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Protected industry beneath thy reign
Leads all the virtues in her filial

Courageous Probity, with browserene;
And Temperance calm presents her

placid mien;
Contentment, Moderation, Labor,


Mould the new man and humanize his heart;

To public plenty, private ease di-

Domestic peace, to harmony of states.
Protected Industry, careering far,
Detects the cause, and cures the rage
of war,

And sweeps, with forceful arm, to

their last graves. Kings from the earth and pirates

from the waves.

Lady Anne Barnard.


When the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows come hame,
When a' the weary warld to quiet rest are gane;
The woes of my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,
Unkenned by my gudeman who soundly sleeps by me.

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and sought me for his bride,
But, saving ae crown piece, he'd naething else beside.
To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea;
And the crown and the pound, O they were baith for me I

Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day,
My father brak his arm, our cow was stown away;
My mother she fell sick — my Jamie was at sea —
And Auld Robin Gray, O! he came a-courting me.

My father cou'dna work — my mother cou'dna spin;
I toiled day and night, but their bread I cou'dna win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee,
Said, "Jenny, O! for their sakes, will you marry me!"

My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back;
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wreck;
His ship it was a wreck! Why didna Jamie dee?
Or, wherefore am I spared to cry out, Wae is me I

My father argued sair— my mother didna speak,
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break;
They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea;
And so Auld Robin Gray, he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been his wife, a week but only four,

When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,

I saw my Jamie's ghaist — I cou'dna think it he,

Till he said, " I'm come hame, my love, to marry thee!"

0 sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a';

Ae kiss we took, na mair—I bade him gang awa.

I wish that I were dead, but I'm nae like to dee;
For O, I am but young to cry out, Wae is me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin,
I darena think of 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 sae kind to me.

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Fletcher Bates.


As leaves turned red

And some fell dead, For sunnier skies two songsters fled;

But ere they went,

In merriment They sung how summer had been spent.

One song contest,

"I had my nest Near yonder mountain's lofty crest;

Where none intrude

In lonely mood
I carolled oft in solitude."

The other song

"I built among The cottagers, where old and young

Who trod the vale

Would often hail
Me, as their little nightingale."

Then off they flew,

Like specks they grew, Then faded in the heavenly blue.

Our human lot

Was theirs, I wot, For one was missed, and one was not.


Where honeysuckles scent the way,
I heard thee humming yesterday;
Thy little life was not in vain,
It gathered sweets for other's gain,
And somewhere in a dainty cell
Is stored delicious hydromel.

O poet! in thy calm retreat,
From joy and grief extracting sweet.
Someday thy fancy's wings must fold,
And thou lie motionless and cold.
Perhaps thy garnered honey then
May be the food of living men.



Slowly I circle the dim, dizzy stair, Wrapt in my cloak's gray fold,

Holding my heart lest it throb to theair its radiant secret, for though I be old,

Though I totter and rock like a ship

in the wind, And the sunbeams come unto me broken and blind, Yet my spirit drinks youth from the treasure we hold, Richer than gold.

Princes below me, lips wet from the wine,

Hush at my organ's swell; Ladies applaud me with clappings as fine

As showers that splash in a musical well.

Lee Bates.

But their ears only hear mighty melodies ringing, And their souls never know 'tis my angel there singing, That the grand organ-angel awakes in his cell Under my spell.

There in the midst of the wandering pipes,

Far from the gleaming keys, And the organ-front with its gilded stripes,

My glorious angel lies sleeping at ease.

And the hand of a stranger may beat

at his gate, And the ear of a stranger may listen and wait, But he only cries in his pain for these, Witless to please.

Angel, my angel, the old man's hand

Xnoweth thy silver way. 1 loose thy lips from their silenceband

And over thy heart-strings my fingers play, While the song peals forth from thy

mellow throat, And my spirit climbs on the climbing note. Till I mingle thy tone with the tones away Over the day.

So I look up as I follow the tone,

Up with my dim old eyes, And I wonder if organs have angels alone,

Or if, as my fancy might almost surmise,

Each man in his heart folds an angel

with wings, An angel that slumbers, but wakens and sings When thrilled by the touch that is sympathy-wise, Bidding it rise.

Thomas Haynes Bayly.


The matron at her mirror,

With her hand upon her brow,
Sits gazing on her lovely face,—

Ay, lovely even now!
Why doth she lean upon her hand

With such a look of care? Why steals that tear across her cheek?

She sees her first gray hair!

Time from her form hath ta'en away

But little of its grace; II is touch of thought hath dignified

The beauty of her face. Yet she might mingle in the dance

Where maidens gayly trip, So bright is still her hazel eye,

So beautiful her lip.

The faded form is often mark'd

By sorrow more than years,—
The wrinkle on the cheek may be

The course of secret tears;
The mournful lip may murmur of

A love it ne'er confess'd,
And the dimness of the eye betray

A heart that cannot rest.

But she hath been a happy wife:

The lover of her youth Hay proudly claim the smile that pays

The trial of his truth;

A sense of slight —of loneliness
Hath never banish'd sleep:

Her life hath been a cloudless one;
Then wherefore doth she weep?

She look'd upon her raven locks,—

What thoughts did they recall? Oh! not of nights when they were deck'd For banquet or for ball; They brought back thoughts of early youth,

Ere she had learn'd to check, With artificial wreaths, the curls That sported o'er her neck.

She seem'd to feel her mother's hand

Pass lightly through her hair, And draw it from her brow, to leave

A kiss of kindness there. She seem'd to view her father's smile,

And feel the playful touch That sometimes feign'd to steal away

The curls she prized so much.

And now she sees her first gray hair!

Oh, deem it not a crime
For her to weep, when she beholds

The first footmark of Time! She knows that, one by one, those mute

Mementos will increase. And steal youth, beauty, strength away,

Till life itself shall cease.

Ah, lady! heed the monitor!

Thy mirror tells thee truth; Assume the matron's folded veil,

Resign the wreath of youth:

Go! bind it on thy daughter's brow,

In her thou'lt still look fair— 'Twere well would all learn wisdom, who

Behold the first gray hair!

James Beattie.

[From The Minstrel.]

Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb

The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar?

Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime

Has felt the influence of malignant star,

And waged with Fortune an eternal war?

Checked by the scoff of Pride, by

Envy's frown, And Poverty's unconquerable bar. In life's low vale remote has pined


Then dropped into the grave, unpitied and unknown!

[From The Minstrel.]

Oh, how canst thou renounce the boundless store

Of charms which Nature to her votary yields!

The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,

The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;

All that the genial ray of morning gilds,

And all that echoes to the song of even,

All that the mountain's sheltering

bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of


Oh, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven?

[From The Armstreh]


But who the melodies of morn can tell?

The wild brook babbling down the

mountain side; The lowing herd: the sheepfold's

simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim


In the lone valley; echoing far and wide

The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;

The hollow murmur of the oceantide;

The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,

And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark;

Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings;

The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!

Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;

Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs;

Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour;

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;

Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower,

And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower.

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