SAMUEL ROGERS. Christian and countryman was all with him, True to his church he came, no Sundayshower Kept him at home in that important hour; Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect By the strong glare of their new light direct: "On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze, But should be blind and lose it in your blaze." In times severe, when many a sturdy swain Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain, Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide, And feel in that his comfort and his pride. At length he found, when seventy years Why then this proud reluctance to be fed, To join your poor and eat the parishbread? But yet I linger, loath with him to feed Who gains his plenty by the sons of need: He who, by contract, all your paupers took, And gauges stomachs with an anxious look: On some old master I could well depend; See him with joy and thank him as a friend; But ill on him who doles the day's supply, And counts our chances who at night may die: Yet help me, Heaven! and let me not complain Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain." Such were his thoughts, and so resigned he grew ; Daily he placed the work house in his view! But came not there, for sudden was his fate, Ile dropt expiring at his cottage-gate. Round the bald polish of that honored head; No more that awful glance on playful wight Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight, To fold his fingers all in dread the while, Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile; No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there: .. But he is blest, and I lament no more, A wise good man contented to be poor. SAMUEL ROGERS. [1763-1855.] A WISH. MINE be a cot beside the hill; The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Around my ivied porch shall spring Where first our marriage-vows were given, ITALIAN SONG. DEAR is my little native vale, The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, In orange groves and myrtle bowers, The shepherd's horn at break of day, The ballet danced in twilight glade, The canzonet and roundelay Sung in the silent greenwood shade: These simple joys that never fail Shall bind me to my native vale. Yestreen when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw. O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace At least be pity to me shown; ROBERT BURNS. [1759-1796.] OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. OF a' the airts the wind can blaw, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best. There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill 's between ; I see her in the dewy flowers, I hear her in the tunefu' birds, There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. MARY MORISON. O MARY, at thy window be! It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison. HIGHLAND MARY. YE banks and braes and streams around Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, How sweetly bloomed the gay green hirk, Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace We tore ourselves asunder; O pale, pale now, those rosy lips As I stood by yon roofless tower, 83 Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. The cauld blue north was streaming forth By heedless chance I turned mine eyes, And by the moon-beam, shook, to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attired as minstrels wont to be. Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin look had daunted me: And on his bonnet graved was plain, The sacred posy - Libertie! And frae his harp sie strains did flow, As ever met a Briton's ear! He sang wi' joy his former day, But what he said it was nae play, A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspiréd fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near, And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by! Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy But with a frater-feeling strong, air, Where the howlet mourus in herivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care. The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot alang the sky; The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant-echoing glens reply. The stream, adown its hazelly path, Was rushing by the ruined wa's, Here heave a sigh. Is there a man whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs himself life's mad career, Wild as the wave; Here pause, and, thro' the starting tear, Survey this grave. This poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, |