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The parting words shall pass my lips no | (And thou wast happier than myself the

more!

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my

concern,

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived;
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and
went,

Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er
forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;

And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, "T is now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house

our own.

Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,

Still outlives many a storm that has effaced

A thousand other themes less deeply traced.

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid,

All this, and, more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,

Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks

That humor interposed too often makes, -
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honors to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little no-
ticed here.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours

When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,

The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,

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while,

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JEAN ADAM.

From loins enthroned, and rulers of the

earth;

But higher far my proud pretensions rise,

The son of parents passed into the skies. And now, farewell!-Time, unrevoked, has run

His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,

I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again,

To have renewed the joys that once were mine

Without the sin of violating thine; And while the wings of Fancy still are free,

And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft, Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENCE.

GOD moves in a mysterious way

His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take!
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,

Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,

But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his works in vain; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain.

JEAN ADAM.

[1710-1765.]

THE MARINER'S WIFE.

AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?

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Mak haste, lay by your wheel; Is this the time to spin a thread, When Colin 's at the door? Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa'.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockings pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;
Gie little Kate her button gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he 's been lang awa'.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop,

Been fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare; And mak our table neat and clean, Let everything look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared

When he was far awa'?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air;

His very foot has music in 't

As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet!

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,
That thirled through my heart,

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See truth, love, and mercy in triumph descending,

And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!

On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending,

When pains grow sharp and sickness
rages,

The greatest love of life appears.
This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were
gay,

And beauty immortal awakes from the On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day,

tomb."

JOHN LANGHORNE.

[1735-1779.]

THE DEAD.

Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold,
No more the smiling day shall view,
Should many a tender tale be told,

For many a tender thought is due.

Why else the o'ergrown paths of time
Would thus the lettered sage explore,
With pain these crumbling ruins climb,
And on the doubtful sculpture pore?

Why seeks he with unwearied toil,

Death called aside the jocund groom
With him into another room,

And, looking grave, "You must," says

he,

"Quit your sweet bride, and come with

me."

"With you! and quit my Susan's side?
With you!" the hapless husband cried;
"Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared:
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-day, you know."

What more he urged I have not heard,

His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spared,

And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke.
"Neighbor," he said, "farewell! no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour:

Through Death's dim walks to urge his And further, to avoid all blame

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Of cruelty upon my name,

To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you 're summoned to the grave;
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve,
In hopes you'll have no more to say,
But when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his
horse,

The willing muse shall tell :
He chaffered, then he bought and sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near:
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace. But while he viewed his wealth increase, While thus along life's dusty road The beaten track content he trod, Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,

The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

Half killed with anger and surprise, "So soon returned!" Old Dodson cries. "So soon, d' ye call it!" Death replies; "Surely, my friend, you 're but in jest! Since I was here before 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoined;

"To spare the aged would be kind: However, see your search be legal; And your authority, is 't regal? Else you are come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant. Beside, you promised me three warnings,

Which I have looked for nights and mornings;

But for that loss of time and ease
I can recover damages."

"I know," cries Death, "that at the
best

I seldom am a welcome guest;
But don't be captious, friend, at least:
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable:
Your years have run to a great length;

I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.” "Nay, then," the spectre stern re joined,

"These are unjustifiable yearnings: If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, You've had your three sufficient warnings;

So come along, no more we 'll part." He said, and touched him with his dart. And now Old Dodson, turning pale, Yields to his fate, - so ends my tale.

ANNA L. BARBAULD.

[1743-1825.]

THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL.

SLEEP, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born;

Ye shall not dim the light that streams From this celestial morn.

To-morrow will be time enough

To feel your harsh control; Ye shall not violate, this day, The Sabbath of my soul.

Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts;
Let fires of vengeance die;
And, purged from sin, may I behold
A God of purity!

THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS.

SWEET is the scene when virtue dies! When sinks a righteous soul to rest,

I wish you joy, though, of your strength!" | How mildly beam the closing eyes,

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"Hold," says the farmer, "not so fast! I have been lame these four years past. "And no great wonder," Death replies : "However, you still keep your eyes; And sure to see one's loves and friends For legs and arms would make amends." "Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight."

"This is a shocking tale, 't is true; But still there's comfort left for you: Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news." “There's none,” cries he; and if there

were,

How gently heaves the expiring breast!

So fades a summer cloud away,

So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, So gently shuts the eye of day, So dies a wave along the shore.

Triumphant smiles the victor brow,

Fanned by some angel's purple wing;Where is, O grave! thy victory now? And where, insidious death! thy sting?

Farewell, conflicting joys and fears,

Where light and shade alternate dwell!

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