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113. FROM 'JUNE'
AND what if cheerful shouts, at noon,

Come, from the village sent,
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,

With fairy laughter blent ?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothèd lovers walk in sight

Of my low monument ?
I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
I know, I know I should not see

The season's glorious show,
Nor would its brightness shine for me,

Nor its wild music flow;
But if around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,

They might not haste to go.
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
These to their softened hearts should bear

The thought of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share

The gladness of the scene ;
Whose part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills,

Is—that his grave is green ;
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear, again, his living voice.



So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

W. C. BRYANT (Thanatopsis).

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
And coloured with heaven's own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.

Thou comest not when violets lean
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and com’st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue-blue--as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.



WHITHER, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant fight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean-side ?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast
The desert and illimitable air-

Lone wandering, but not lost.

He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.


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And nobody knows us, heeds

us, And our loving none reproves, – I, the poor figure-painter !

You, the lady he loves !

Is it not pleasant to wander

In town on Saturday night, While people go hither or thither,

And shops shed cheerful light ? And, arm in arm, while our

shadows Chase us along the panes, Are we not quite as cosy

As down among country lanes ?
Nobody knows us, heeds us,

Nobody hears or sees,
And the shop-lights gleam more

Than the moon on hedges and

trees ; And people coming and going,

All upon ends of their own, Though they work a spell on the

spirit, Move it more finely alone. The sound seems harmless and

pleasant As the murmur of brook and

wind; The shops with the fruit and the

pictures Have sweetness to suit my

And what if the world should

scorn you, For now and again, as you do, Assuming a country kirtle,

And bonnet of straw thereto, Or the robe of a vestal virgin,

Or a nun's grey gabardine, And keeping a brother and sister

By standing and looking divine ?

And what if the world, more

over, Should silently pass me by, Because, at the dawn of the

struggle, I labour some stories high ! Why, there's comfort in waiting,

working, And feeling one's heart beat

right,And rambling alone, love-making, In London on Saturday night.



118. LIZ

THE crimson light of sunset falls

Through the grey glamour of the murmuring rain,
And creeping o'er the housetops crawls

Through the black smoke upon the broken pane,
Steals to the straw on which she lies,

And tints her thin black hair and hollow cheeks,
Her sun-tanned neck, her glistening eyes, —

While faintly, sadly, fitfully she speaks.
But when it is no longer light,

The pale girl smiles, with only One to mark,
And dies upon the breast of Night,
Like trodden snowdrift melting in the dark.


119. SONG IN THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION He that is down, needs fear no I am content with what I have, fall,

Little be it, or much : He that is low, no pride :

And, Lord, contentment still I He that is humble, ever shall

crave, Have God to be his guide.

Because Thou savest such.
Fullness to such a burden is
That go on pilgrimage :
Here little, and hereafter bliss,
Is best from age to age.

J. BUNYAN (The Pilgrim's Progress).

120. TO BE A PILGRIM Who would true valour see, No lion can him fright, Let him come hither ;

He'll with a giant fight, One here will constant be,

But he will have a right Come wind, come weather.

To be a pilgrim. There 's no discouragement,

Hobgoblin, nor foul fiend, Shall make him once relent

Can daunt his spirit ; His first avowed intent

He knows he at the end To be a pilgrim.

Shall life inherit. Who so beset him round

Then fancies fly away, With dismal stories,

He'll fear not what men say, Do but themselves confound, He'll labour night and day His strength the more is.

To be a pilgrim.

J. BUNYAN (The Pilgrim's Progress).
FROM scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad :
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,

An honest man 's the noblest work of God;'
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road,

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ;
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined !

R. BURNS (The Cotter's Saturday Night).

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that ?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that !

For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that ;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp;

The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hodden-grey, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that ;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor

Is King o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

Wha struts and stares, and a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:

For a' that, and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind,

He looks and laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o’ sense, and pride o' worth,

Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will for a' that;
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that,
That man to man the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.


123. A' FOR OUR RIGHTFU' KING It was a' for our rightfu' King, He turned him right and round

We left fair Scotland's strand; about
It was a' for our rightfu’ King, Upon the Irish shore ;
We e'er saw Irish land,

And gae his bridle-reins a shake,
My dear,

With adieu for evermore, We e'er saw Irish land.

My dear, Now a' is done that men can do,

Adieu for evermore. And a' is done in vain;

The sodger from the wars returns, My love and native land fare- The sailor frae the main ; well,

But I hae parted frae my love, For I maun cross the main, Never to meet again, My dear,

My dear, For I maun cross the main. Never to meet again.

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