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Tell where his nameless ashes lie,
Who sighed for gold, and found it dross.
The Winter Night.
Rose in my soul,
Slow, solemn, stole:-
And freeze, thou bitter, biting frost !
More hard unkindness, unrelenting
Vengeful malice, unrepenting, Than heaven-illumin'd man on brother man bestows ! 3. See stern oppression's iron grip,
Or mad ambition's gory hand,
Wo, want, and murder o'er a land !
The parasite empoisoning her ear,
With all the servile wretches in the rear,-
And eyes the simple rustic hind,
Some coarser substance, unrefined,
5. Where, where is love's fond, tender throe,
The powers you proudly own? Is there, beneath love's noble name, Can harbor, dark, the selfish aim,
To bless himself alone?
1. in hof loven
6. O ye! wno, SUK m Utus VI UUW Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
Think for a moment on his wretched fate
Whom friends and fortune quite disown!
Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep,
Chill, o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap:-
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ?
Shook off the powdery snow,
A cottage rousing crow.
Through all his works abroad,
The Cotter's Saturday Night, or a Scottish Peasant's Family
1. The frugal supper done, with cheerful face,
They round the fireside form a circle wide; The sire turns o’er with patriarchal grace,
The sacred Bible once his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His hoary locks displaying, thin and bare, Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He seeks a portion with judicious care ; And “Let us worship God,” he says with solemn air. 2. They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; Or noble Elgin beats the heav'nward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compar’u with these, tralian How
wills are tame,
The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise, Nor unison have they with our Creator's praise. 3. The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abra'm was the friend of God on high; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or, how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or, rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 4. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; low He, who bore in heav'n the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head: low his first followers and servants sped ;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : low he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
T'hat thus they all shall meet in future days; There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear; Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear, While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 3. Compar'd with this, how poor religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide,
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! Che pow'r incens'd the pageant will desert, The
pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; And in his book of life the inmates poor enroll. 7. From scene's like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad; Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
“An honest man's the noblest work of God;" And certain, in fair virtue's heav'nly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human-kind, Studied in arts most vile, in wickedness refind !--Burns.
The Burial of Sir John Moore.
As his corse o'er the rampart we hurried;
O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
The sod with our bayonets turning,
And our lantern dimly burning.
Nor in sheet, nor in shroud we bound him;
His martial cloak wrapt around him.
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And bitterly thought of the morrow.
And smooth'd down his lowly pillow,
And we, far away o'er the billow.
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
In the grave wherç his comrades have laid him. 7. Not the half of our heavy task was done,
When the bell toll’d the hour for retiring;
That the foe was then suddenly firing.
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
But we left him alone-with his glory. Wolfe.
« Earth to Earth, and Dust to Dust.”
“EARTH to earth, and dust to dust!"
2. Age on age shall roll along
3. But a day is coming fast,
4. Then shall come the judgment sign,