The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover
And wring his bosom, is-to die.

O. Goldsmith.

CCXXXV.

RULE, BRITANNIA.

WHEN Britain first at Heaven's command

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

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

The nations not so blest as thee
Must in their turn to tyrants fall,
Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,

And work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine!

The Muses, still with Freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair; Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd And manly hearts to guard the fair :— Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves!

J. Thomson.

CCXXXVI.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVETT.

CONDEMNED to Hope's delusive mine,

As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts, or slow decline, Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year, See Levett to the grave descend, Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye,

Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;

Nor lettered arrogance deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.

When fainting nature called for aid,

And hovering death prepared the blow,

His vigorous remedy displayed

The power of art without the show.

In misery's darkest cavern known,

His useful care was ever nigh,

Where hopeless anguish poured his groan, And lonely want retired to die.

No summons mocked by chill delay,
No petty gain disdained by pride;
The modest wants of every day

The toil of every day supplied.

His virtues walked their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the Eternal Master found

The single talent well employed.

The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;

His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then, with no fiery throbbing pain,
No cold gradations of decay,

Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way.

Samuel Johnson.

CCXXXVII.

THE BRAES OF YARROW.

"BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow;
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride,
And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow."

"Where gat ye that bonnie, bonnie bride?
Where gat ye that winsome marrow ?"
"I gat her where I dare na weel be seen,
Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

"Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie bride, Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow;

Nor let thy heart lament to leave

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow."