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LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

And thou, my last, best, only friend,

That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the bard

Thou brought from Fortune's mirkest gloom.

"In Poverty's low barren vale,

Thick mists obscure involve me round;
Though oft I turned the wistful eye,
Nae ray of fame was to be found.
Thou found'st me like the morning sun,
That melts the fogs in limpid air,
The friendless bard and rustic song
Became alike thy fostering care.

"Oh! why has worth so short a date,
While villains ripen grey with time!
Must thou, the noble, generous, great,
Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime?
Why did I live to see that day?
A day to me so full of woe!
Oh! had I met the mortal shaft,
Which laid my benefactor low!

"The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown

That on his head an hour has been ;

The mother may forget the child,

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

And a' that thou hast done for me!"

BURNS.

R

137

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The Mother.

[graphic]

SHE had her children too; for Charity
Was not more fruitful, or more kind
than she:

Each under other by degrees they grew,
A goodly perspective of distant view.
Anchises look'd not with so pleased a
face,

In numbering o'er his future Roman race,
And marshalling the heroes of his name,
As in their order, next, to light they

came.

Nor Cybele, with half so kind an eye,
Survey'd her sons and daughters of the
sky;

Proud, shall I say, of her immortal fruit?
As far as pride with heavenly minds may suit.
Her pious love excell'd to all she bore;
New objects only multiplied it more.
And as the chosen found the pearly grain,
As much as every vessel could contain ;
As in the blissful vision each shall share
As much of glory as his soul can bear;
So did she love, and so dispense her care.
Her eldest thus, by consequence, was best,
As longer cultivated than the rest.

The babe had all that infant care beguiles,
And early knew his mother in her smiles:
But when dilated organs let in day
To the young soul, and gave it room to play,
At his first aptness, the maternal love
Those rudiments of reason did improve:

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The tender age was pliant to command;
Like wax, it yielded to the forming hand:
True to th' artificer, the labour'd mind.
With care was pious, generous, just, and kind;
Soft for impression, from the first prepared,
Till virtue with long exercise grew hard:
With every act confirm'd, and made, at last,
So durable as not to be effaced,

It turn'd to habit; and, from vices free,

Goodness resolved into necessity.

DRYDEN. [From "Eleonora."]

W

On Shakespeare.

[graphic]

HAT needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones
The labour of an age in piléd stones,

Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid
Under a starry-pointing pyramid?

Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame,

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?

Thou in our wonder and astonishment

Hast built thyself a live-long monument.

For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavouring art

Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart

Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book

Those Delphic lines with deep impression took ;
Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;
And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

MILTON.

The Past.

[graphic]

HOW wild and dim this life

appears!

One long, deep, heavy sigh,

When o'er our eyes, half closed in tears,

The images of former years

Are faintly glittering by! And still forgotten while they go!

As, on the sea-beach, wave on wave,
Dissolves at once in snow.

The amber clouds one moment lie,
Then, like a dream, are gone!
Though beautiful the moon-beams play
On the lake's bosom, bright as they,
And the soul intensely loves their stay,

Soon as the radiance melts away,

We scarce believe it shone!
Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell;
And we wish they ne'er may fade ;-
They cease; and the soul is a silent cell,

Where music never play'd!

Dreams follow dreams, through the long night-hours,

Each lovelier than the last ;

But, ere the breath of morning-flowers,
That gorgeous world flies past;

And many a sweet angelic cheek,

Whose smiles of love and fondness speak,

Glides by us on this earth;

While in a day we cannot tell

Where shone the face we loved so well,

In sadness, or in mirth!

PROFESSOR WILSON.

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