Why then this proud reluctance to be fed,

To join your poor and eat the parishbread?

But yet I linger, loath with him to feed Who gains his plenty by the sons of need: He who, by contract, all your paupers took,

And gauges stomachs with an anxious look:

On some old master I could well depend; See him with joy and thank him as a friend;

But ill on him who doles the day's supply, And counts our chances who at night may die:

Yet help me, Heaven! and let me not

complain

Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain."
Such were his thoughts, and so re-
signed he grew;
Daily he placed the work house in his view!

fate,

He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate.
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there;
I see no more those white locks thinly
spread

Round the bald polish of that honored head;

No more that awful glance on playful wight

Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight,

To fold his fingers all in dread the while, Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile; No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,

Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there: ..

But he is blest, and I lament no more, A wise good man contented to be poor.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

[1763-1855.]

A WISH..

MINE be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

ITALIAN SONG.

DEAR is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange groves and myrtle bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Of crowns of living laurel weave
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent greenwood shade:
These simple joys that never fail
Shall bind me to my native vale.

Yestreen when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw.
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sighed, and said amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,

At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

ROBERT BURNS.

[1759-1796.]

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN
BLAW.

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west;

For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best.

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And monie a hill 's between ;
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air;

There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.

MARY MORISON.

O MARY, at thy window be !

It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stoure,

A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison.

HIGHLAND MARY.

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!

For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom !
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore ourselves asunder;
But, O, fell Death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stained his name!

Reader, attend,-whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit; Know prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root.

ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON.

HE's gane, he 's gane! he's frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e'er was born!
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn
By wood and wild,

Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn,
Frae man exiled.

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns,

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;
Ye fisher herons, watching eels;
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels
Circling the lake;
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day,
'Mang fields o' flow'ring claver gay;
And when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.

Ye howlets, frae your ivy bow'r,
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r,
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r,
Sets up her horn,

Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour
Till waukrife morn.

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!
Oft have ye heard my canty strains;
But now,
what else for me remains

But tales of woe?

Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns

Where echo slumbers!

Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens,
Wi' toddlin din,

Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin.

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,
In scented bow'rs;
Ye roses on your thorny tree,
The first o' flow'rs.

At dawn, when every grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at its head,
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed,
I' th' rustling gale,
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade,
Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud;

Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood; He's gane forever!

Maun ever flow.

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year!
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear;
Thou, Summer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head.

Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear
For him that's dead!

Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, Winter, hurling thro' the air
The roaring blast,
Wide o'er the naked world declare
The worth we've lost!

Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light; Mourn, Empress of the silent night! And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, My Matthew mourn! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, Ne'er to return.

O Henderson; the man! the brother! And art thon gone, and gone forever! And hast thou crost that unknown river, Life's dreary bound! Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around?

Go to your sculptured tombs, ye Great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state!

But by thy honest turf I'll wait, Thou man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth.

They gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea;

And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to

me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he,

Till he said, "I'm come home, love, to marry thee."

O, sair did we greet, and muckle say of a'! I gie'd him but ae kiss, and bade him gang awa':

I wish I were dead! but I'm no like to dee;

And why do I live to cry, Wae 's me?

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;

But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For auld Robin Gray, he is kind to me.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

[1757-1827.]

THE TIGER.

TIGER! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Burned the fire of thine eyes?
In what distant deeps or skies
What the hand dare seize the fire?
On what wings dare he aspire?

And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thine heart?

And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,