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Those who maintain themselves by still maintaining it,
Again, if we should never die, nor dress,
2. MODEST MEN.
CCLXIII. SAMUEL ROGERS, 1762—1856.
1. THE BOY OF EGREMOND.*
At Embsay rung the matin-bell,
Received their little all of life! * In the twelfth century William Fitz-Duncan laid waste the valleys of Craveu with fire and sword; and was afterwards established there by his uncle, David, king of Scotland. He was the last of his race, his son commonly called the Boy of Egremond, dying before him in the manner here related; when a priory was removed from Embsay to Bolton, that it might be as near as possible to the place where the accident happened. That place is still known by the name of the Strid; and the mother's answer, as given in the last stanza, is to this day often repeated in Wharfedale. -See Whitaker's Hist. of Craven.
There now the matin-bell is rung;
2. CHILDHOOD. The hour arrives, the moment wish'd and fear'd; The child is born, by many a pang endear'd. And now the mother's ear has caught his cry; Oh, grant the cherub to her asking eye! He comes—she clasps him. To her bosom pressid, He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.
Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows; How soon by his the glad discovery shows ! As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, What answering looks of sympathy and joy! He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard. And ever, ever to her lap he flies, When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise. Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung, (That name most dear for ever on his tongue) Às with soft accents round her neck he clings, A.nd cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings, How blest to feel the beatings of his heart, Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart; Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove, And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!
But soon a nobler task demands her care. Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, Telling of Him who sees in secret there!-And now the volume on her knee has caught His wandering eye—now many a written thought Never to die, with many a lisping sweet His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat.
Released, he chases the bright butterfly; Oh, he would follow-follow through the sky ! Climbs the gaunt mastiff, slumbering in his chain, And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane ; Then runs, and, kneeling by the fountain-side, Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide, A dangerous voyage; or, if now he can, If now he wears the habit of a man, Flings off his coat, so long his pride and pleasure, And, like a miser digging for his treasure, His tiny spade in his own garden plies, And in green letters sees his name arise ! Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight, She looks, and looks, and still with new delight !
Ah who, when fading of itself away, Would cloud the sunshine of his little day! Now is the May of life. Careering round, Joy wings his feet, joy lifts him from the ground Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say, When the rich casket shone in bright array, “ These are my jewels!” Well, of such as he, When JESUS spake, well might his language be, “ Suffer these little ones to come to me !"
3. TO THE BUITERFLY. Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light; And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstacy ! -Ỳet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept, On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept, And such is man ; soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day!
CCLXIV. JOANNA BAILLIE, 1762-1851.
1. THE CAT.
Your witless puss,
2. THE FIELD OF VICTOBY.
couch: Alas! and ye whose fair and early growth Did give you the similitude of men Ere your
fond mothers ceased to tend you still, As nurselings of their care, ye lie together.
3.' PRINCE EDWARD AND HIS KEEPER. Ed. What brings thee now ? it surely cannot be The time of food : my prison hours are wont To fly more heavily
Keep. It is not food: I bring wherewith, my lord,
Ed. And let it enter! it shall not be stopp'd.
Who fans the prisoner's lean and fever'd cheek
Keep. My lord, the winter now creeps on apace :
Ed. Glanced to the up-risen sun! Ay, such fair morns,
Wear not the forests, now, Their latest coat of richly varied dyes ?
Keep. Yes, good my lord, the cold chill year advances, Therefore I pray you, let me close that wall.
Ed. I tell thee no, man; if the north air bites, Bring me a cloak. Where is thy dog to-day ?
Keep. Indeed I wonder that he came not with me As he is wont.
Ed. Bring him, I pray thee, when thou comest again, He wags his tail and looks up to my face With the assured kindliness of one Who has not injured me.
4. GOD'S MERCY.
When urged by strong temptation to the brink