Where'er a tear is dried, a wounded heart
Bound up, a wounded spirit with the dew
Of sympathy anointed, or a pang
Of honest suffering soothed, or injury
Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven ;
Where'er an evil passion is subdued,
Or virtue's feeble embers fann'd; where'er
A sin is heartily abjured, and left;
Where'er a pious act is done, or breathed
A pious prayer, or wish'd a pious wish;
There is a high and holy place, a spot
Of sacred light, a most religious fane
Where Happiness descending sits and smiles.
ROBERT POLLOK, 1799-1827.

Course of Time.

A COUNTRY LIFE.

How sacred and how innocent
A country life appears—
How free from tumult, discontent,

From flattery or fears!

This was the first and happiest life,
When man enjoy'd himself,

Till pride exchangèd peace for strife,
And happiness for pelf.

'Twas here the poets were inspired, Here taught the multitude;

The brave they here with honour fired, And civilised the rude.

That golden age did entertain

No passion but of love:

The thoughts of ruling and of gain
Did ne'er their fancies move.

Them that do covet only rest,
A cottage will suffice:
It is not brave to be possess'd
Of earth, but to despise.

Opinion is the rate of things,

From hence our peace doth flow; I have a better fate than kings,

Because I think it so.

When all the stormy world doth roar,

How unconcern'd am I !

I cannot fear to tumble lower,
Who never could be high.

Secure in these unenvied walls,
I think not on the state,
And pity no man's case that falls
From his ambition's height.

Silence and innocence are safe ;

A heart that's nobly true,

At all these little arts can laugh,

That do the world subdue!

MRS KATHARINE PHILIPS, 1631-1664.

THE MAIR THAT YE WORK, AYE THE

MAIR WILL YE WIN.

BE eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on;
Be eident, be eident, bricht day will be gone;
To stand idle by is a profitless sin,

The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

The earth gathers fragrance while nursing the flower, The wave waxes stronger while feeding the shower, The stream gains in speed, as it sweeps o'er the lin; The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

There's nought got by idling, there's nought got for nought,

Health, wealth, and contentment by labour are bought, In raising yoursel', ye may help up your kin ;

The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

Let every man aim in his art to excel,

Let every man ettle to fend for himsel',
Aye nourish ye stern independence within ;
The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

JAMES BALLANTINE, 1808

NOTHING TO DO.

NOTHING to do? Oh! away with such blindness ;
Hearts and hands willing need never be still;
God has a glorious mission assign'd us,

Plenty of work we may find if we will.
Away, oh! away with such indolent feeling,
Prompting the thought there is nothing to do,
Angels and men to our souls are appealing,

66

'Work, work in earnest, be patient, be true."

Nothing to do? Think you God, who created

The winds and the waters, the birds and the flowers, Think, think you that He who their mission dictated

Endow'd us in vain with such marvellous powers;

No, no, in the roll and the rush of the river,

The bloom of the flower and the song of the bird, The voice of Eternity echoeth ever,

And "labour and love" the commands that are heard!

Nothing to do? Oh! what sinful delusion;

Hear ye the din in the populous streets; Hark! how dispelling this fatal illusion

The dark troubled breast of humanity beats; Thousands of weary ones need consolation, Thousands of children are crying for bread, Thousands fall heedlessly into temptation, Thousands are homeless, and scantily fed.

Nothing to do? Are no strong ones oppressing
The weak and the helpless, the strangers to love?
Is there no life you can cheer with a blessing?
No grief of the heart you can help to remove?
Oh! then away with the indolent feeling

That prompts you to say "you have nothing to do;" Angels and men to your souls are appealing, "Work, work in earnest, be patient, be true."

ROWLAND BROWN, 1837—

PROCRASTINATION.

BE wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead ;
Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves