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rose !

G.

0, lovely

Tell her, that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her, that's young
And shuns to have her graces spy'd,

That hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended dy'd.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired :

Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee:
How nall a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

EDMUND WALLER.

TAM GLEN.

MY

heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie!

Some counsel unto me come len'; To anger them a' is a pity,

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen ?

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fallow,

In poortith I might mak a fen’; What care I in riches to wallow, If I may not marry

Tam Glen ?

There's Laurie the laird o' Drumeller,

“ Guid day to you,”—brute! he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o' his siller,

But when will be dance like Tam Glen ?

My minnie does constantly deave me,

And bids me beware o' young men ; They flatter, she says, to deceive me,

But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ?

My daddie says, gin I'll forsak' him

He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten,But if its ordain'd I maun tak' him,

O wha will I get but Tam Glen?

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing

My heart to my mou' gied a sten; For thrice I drew ane without failing,

And thrice it was written_Tam Glen.

The last Halloween I lay waukin

My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken,

His likeness cam up the house staulkin,

And the vera grey breeks o' Tam Glen!

Come counsel, dear Tittie,—don't tarry!

I'll gie you my bonnie black hen
Gif
ye

will advise me to marry
The lad I loe dearly, Tam Glen.

Burns.

ODE TO EVENING.

I , modest

Faught of oaten stop or pastoral song

ear

(Like thy own emn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales); O Nymph reserved, -while now the bright-hair'd

sun

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed, And air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,

Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,-

Now teach me, Maid composed,

To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening

vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial, loved return !

For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brow with

sedge And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin ʼmidst its dreary dells,

Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams.
Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut

That from the mountain-side

Views wilds, and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light:
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes, [Till thou hast refuged where the cheerful glow Bids welcome, and the wind-unshaken lamp,

To household mirth and song,

And dear domestic joy :]
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favourite name !

WILLIAM COLLINS.

[LOSS.]

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OU thought my heart too far diseased ;

You wonder when my fancies play
To find me gay among

the

gay, Like one with any trifle pleased.

The shade by which my life was crost,

Which makes a desert in the mind,

Has made me kindly with my kind, And like to him whose sight is lost ;

Whose feet are guided through the land,

Whose jest among his friends is free,

Who takes the children on his knee, And winds their curls about his hand :

He plays with threads, he beats his chair

For pastime, dreaming of the sky;

His inner day can never die,
His night of loss is always there.

In Memoriam.

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