspire;
'And when with daring hand thy chords he swept,
'Notes entrancing, sweet and strong,
'Answered to his various song;
'The witching strain
'Subdued each pain,
'And grief no longer wept
'E'en when the swelling sound was past,
'That bore the soul to heaven;
'When mournful, tremulous, and low,
'Strains of sadness stole along,

'To thee, sweet Bard, alike 'twas given
'To charm, when flowed the mirthful song,
'When native Wit thy cares beguiled,
'And frolic Humour gaily smiled,
'Or when subdued, and sad, the broken accents flow:
'For sweet, tho' mournful, was the sound,
'That, breathing soft around,
'Told the deep pang of recollected woe.
'Ah why must Anguish ever wait
'Upon the gifts the Muse bestows ?
'Why ever thus relentless Fate
'To feeling hearts bring keenest woes ?
'Is it to check the swelling pride,
'Which soaring Genius, heaven-allied,
'Might haply feel, if mortal pain
'Sunk not the daring soul to earth and care again ?

'Oh Bard beloved, no power had I
'To check the bitter-rising sigh;
'I could not chase the fiend Despair,
'Nor break the spells of worldly care,
'That wrapped thy soul in gloom:
'I could not give thee wealth, or power,
'Nor e'en protract the fated hour,
'That closed thy early tomb:
'With sparkling wit I decked thy line,
'Thy gift, to move the heart, was mine;
'Yet more thy genius to reward,
'And fondly prove my true regard,
'This Holly wreath I gave:
'Mysterious boon, thou ne'er shalt fade,
'Ne'er wither in oblivion's shade,
'But high in 'Fame's bright fane' by Nature placed,
'Near that which once the Bard of Avon graced,

'Still shalt thou bloom, and, 'mid the wintry storm,
'That vainly seeks thy blossoms to deform,
'Crowned with eternal verdure, proudly wave.'