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In sighs to pour his softened soul,

The midnight mourner strayed.
His cheek, where health with beauty glowed,

A deadly pale o'ercast :
So fades the fresh rose in its prime,

Before the northern blast.
The parents now with late remorse,

Hung o'er his dying bed;
And wearied heaven with fruitless vows,

And fruitless sorrow shed.
“ 'Tis past !” he cried, but if souls

Sweet mercy yet can move,
Let these dim eyes once more behold,

What they must ever love!”
She came; his cold hand softly touched,

And bathed with many a tear :
Fast falling o'er the primrose pale
So morning


But, oh! his sister's jealous care,

A cruel sister she,
Forbade what Emma came to say ;

“My Edwin, live for me!”
Now homeward as she hopeless wept

The church-yard path along; The blast blew cold, the dark owl screamed

Her lover's funeral song.
Amid the falling gloom of night,

Her startling fancy found
In every bush his hovering shade,

Alone, appalled, thus had she passed

The visionary vale,-
When, lo! the death-bell smote her ear

Sad sounding in the gale!
Just then she reached with trembling step

Her aged mother's door

every sound.

" He's gone!” she cried;

" and I shall see
That angel forin no more.
"I feel, I feel this breaking heart

Beat high against my side—”
From her white arm down sunk her head;
She shivering sighed, and died.


THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. Pity the sorrows of a poor


man, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,

Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,

These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years !
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek

Has been the channel of a flood of tears.
Yon house erected on a rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road,

, For plenty there a residence has found,

And grandeur a magnificent abode. Hard is the fate of the infirm and

Here, craving for a morsel of their bread, A pampered menial forced me from the door,

To seek a shelter in an humbler shed. Oh! take me to your hospitable room;

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Short is my passagz to the friendly tomb,

For I am poor, and miserably old. Should I reveal the source of ev'ry grief,

If soft humanity e'er touched your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,

And tears in pity could not be represt.
Heaven sends misfortunes: why should we repine ?

'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see,

condition may be soon like mine, The child of sorrow and of misery. A little farm was my paternal lot ;

Then like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn:


poor !


But ah! Oppression forced me from my cot,

My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. My daughter, once the comfort of my age,

Lured by a villain from her native home, Is cast abandoned on the world's wild stage,

And doomed in scanty poverty to roam. My tender wife, sweet soother of my care !

Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, Fell, ling’ring fell! a victim to despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me. Pity the sorrows of a poor


man, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,

Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.


Scipio sought virtue in his prime,

And, having early gain'd the prize,
Stole from the ungrateful world in time,

Contented to be low and wise!
He served the state with zeal and force,

And then with dignity retired;
Dismounting from the unruly horse,
To rule himself

, as sense required,
Without a sigh, he power resigned.

All, all from thee,

Supremely gracious Deity,

Corrector of the mind !
When Diocletian sought repose,

Cloyed and fatigued with nauseous power,
He left his empire to his foes,

For fools t'admire, and rogues devour:
Rich in his poverty, he bought

Retirement's innocence and health ;
With his own hands the monarch wrought,
And changed a throne for Ceres' wealth.
Toil soothed his cares, his blood refined-

And all from thee,

Supremely gracious Deity,
Composer of the mind!


What beauties does Flora disclose !
How sweet are her smiles


Tweed! Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those,

Both nature and fancy exceed. Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose,

Nor all the gay flowers of the field, Not Tweed gliding gently through those,

Such beauty and pleasure does yield. The warblers are heard in the grove,

The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird, and sweet-cooing dove,

With music enchant every bush. Come let us go forth to the mead,

Let us see how the primroses spring; We'll lodge in some village on Tweed,

And love while the feather'd folks sing. How does my love pass the long day?

Does Mary not tend a few sheep ? Do they never carelessly stray,

While happily she lies asleep?
Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest;

Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To relieve the soft pains of my breast,

I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.
'Tis she does the virgins excel,

No beauty with her may compare; Love's graces

around her do dwell; She is fairest where thousands are fair. Say, charmer where do thy flocks stray,

Oh! tell me at noon where they feed; Shall I seek them on smooth winding Tay, Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed?


Deluded on from scene to scene,
We never end but still begin,

By flattering hope betrayed ;

I'm weary of the painful chase
Let others run this endless race

To catch a flying shade.
Let others boast their useless wealth ;
Have I not honesty and health ?

Which riches cannot give : Let others to preferment soar, And, changing liberty for pow'r,

In golden shackles live.


GRONGAR HILL, Silent nymph! with curious eye, Who, the purple evening, lie On the mountain's lonely van, Beyond the noise of busy man, Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet sings; Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the forest with her tale ; Come with all thy various hues, Come, and aid thy sister muse. Now, while Phoebus, riding high, Gives lustre to the land and sky, Grongar Hill invites my song, Draw the landscape bright and strong; Grongar! in whose mossy cells, Sweetly musing, Quiet dwells; Grongar! in whose quiet shade, For the modest Muses made, So oft I have, the evening still, At a fountain of a rill, Sat upon a flow'ry bed, With my hand beneath my head, While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood; Over mead and over wood, From house to house, from hill to hill, Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his chequered sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind;

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