Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave,
Await, alike, the inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead-but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If mem❜ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted
vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise: Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,

Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre ; But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage.

And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest;
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's
blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide :
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame;
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride,
With incense kindled at the muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, (Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray,) Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spell'd by th' unlettered muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or crossed in hopeless

love.

"One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came, nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. "The next, with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow through the churchyard path we saw him borne

Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone ben ath yon aged thorn."

THE GLOVE.

HIGHLAND MARY.

E banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery.

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last farweel

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,

How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom !

The golden hours, on angel wings,

Flew o'er me and my dearie;

For dear to me as life and light

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and locked embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;

And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;

But oh! fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary.

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips

I aft hae kissed sae fondly!

And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!

And mouldering now in silent dust

The heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary.

BURNS.

GIVE ME BACK MY YOUTH AGAIN.

WHEN give me back that time of pleasures,
While yet in joyous growth I sang,-
When, like a fount, the crowding measures
Uninterrupted gushed and sprang!
Then bright mist veiled the world before me,
In opening buds a marvel woke,
As I the thousand blossoms broke
Which every valley richly bore me?

I nothing had, and yet enough for youth-
Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth.
Give unrestrained the old emotion,
The bliss that touched the verge of pain,
The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion,-
D, give me back my youth again!
GOETHE.

EFORE his lion-garden gate,

The wild-beast combat to await

King Francis sate:

Around him were his nobles placed,
The balcony above was graced

By ladies of the court, in gorgeous state:
And as with his finger a sign he made,

The iron grating was open laid,

And with stately step and mien
A lion to enter was seen.

With fearful look

His mane he shook,

And yawning wide,

Staring around him on every side;

And stretched his giant limbs of strength, And laid himself down at his fearful length

And the king a second signal made,—
And instant was opened wide

A second gate, on the other side,
From which, with fiery bound,
A tiger sprung.

Wildly the wild one yelled,
When the lion he beheld;
And bristling at the look,
With his tail his sides he strook,
And rolled his rabid tongue.

And, with glittering eye,

Crept round the lion slow and shy

Then, horribly howling,
And grimly growling,

Down by his side himself he laid.

And the king another signal made;
The open grating vomited then
Two leopards forth from their dreadful den,-
They rush on the tiger, with signs of rage.
Eager the deadly fight to wage,
Who, fierce, with paws uplifted stood.
And the lion. sprang up with an awful roar,
Then were still the fearful four:
And the monsters on the ground
Crouched in a circle round,
Greedy to taste of blood.

Now, from the balcony above,
A snowy hand let fall a glove:
Midway between the beasts of prey,
Lion and tiger, there it lay,

The winsome lady's glove!