Christian and countryman was all with | But came not there, for sudden was his 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." fate, He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate. 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; The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Around my ivied porch shall spring The village-church among the trees, ITALIAN SONG. DEAR is my little native vale, The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, And shells his nuts at liberty. In orange groves and myrtle bowers, The shepherd's horn at break of day, 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. O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace At least be pity to me shown; ROBERT BURNS. [1759-1796.] OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN OF a' the airts the wind can blaw, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best. There wild woods grow, and rivers row, I see her in the dewy flowers, I hear her in the tunefu' birds, There's not a bonnie flower that springs 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 Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, For there I took the last fareweel How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace We tore ourselves asunder; O pale, pale now, those rosy lips And keenly felt the friendly glow, 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, Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, Ye howlets, frae your ivy bow'r, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! But tales of woe? That proudly cock your cresting cairns! And frae my een the drapping rains Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns Where echo slumbers! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; At dawn, when every grassy blade Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood; He's gane forever! Maun ever flow. Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year! Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 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! LADY ANNE BARNARD. 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, What immortal hand or eye Burned the fire of thine eyes? 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? When the stars threw down their spears, |