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Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,

The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart

To soothe the stranger's woe,
For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the Hermit spied,

With answering care opprest: "And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,

The sorrows of thy breast?
"From better habitations spurned,

Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturned,

Or unregarded love?
“Alas! the joys that fortune brings

Are trifling, and decay ; And those who prize the paltry things

More trifling still than they. “And what is friendship but a name?

A charm that lulls to sleep-
A shade that follows wealth or fame,

But leaves the wretch to weep.
“ And love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair one's jest; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest.

[hush, " For shame, fond youth! thy sorrows

And spurn the sex," he said ; But while he spoke, a rising blush

His love-lorn guest betrayed.
Surprised he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view
Like colours o'er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms;
The lovely stranger stands confest

A maid in all her charms.

My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he, And all his wealth was marked as mine:

He had but only me. "To win me from his tender arms

Unnumbered suitors came,
Who praised me for imputed charms,

And felt, or feigned, a flame.
Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove; Amongst the rest young Edwin bowed,

But never talked of love. "In humble simplest habit clad,

No wealth nor power had he: Wisdom and worth were all he had

But these were all to me.
· And when, beside me in the dale,

He carolled lays of love,
His breath lent fragrance to the gale

And music to the grove.
“ The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of heaven refined, Could nought of purity display

To emulate his mind. “The dew, the blossom on the tree,

With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his; but, woe is me!

Their constancy was mine. “For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain; And while his passion touched my heart,

I triumphed in his pain; “Till quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride, And sought a solitude forlorn

In secret, where he died. "But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And well my life shall pay: I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay; And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I." "Forbid it, heaven!" the Hermit cried,

And clasped her to his breast: The wondering fair one turned to chide'Twas Edwin's self that pressed !

“And ah! forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn," she cried, "Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude

Where Heaven and you reside,

“But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray-. Who seeks for rest, but finds despair

Companion of her way.

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It was not in the battle,

No tempest gave the shock,
She sprang no fatal leak,

She ran upon no rock. * The “Royal George," 108 guns, was lost off Spithead on the 29th of August, 1782. She was undergoing some repairs, and was careened over, when a sudden gust of wind overset her and she sank. A great number of persons were on board at the time from Portsmouth. Two or three hundred bodies floated on shore, and were buried in Kingston churchyard.

Sweet were his words when last we met;

My passion I as freely told him ; Clasped in his arms, I little thought

That I should never more behold him.

Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost

It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend And givea doleful groan through Yarrow. His mother from the window looked,

With all the longing of a mother; His little sister, weeping, walked

The greenwood path to meet her brother. They sought him east, they sought him west,

They sought him all the forest thorough: They only saw the clouds of night,

They only heard the roar of Yarrow. No longer from thy window look

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother; No longer walk, thou lovely maid,

Alas, thou hast no more a brother !

No longer seek him east or west,

No longer search the forest thorough; For, murdered in the night so dark,

He lies a lifeless corse in Yarrow !

The tears shall never leave my cheek,

No other youth shall be my marrow; I'll seek thy body in the stream,

And there with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.

The tear did never leave her cheek,

No other youth became her marrow; She found his body in the stream,

And with him now she sleeps in Yarrow.

As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second Spring.
Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen

Full many a sprightly race
Disporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace;
Who foremost now delight to cleave,
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthral?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,

Or urge the flying ball?
While some on earnest business bent,

Their murmuring labours ply, 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty:
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry:
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.
Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possessed ;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast. Their buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light,

That fly th' approach of morn.
Alas! regardless of their doom,

The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet see, how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train ! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 'To seize their prey, the murderous band,

Ah, tell them they are men ! These shall the fury Passions tear,

The vultures of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart; And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,

And Sorrow's piercing dart.

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THOMAS GRAY.

1716-1771.

ODE ON A DISTANT VIEW OF

ETON COLLEGE.

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,

That crown the wat'ry glade, Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade; And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers

among Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way:

Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields beloved in vain ! Where once my careless childhood strayed,

A stranger yet to pain! I feel the

gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow,

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Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,

And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' altered eye,

That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse, with blood defiled, And moody Madness laughing wild

Amid severest woe.

Scared at thy frown terrific, fly

Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless

Joy, And leave us leisure to be good. Light they disperse, and with them go The summer friend, the flatt'ring foe; By vain Prosperity received, To her they vow their truth, and are again

believed. Wisdom in sable garb arrayed,

Immersed in rapturous thought profound, And Melancholy, silent maid,

With leaden eye that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend; Warm Charity, the general friend, With Justice, to herself severe, And Pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing

tear.

Lo! in the vale of years beneath,

A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their Queen:
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every lab'ring sinew strains,

Those in the deeper vitals rage ;
Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,

And slow-consuming Age.

To each his sufferings: all are men,

Condemned alike to groan; The tender for another's pain,

Th’ unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies ? Thought would destroy their Paradise. No more !-where ignorance is bliss,

'Tis folly to be wise.

Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head,

Dread goddess, lay thy chast'ning hand! Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,

Nor circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen); With' thund'ring voice and threat'ning

mien, With screaming Horror's funeral cry, Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly

Poverty:
Thy form benign, O goddess, wear,

Thy milder influence impart,
Thy philosophic train be there

To soften, not to wound my heart. The gen'rous spark extinct ive, Teach me to love and to forgive, Exact my own defects to scan, What others are to feel, and know myself

a Man.

TO ADVERSITY.

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DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power,

Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and torturing hour

The bad affright, afflict the best ! Bound in thy adamantine chain, The proud are taught to taste of pain, And purple tyrants vainly groan With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and

alone.

ROBERT BURNS.

1759–1796. THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.

When first thy sire to send on earth

Virtue, his darling child, designed, To thee he gave the heavenly birth,

And bade thee form her infant mind. Stern rugged nurse! thy rigid lore With patience many a year she bore: What sorrow was thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learned to melt at

others' woe.

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves

returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear

through the vale ; The hawthorn-trees blow in the dews of the

morning, And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green dale;

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He turned him right, and round about,

Upon the Irish shore;
And ga'e his bridle-reins a shake,

With adieu for evermore, my dear!
With adieu for evermore!

The sodger frae the wars returns,

The sailor frae the main;
But I ha'e parted frae my love,

Never to meet again, my dear,
Never to meet again.

GO, PATTER to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see,

'Bout danger and fear and the like; A tight water-boat and good sea-room give

me, And 'tain't to a little I'll strike; Though the tempest top-gallant masts

smack smooth should smite, And shiver each splinter of wood, Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouse

everything tight, And under reefed foresail we'll scud: Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft

To be taken for trifles aback; For they say there's a Providence sits up

aloft, To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack.

When day is gane and night is come,

And a' folk bound to sleep,
I'll think on him that's far awa'

The lee-lang night, and weep, my dear,
The lee-lang night, and weep.

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