What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do, This teach me more than hell to shun, That, more than heaven pursue. What blessings thy free bounty gives, Let me not cast away; For God is paid when man receives, To enjoy is to obey. Yet not to earth's contracted span Let not this weak, unknowing hand If I am right, thy grace impart If I am wrong, O, teach my To find that better way. heart Save me alike from foolish pride, At aught thy wisdom has denied, Teach me to feel another's woe; Mean though I am, not wholly so, Through this day's life or death. This day be bread and peace my lot; Thou know'st if best bestowed or not, To Thee, whose temple is all space, SIR PATRICK SPENCE. THE king sits in Dunfermline town, O, up and spake an eldern knight,- The king has written a braid letter, "To Noroway, to Noroway, "T is thou maun bring her hame." The first line that Sir Patrick read, The next line that Sir Patrick read, 66 "O, wha is this has done this deed, This ill deed done to me; To send me out, this time o' the year, "Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'T is we must fetch her hame. "Make ready, make ready, my merry men all! Our gude ship sails the morn." "Now, ever alake, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm. "Late, late yestreen, I saw the new moon Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And I fear, I fear, my dear master, That we will come to harm." They hadna sailed a league, a league, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea. The anchors brak, and the topmasts lap, It was sik a deadly storm; And the waves came o'er the broken ship, Till all her sides were torn. "O, where will I get a gude sailor “O, here am I, a sailor gude, spy land." He hadna gone a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, "Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And let nae the sea come in." They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, And still the sea came in. O, laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heeled shoon! But lang or a' the play was played, And mony was the feather-bed And mony was the gude lord's son, The ladies wrang their fingers white, A' for the sake of their true loves; O, lang, lang, may the ladies sit, And lang, lang, may the maidens sit, O, forty miles off Aberdeen, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spence, LUCY.-Wordsworth. SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways A maid whom there were none to praise, A violet by a mossy stone |