elegy on thete miss bur of monboddo

life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize,

as bur, lovely from her native skies;

nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow,

as that whichid th' acplish'd bur low.

thy form and mind, sweet maid, can i forget?

in richest ore the brightest jewel set!

in thee, high heaven above was truest shown,

as by his noblest work the godhead best is known.

in vain ye unt in summer's pride, ye groves;

thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,

ye woond choir that chaunt your idle loves,

ye cease to charm; eliza is no more.

ye healthy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens;

ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd: