For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see ?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

Partakers of thy sad decline,

My Mary!

Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet, gently press'd, press gently mine,

My Mary!

Such feebleness of limb thou prov'st,
That now at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,

My Mary!
And still to love, though press'd with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

And should my future lot be cast

My Mary!

With much resemblance to the past,

Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!

ANNE LETITIA BARBAULD.

Born, 1743; Died, 1825.

LIFE! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together,

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather: 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear,

Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ;

-Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time:

Say not Good night; but in some other clime,
Bid me Good morning.

JAMES BEATTIE.

Born, 1735; Died, 1803.

HOPE BEYOND THE GRAVE.

"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For Morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with
dew.

Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn;
Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save,
But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn!
O, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!

'Twas thus, by the glare of false Science betray'd, That leads, to bewilder; that dazzles, to blind; My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

O, pity, great Father of light, then I cried,

Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee: Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride;

From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free.

And darkness and doubt are now flying away,
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn:

So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of Morn.
See Truth, Love, and Mercy in triumph descending,
And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!

On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending,

And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.

LADY ANNE BARNARD (LINDSAY).

Born, 1750; Died, 1825.

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows

come hame,

When a' the weary world to rest are gane,

The woes of my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,

While my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie loved me well, and sought me for his bride,

But saving a crown, he had naething else beside;

To make the crown a pund, my Jamie went to sea, And the crown and the pund were baith for me.

He hadna been gane but a twelvemonth and a day, When my father brak his arm, our cow was stown

away;

My mither she fell sick; my Jamie was at sea;
And auld Robin Gray-came a courting me!

My father couldna work, my mother couldna spin;
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna

win:

Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in

his e'e,

Said, "Jenny, for their sakes, O marry me!"

My heart it said Nay; I look'd for Jamie back;

But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack;
His ship was a wrack! why didna Jamie dee?
Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me!

My father urged me sair; my mother didna speak,
But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to

break;

They gied him my hand, but my heart was at the

sea;

Sae auld Robin Gray, he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been his wife but weeks 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, "Jeanie, I'm come hame to marry
thee!"

Sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say;
We tak but ae kiss, and tore oursels away:

I wish that I were dead; but I'm no like to dee. O, why was I born to cry, Wae's me!

I

gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;

I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For auld Robin Gray, O! he is kind unto me.

GEORGE CRABBE.
Born, 1754; Died, 1832.

AN ENGLISH PEASANT.
To pomp and pageantry in nought allied,
A noble Peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestion'd and his soul serene:
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid;
At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd:
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face :
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved;
To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,

And, with the firmest, had the fondest mind:
Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none;
Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd: