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Christian and countryman was all with | But came not there, for sudden was his him,
fate, True to his church he came, no Sunday- le dropt expiring at his cottage-gate. shower
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, Kept him at home in that important hour; And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there; Norhis firm feet could one persuading sect I see no more those white locks thinly By the strong glare of their new light spread direct:
Round the bald polish of that honored “On hope, in mine own soberlight, I gaze, head; But should be blind and lose it in your No more that awful glance on playful blaze."
wight In times severe, when rany a sturdy Compelled to kneel and tremble at the swain
sight, Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain, To fold his fingers all in dread the while, Isaac their wants would soothe, his own Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile; would hide,
No more that meek and suppliant look And feel in that his comfort and his pride.
in prayer, At length he found, when seventy years Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are
there:.. His strength departed and his labor done; But he is blest, and I lament no more, When, save his honest fame, he kept no A wise good man contented to be poor.
more; But lost his wife and saw his children
poor. 'T was then a spark of — say not discon
SAMUEL ROGERS. tentStruck on his mind, and thus he gave it
(1763 - 1855.) vent: “Kind are your laws ('t is not to be
A WISH. denied) That in yon house for ruined age provide, Mine be a cot beside the hill; And they are just; when young, we give A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill, And then for comforts in our weakness With many a fall shall linger near.
call. Why then this proud reluctance to be The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch fed,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; To join your poor and eat the parish. Oft shall the pilgrim list the latch, bread
And share my meal, a welcome guest. But yet I linger, loath with him to feed Who gains his plenty by the sons of need : Around my ivied porch shall spring He who, by contract, all your paupers Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; took,
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing And gauges stomachs with an anxious In russet gown and apron blue.
look: On some old master I could well depend;
The village-church among the trees, See him with joy and thank hiin as a
Where first our marriage vows were given, friend;
With merry peals shall swell the breeze, But ill on him who doles the day's supply, And point with taper spire to heaven. And counts our chances who at night
may die :
Yet help me, Heaven! and let me not
ITALIAN SONG. complain Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain." DEAR is my little native vale, Such were his thoughts, and so re- The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; signed he grew;
Close by my cot she tells her tale Daily he placed the workhouse in his view! To every passing villager.
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, Yestreen when to the trembling string
The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
“Ye are na Mary Morison." For those that win the race at eve.
O Mary, canst thou wreck liis peace The shepherd's horn at break of day, Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? The ballet danced in twilight glade, Or caust thou break that heart of his, The canzonet and roundelay
Whase only faut is loving thee? Sung in the silent greenwood shade: If love for love thou wilt na gie, These simple joys that never fail
At least be pity to me shown; Shall bind me to my native vale. A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.
Ye banks and braes and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfauld her robes
And there the langest tarry! OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloomed the gay green link,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom, And monie a hill's between;
As underneath their fragrant shade But day and night my fancy's flight
I clasper her to my bosom! Is ever wi' my Jean.
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie; I see her in the dewy flowers,
For dear to me as light and life I see her sweet and fair;
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
I hear her charm the air;
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,
We tore ourselves asunder;
That nipt my flower sae early !
Now green 's the sod, and cauld's theclav,
That wraps my Highland Mary!
TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. That lov'st to greet the early morn,
The cauld blue north was streaming forth Again thou usherest in the day
Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din;
Athort the list they start and shift,
Like fortune's favors, tint as win. Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his By heedless chance I turned mine eyes, breast?
And by the moon-beam, shook, to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attired as minstrels wont to be.
His darin look had daunted me:
And on his bonnet graved was plain, Those records dear of transports past; The sacred posy – Libertie ! Thy image at our last embrace ! Ah! little thought we't was our last! And frae his harp sie strains did flow,
Might roused the slumbering dead to Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
hear; O’erhung with wild woods, thickening But 0, it was a tale of woe, green;
As ever met a Briton's ear! The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured He sang wi' joy his former day, The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, But what he said it was nae play,
He weeping wailed his latter times; The birds sang love on every spray,
I winna ventur't in my rhymes. Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of wingéd day.
A BARD'S EPITAPH.
As streams their channels deeper wear. Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, My Mary! dear, departed shade! Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Let him draw near, Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? And owre this grassy heap sing dool, Hear'st thou the groans that rend his
And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng, As I stood by yon roofless tower,
O, pass not hy! Where the wa’-flower scents the dewy But with a frater-feeling strong, air,
Here heave a sigh. Where the howlet mourusin herivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care. Is there a man whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer, The winds were laid, the air was still, Yet runs himself life's mad career, The stars they shot alang the sky;
Wild as the wave; The fox was howling on the hill, Here pause, and, thro' the starting tear, And the distant-echoing glens reply.
Survey this grave. The stream, adown its hazelly path, This poor inhabitant below
Was rushing by the ruined wa's, Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow, Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;
And softer flame; Ye fisher herons, watching eels; But thoughtless follies laid him low, Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels And stained his name!
Circling the lake;
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.
'Mang tields o' tiow'ring claver gay; Know prudent, cautious self-control And when ye wing your annual way Is wisdom's root.
Frae our cauld shore,
Wham we deplore.
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r,
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn,
Sets up her horn, The ae best fellow e'er was born!
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour
Till waukrife morn.
Oft have ye heard my canty strains;
what else for me remains Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns,
But tales of woe?
Maun ever flow.
Thou, Summer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head.
For him that's dead !
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, Winter, hurling thro' the air Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea;
The roaring blast, Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ;
Wide o'er the naked world declare
The worth we've lost!
Mourn him, thou Sun,great source of light;
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,
My Matthew mourn!
Ne'er to return.
And hast thou crost that unknown river,
Life's dreary bound !
The world around ?
He's gane forever! In a' the tinsel trash o'state !