Puslapio vaizdai
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He shouted: nor his friends had failed
To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevailed,

That, pitiless perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.

Some succor yet they could afford;

And such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,

Delayed not to bestow.

But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he

Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;

Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;
And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repelled;
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried "Adieu!"

At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more:
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him; but the page
Of narrative sincere,

That tells his name, his worth, his age,
Is wet with Anson's tear:

And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:
But misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allayed,

No light propitious shone, When, snatched from all effectual aid, We perished, each alone: But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

THE DOVES.

REAS'NING at every step he treads,
Man yet mistakes his way,
While meaner things, whom instinct
leads,

Are rarely known to stray.

One silent eve I wander'd late,

And heard the voice of love; The turtle thus address'd her mate, And sooth'd the list'ning dove:

Our mutual bond of faith and truth
No time shall disengage,
Those blessings of our early youth
Shall cheer our latest age.

While innocence without disguise,
And constancy sincere,
Shall fill the circles of those eyes,

And mine can read them there;

Those ills that wait on all below,

Shall ne'er be felt by me, Or gently felt and only so,

As being shared with thee.

When lightnings flash among the trees,
Or kites are hov'ring near,
I fear lest thee alone they seize,
And know no other fear.

'Tis then I feel myself a wife,
And press thy wedded side,
Resolved an union form'd for life.
Death never shall divide.

But oh! if fickle and unchaste

(Forgive a transient thought) Thou couldst become unkind at last, And scorn thy present lot,

No need of lightnings from on high,
Or kites with cruel beak,
Denied th' endearments of thine eye
This widow'd heart would break.

Thus sang the sweet sequester'd bird,
Soft as the passing wind,
And I recorded what I heard,
A lesson for mankind.

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How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest; The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place;

And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

JAMES BEATTIE.

1735-1803.

[JAMES BEATTIE was born at Laurencekirk in 1735, and died at Aberdeen in 1803. He pub lished his first volume of poems in 1761, The Judgment of Paris in 1765, and Some Lines on the Proposed Monument to Churchill in 1766. The first part of The Minstrel appeared in 1770, the second in 1774.]

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And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy; Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye:

Dainties he heeded not, nor gaude, nor toy,

Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy.

Silent, when glad; affectionate, though shy;

And now his look was most demurely sad,

And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why;

The neighbors star'd and sigh'd, yet bless'd the lad;

Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believ'd him mad.

But why should I his childish feats display?

Concourse, and noise, and toil he ever fled;

Nor car'd to mingle in the clamorous fray

Of squabbling imps, but to the forest sped,

Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head;

Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd

stream

To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led,

There would he wander wild, till
Phoebus' beam,

Shot from the western cliff, releas'd

the weary team.

Th' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed,

To him nor vanity nor joy could bring:

His heart, from cruel sport estrang'd, would bleed

To work the woe of any living thing, By trap or net, by arrow or by sling;

These he detested, those he scorn'd to wield;

He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king,

Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field: And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield.

Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves

Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine;

And sees, on high, amidst th' encircling groves,

From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine:

While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join,

And Echo swells the chorus to the skies.

Would Edwin this majestic scene resign For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies?

Ah! no: he better knows great
Nature's charms to prize.

And oft he trac'd the uplands, to survey,

When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn,

The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray,

And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn;

Far to the west the long long vale with. drawn,

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