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• The barley harvest was nodding white, When my children died on the rocky height; And the reapers were singing on hill and plain, When I came to my task of sorrow and pain. But now the season of rain is nigh, The sun is dim in the thickening sky, And the clouds in sullen darkness rest Where he hides his light at the door of the west. I hear the howl of the wind that brings The long drear storm on its heavy wings ; But the howling wind and the dreary rain Will beat on my houseless head in vain ; I shall stay, from my murdered sons to scare The beasts of the desert and fowls of air."

ROBERT BURNS.

BORN 1758.
DIED 1796.

Wat was #ade to Wount

W HEN chill November's surly blast

Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth

Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man whose agèd step

Seemed weary, worn with care ;
His face was furrowed o'er with years,

And hoary was his hair. “ Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ?”

Began the reverend sage ;
“ Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasure's rage ?
Or, haply, pressed with cares and woes,

Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth with me to mourn

The miseries of man!
“ The sun that overhangs yon moors,

Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support

A haughty lordling's pride ;-
I've seen yon weary winter's sun

Twice forty times return,
And every time has added proofs

That man was made to mourn.
"O man! while in thy early years,

How prodigal of time !
Mis-spending all thy precious hours,

Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;

Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force gives nature's law

That man was made to mourn.

“ Look not alone on youthful prime,

Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,

Supported is his right:
But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn;
Then age and want–oh, ill-matched pair !-

Show man was made to mourn. “ A few seem favourites of fate,

In pleasure's lap caress'd;
Yet think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly bless’d,
But, oh! what crowds in every land,

All wretched and forlorn,
Through weary life this lesson learn

That man was made to mourn !
“ Many and sharp the num'rous ills

Inwoven with our frame !
More pointed still we make ourselves

Regret, remorse, and shame. '
And man, whose heaven-erected face

The smiles of love adorn
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn! “ See yonder poor o'er-laboured wight,

So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth

To give him leave to toil ;

And see his lordly fellow-worm

The poor petition spurn, Unmindful though a weeping wife

And helpless offspring mourn. “ If I'm designed yon lordling's slave

By Nature's law designed Why was an independent wish

E’er planted in my mind ?
If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty or scorn ?
Or why has man the will and power

To make his fellow mourn ?
“ Yet let not this too much, my son,

Disturb thy youthful breast ;-
This partial view of human-kind

Is surely not the best !
The poor, oppressed, honest man,

Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense

To comfort those that mourn. “O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,

The kindest and the best !
Welcome the hour my agèd limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,

From pomp and pleasure torn!
But, oh! a bless'd relief to those

That, weary-laden, mourn !”

LORD BYRON.

BORN 1788.
DIED 1824.

PRINCIPAL WRITINGS:- Hours of Idieness; English Bards and

Scotch Reviewers; Childe Harold; The Bride of Abydos; The
Prisoner of Chillon: lara; Hebrero Melodies ; Don Juan.

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THERE is a pleasure in the pathless woode,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar :
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll !
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain !
Man marks the earth with ruin, his control
Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and un

known. His steps are not upon thy paths,-thy fields Are not a spoil for him,—thou dost arise

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