"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love!

"One morn I miss'd him on the accustom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree: Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

"The next with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne:

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
Heaven did a recompense as largely send;

He gave to misery all he had, a tear;

He gain'd from heaven, 'twas all he wish'd, a friend.

No further seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

GRAY.

66. BRUCE TO HIS ARMY.

SCOTS,

wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!

Now's the day, and now's the hour,
See the front of battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power,
Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword would strongly draw,
Freeman stand or freeman fa',
Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurper low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!

Let us do, or dee!

BURNS.

A

67. THE INVOCATION.

NSWER me, burning stars of night,
Where is the spirit gone,

That past the reach of human sight,
Even as a breeze hath flown?.
And the stars answer'd me-"We roll
In light and power on high;
But of the never-dying soul
Ask things that cannot die!

O many-toned and chainless wind,
Thou art a wanderer free!
Tell me, if thou its place can find
Far over mount and sea ?—
And the wind murmur'd in reply —
"The blue deep have I cross'd,
And met its barks and billows high,
But not what thou hast lost!"

Ye clouds, that gorgeously repose
Around the setting sun,
Answer! be ye a home for those
Whose earthly race has run?-

The bright clouds answer'd-"We depart,
We vanish from the sky:

Ask what is deathless in thy heart,

For that which cannot die!"

Speak, then, thou voice of God within,
Thou of the deep low tone!
Answer me through life's restless din,
Where is the spirit flown?-

And the voice answer'd-" Be thou still,
Enough to know is given;

Clouds, winds, and stars, their task fulfil,
Thine is to trust in Heaven!"

MRS. HEMANS.

68. THE PARISH SCHOOLMASTER.
[From THE DESERTED VILLAGE.]

BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way,

With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view; I knew him well, and every truant knew. Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning's face; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd. Yet he was kind; or, if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew; 'Twas certain he could write and cipher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e'en the story ran that he could gauge; In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still; While words of learned length, and thundering sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame: the very spot,
Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot.

GOLDSMITH.

69. LUCY GRAY.

NO mate, no comrade, Lucy knew;

She dwelt on a wide moor;

The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a cottage door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night,
You to the town must go:
And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow."

"That, father, I will gladly do;
'Tis scarcely afternoon

The minster clock has just struck two;
And yonder is the moon."

At this the father raised his hook,
And snapp'd a faggot band;
He plied his work, and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.