Wide-spouted o'er the hill the frozen brook, His pining flock, or from the mountain top, 66 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. Burns. WHEN chill November's surly blast I spied a man whose aged step And hoary was his hair. Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?' "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or haply, prest with cares and woes To wander forth, with me, to mourn "The sun that overhangs yon moors, "Oh man! while in thy early years, Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, "Look not alone on youthful prime, Supported is his right: But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; Then age and want-oh! ill-matched pair! Show man was made to mourn. "See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, To give him leave to toil; "If I'm designed yon lordling's slave- If not, why am I subject to His cruelty and scorn? Or why has man the will and power "Yet, let not this too much, my son, The poor, oppressed, honest man, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn! "Oh Death! the poor man's dearest friend- Welcome the hour, my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, feel thy blow, FROM THE DESERTED VILLAGE. ILL fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey A time there was, ere England's griefs began But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train And every pang that folly pays to pride. These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, THE POLISH REFUGEES. Ebenezer Elliott. THE day went down in fire, They walk'd, worn gaunt with cares, The dust upon their feet. Yet they, erewhile, had lands Which plenteous harvests bore; But spoil'd by Russians' hands, Their own was theirs no more. They came, to cross the foam, And seek, beyond the deep, A happier, safer home, A land where sowers reap. Yet, while the playful gold Laugh'd into purply green The crimson clouds that roll'd The sea and sky between, The youth his brow uprais'd From thoughts of deepest woe, And on the ocean gaz’d, Like one who fronts a foe. The sire was calm and mild, He look'd on sea and sky! And in his hands, grasp'd hard A heart, that scorn'd to break, With dreadful feelings warred; For he had left behind A wife, who dungeon'd lay; And loath'd the mournful wind, That sobb'd-Away, away! Five boys and girls had he: In fetters pin'd they all; And when he saw the sea, On him he heard them call. Oh, fiercely he dash'd down The tear, that came, at length !— Then, almost with a frown, He pray'd to God for strength. "Hold up!" the father cried, "If Poland cannot thrive, The mother o'er the tide, May follow with her five. "But Poland yet shall fling Dismay on Poland's foes, As when the Wizard King* Aveng'd her ancient woes; For soon her cause will be Rous'd Europe's battle-cry; To perish, or be free! 'To conquer or to die!'" His hands clasp'd o'er his head, The son look'd up for aid; "So be it, Lord!" he said, And still look'd up, and pray'd, Till from his eyes, like rain When first the black clouds growl, The agony of pain In tears, gush'd from his soul. SCENE FROM "KING RICHARD 11." Shakspeare. Enter KING RICHARD, attended; JOHN OF GAUNT, and other Nobles with him. K. Rich. Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd Lancaster, Brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son; Here to make good the boisterous late appeal, Which then our leisure would not let us hear, Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ? K. Rich. Tell me, moreover, hast thou sourded him * The name which the Turks in their superstitious dread gave to the great Sobieski. If he appeal the duke on ancient malice; Or worthily, as a good subject should, On some known ground of treachery in him? Gaunt. As near as I could sift him on that argument, On some apparent danger seen in him, Aimed at your highness; no inveterate malice. K. Rich. Then call them to our presence; face to face, · [Exeunt some Attendants. High-stomached are they both, and full of ire; In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire. Re-enter ATTENDANTS, with BOLINGBROKE and NORFOLK. My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege! Add an immortal title to your crown! K. Rich. We thank you both: yet one but flatters us, As well appeareth by the cause you come; Namely, to appeal each other of high treason. Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ? Boling. First, (Heaven be the record to my speech!) Tendering the precious safety of my prince, Once more, the more to aggravate the note, With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat; And wish (so please my sovereign), ere I move, What my tongue speaks my right-drawn sword may prove. 'Tis not the trial of a woman's war, The bitter clamour of two eager tongues, Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain : The blood is hot that must be cooled for this. Yet can I not of such tame patience boast, As to be hushed, and nought at all to say. First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me From giving reins and spurs to my free speech, |