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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?

71

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,

They're a' blawn by, I hae him safe,
Till death we'll never part;
But what puts parting in my head?
It may be far awa'!

The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.

Since Colin 's weel, and weel content,

I hae nae mair to crave;
And gin I live to keep him sae,

I'm blest aboon the lave.
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.
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'.

JAMES BEATTIE.

[1735-1803.]

THE HERMIT.

AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,

When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill,

And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove,

'T was thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,

While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began ;

No more with himself or with nature at

war,

He thought as a sage, though he felt as

a man:

"Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe,

Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?

For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,

And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;

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save;

But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?

O, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave?

""T was thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,

That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind,

My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade,

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

'O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried,

"Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee!

Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my

pride;

From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free!'

"And darkness and doubt are now flying

away;

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.

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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,

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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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