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5.

'Mong angels, do you think of the precious golden link

I bound around your happy arm while sitting on yon brink?
Or when that night of wit and wine, of laughter and guitars,
Was emptied of its music, and we watched through lattice-bars,
The silent midnight heaven moving ō'er us with its stars,

Till the morn broke, Barbara ?

6.

In the years I've changed; wild and far my heart has ranged,
And many sins and errors deep have been on me avenged;
But to you I have been faithful, whatsoever good I've lacked :
I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact—
Like a mild consoling rainbow, or a savage cataract.

Love has saved me, Barbara!

7.

O Love! I am unblest; with monstrous doubts opprest

Of much that's dark and něther, much that's holiëst and best.
Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shōre,
The hunger of my soul were stilled; for Death has told you mōre
Than the melancholy world doth know-things deeper than all lōre,
Will you teach me, Barbara?

8.

In vain, in vain, in vain! you will never come again,

There droops upon the dreary hills a mōurnful fringe of rain ;
The gloaming closes slowly round, unblest winds are in the tree,
Round selfish shōres for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea;
There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee—

I am weary, Barbara !

SMITH.

ALEXANDER SMITH, a Scottish poet, was born in Kilmarnock, Dec. 31, 1830. He was educated for the clerical profession, but circumstances defeated the project. At the age of seventeen he began to exercise his talents in metrical composition. In 1852 he first wrote for the "Critic," and the "Eclectic Review," in the former of which appeared in installments his poem of the "Life Drama." In 1854 he was appointed secretary of the University of Edinburgh, and about the same time delivered a series of public lectures, one of which, "Burns as a Poet," was much commended. He soon after published "Sonnets of the War;"" City Poems," in 1857; and "Edwin of Deira," in 1861. He was a frequent contributor to the periodical press. He died in 1867.

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F

SECTION XI.

I.

44. THE LOST DAY.

AREWELL, oh day misspent!
Thy fleeting hours were lent
In vain to my endeavor.

In shade and sun thy race is run
For ever! oh, for ever!
The leaf drops from the tree,
The sand falls in the glass,
And to the dread Eternity
The dying minutes pass.

2. It was not till thine end
I knew thou wert my friend;
But now, thy worth recalling,
My grief is strong, I did thee wrong,
And scorned thy treasures falling.
But sorrow comes too late;

Another day is born;—

Pass, minutes, pass; may better fate
Attend to-morrow morn.

3. Oh, birth! oh, death of Time!

Oh, mystery sublime!

Ever the rippling ocean

Brings forth the wave to smile or rave,

And die of its own motion.

A little wave to strike

The sad responsive shōre,
And be succeeded by its like
Ever and evermore.

4. Oh change from same to same!
Oh quenched, yet burning flame!
Oh new birth, born of dying!
Oh transient ray! oh speck of day!
Approaching and yet flying;-

Pass to Eternity.

Thou day, that came in vain!
A new wave surges on the sea-
The world grows young again.

5. Come in, To-day, come in!

I have confessed my sin

To thee, young promise-bearer!
New Lord of Earth! I hail thy birth-
The crown awaits the wearer.

Child of the agès past!

Sire of a mightier line!

On the same deeps our lot is cast!

The world is thine-and mine!

MACKAY.

CHARLES MACKAY, LL.D., a British author, born in Perth in 1812. He was partly educated in Brussels, and after returning to England, published a volume of poems. He became attached to the staff of the "Morning Chronicle" newspaper in 1834, so remain. ing nine years, and was editor of the "Glasgow Argus" three years. He has written much and well, both in prose and verse, and ranks among the first of the present British authors. Many of his songs have attained great popularity, and the music to which they are set is in some cases of his own composition.

Ο

II.

45. IT WILL NEVER DO TO BE IDLE.

NE day, on my return from a long walk, I was driven to take shelter from a rain storm in a little hovel by the roadside a sort of cobbler's stall. The tenant and his son were upon their work, and after the customary use of greetings, I entered familiarly into talk with them, as indeed I always do, seeing that your cobbler is often a man of contemplative faculty —that there is really something of mystery in his craft.

2. Before I had been with them long, the old man found that there lacked something for his work, and in order to provide it he sent his son out on a job of some five minutes. The interval was a short one, but it was too long for his active impatience; he became uneasy, shuffled about the room, and at last took up a scrap or two of leather and fell to work upon them. "For," said he, "it will never do, you know, sir, to be idle-not for me at any rate-I should faint away."

3. I happened just then to be in an impressible mood, without

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