The parting words shall pass my lips no | (And thou wast happier than myself the more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return; Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, "T is now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid, All this, and, more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks That humor interposed too often makes, - Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, | while, JEAN ADAM. From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise, The son of parents passed into the skies. And now, farewell!-Time, unrevoked, has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again, To have renewed the joys that once were mine Without the sin of violating thine; And while the wings of Fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft, Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENCE. GOD moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take! Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower. Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his works in vain; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain. JEAN ADAM. [1710-1765.] THE MARINER'S WIFE. AND are ye sure the news is true? 71 Mak haste, lay by your wheel; Is this the time to spin a thread, When Colin 's at the door? Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockings pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true. Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, For he 's been lang awa'. There's twa fat hens upo' the coop, Been fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare; And mak our table neat and clean, Let everything look braw, For wha can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa'? Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air; His very foot has music in 't As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, See truth, love, and mercy in triumph descending, And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending, When pains grow sharp and sickness The greatest love of life appears. When sports went round, and all were And beauty immortal awakes from the On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day, tomb." JOHN LANGHORNE. [1735-1779.] THE DEAD. Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold, For many a tender thought is due. Why else the o'ergrown paths of time Why seeks he with unwearied toil, Death called aside the jocund groom And, looking grave, "You must," says he, "Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." "With you! and quit my Susan's side? What more he urged I have not heard, His reasons could not well be stronger; And left to live a little longer. Through Death's dim walks to urge his And further, to avoid all blame Of cruelty upon my name, To give you time for preparation, And grant a kind reprieve, Well pleased the world will leave." What next the hero of our tale befell, The willing muse shall tell : Nor thought of Death as near: He passed his hours in peace. But while he viewed his wealth increase, While thus along life's dusty road The beaten track content he trod, Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, Uncalled, unheeded, unawares, Brought on his eightieth year. The unwelcome messenger of Fate Half killed with anger and surprise, "So soon returned!" Old Dodson cries. "So soon, d' ye call it!" Death replies; "Surely, my friend, you 're but in jest! Since I was here before 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore." "So much the worse," the clown rejoined; "To spare the aged would be kind: However, see your search be legal; And your authority, is 't regal? Else you are come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant. Beside, you promised me three warnings, Which I have looked for nights and mornings; But for that loss of time and ease "I know," cries Death, "that at the I seldom am a welcome guest; I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.” "Nay, then," the spectre stern re joined, "These are unjustifiable yearnings: If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, You've had your three sufficient warnings; So come along, no more we 'll part." He said, and touched him with his dart. And now Old Dodson, turning pale, Yields to his fate, - so ends my tale. ANNA L. BARBAULD. [1743-1825.] THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL. SLEEP, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born; Ye shall not dim the light that streams From this celestial morn. To-morrow will be time enough To feel your harsh control; Ye shall not violate, this day, The Sabbath of my soul. Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts; THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS. SWEET is the scene when virtue dies! When sinks a righteous soul to rest, I wish you joy, though, of your strength!" | How mildly beam the closing eyes, "Hold," says the farmer, "not so fast! I have been lame these four years past. "And no great wonder," Death replies : "However, you still keep your eyes; And sure to see one's loves and friends For legs and arms would make amends." "Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight." "This is a shocking tale, 't is true; But still there's comfort left for you: Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news." “There's none,” cries he; and if there were, How gently heaves the expiring breast! So fades a summer cloud away, So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, So gently shuts the eye of day, So dies a wave along the shore. Triumphant smiles the victor brow, Fanned by some angel's purple wing;Where is, O grave! thy victory now? And where, insidious death! thy sting? Farewell, conflicting joys and fears, Where light and shade alternate dwell! |