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Protected industry beneath thy reign
Courageous Probity, with browserene;
Mould the new man and humanize his heart;
To public plenty, private ease di-
Domestic peace, to harmony of states.
And sweeps, with forceful arm, to
their last graves. Kings from the earth and pirates
from the waves.
Lady Anne Barnard.
AULD ROBtN GRAY.
When the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows come hame,
Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and sought me for his bride,
Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day,
My father cou'dna work — my mother cou'dna spin;
My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back;
My father argued sair— my mother didna speak,
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;
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin,
THE TWO BIRDS.
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
The other song
"I built among The cottagers, where old and young
Who trod the vale
Would often hail
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.
THE DEAD BEE.
Where honeysuckles scent the way,
O poet! in thy calm retreat,
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.
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 Flit ST GRAY HAIR.
The matron at her mirror,
With her hand upon her brow,
Ay, lovely even now!
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 course of secret tears;
A love it ne'er confess'd,
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
Her life hath been a cloudless one;
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
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!
[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]
BE A UTIES OF MORNING.
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.