And thou must laugh and wrestle too, Thy after kindness more engaging. The wilding rose, sweet as thyself, And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure: I'd gladly part with worldly pelf, To taste again thy youthful pleasure. But yet for all thy merry look, Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook, The weary spell or horn-book thumbing. Well! let it be! through weal and woe, Thou know'st not now thy future range; Life is a motley, shifting show, And thou, a thing of hope and change. IHE ENĮ GRAUI. FAST by the margin of a mossy rill, That wander'd, gurgling, down a heath-clad hill, "Farewell! farewell! dear Caledonia's strand; Rough though they be, yet still my native land: Exil'd from thee, I seek a foreign shore, "Thou dear companion of my happier life, Now to the grave gone down, my virtuous wife! 'Twas here you rear'd, with fond maternal pride, Five comely sons: three for their country died! Two yet remain, sad remnant of the wars, Without one mark of honor-but their scars, Contented still we rear'd with sturdy hands, The scanty produce of our niggard lands; Scant as it was, no more our heart's desir'd; No more from us, our gen'rous lord requir'd. "But ah, sad change! those blessed days are o'er, And peace, content, and safety, charm no more: Another Lord now rules these wide domains, The avaricious tyrant of the plains. Far, far from hence, he revels life away, In guilty pleasure, our poor means must pay. you, "On dear native land! from whence I part, "Feed on, my sheep: for though depriv'd of me, My cruel foes shall your protectors be; For their own sakes, shall pen your straggling flocks, And save your lambkins from the rav'nous fox. "Feed on, my goats! another now shall drain Your streams, that heal disease, and soften pain. No stream, alas! shall ever, ever flow, To heal thy master's heart, or soothe his woe. "But, hark! my sons loud call me from the vale; And, lo! the vessel spreads her swelling sail— Farewell! farewell!"-Awhile his hands he wrung, And, o'er his crook, in silent sorrow hung: Then, casting many a ling'ring look behind, Down the steep mountain's brow began to wind. ODE TO PEACE. WM. TENNANT. DAUGHTER of God! that sits on high, And guidest with thy gentle sway Whilst, as each maddening people reels, Oft have I wept to hear the cry Of widow wailing bitterly; |