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WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.

71

has run

From loins enthroned, and rulers of the WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.

earth; But higher far my proud pretensions

(1734-1788.) rise, The son of parents passed into the skies.

THE MARINER'S WIFE. And now, farewell! - Time, unrevoked,

AND are ye sure the news is true? His wonted course, yet what I wished is And are ye sure he's weel? done.

Is this a time to think o' wark? By contemplation's help, not sought in Mak haste, lay by your wheel; vain,

Is this the time to spin a thread, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er When Colin's at the door? again,

Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, To have renewed the joys that once were And see him come ashore. mine

For there's nae luck about the house,
Without the sin of violating thine ; There's nae luck at a';
And while the wings of Fancy still are There's little pleasure in the house
free,

When our gudeman 's awa'.
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his And gie to me my bigonet,
theft,

My bishop's satin gown; Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me For I mann tell the baillie's wife left.

That Colin 's in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,

My stockings pearly blue;
MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENCE.

It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.
Gon moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, He plants his footsteps in the sea,

Put on the muckle pot ;

Gie little kate her button gown, And rides upon the storm.

And Jock his Sunday coat;

And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Deep in unfathomable mines

Their hose as white as snaw;
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,

It's a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's been lang awa'. And works his sovereign will.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop, Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take! Been fed this month and mair;

The clouds ye so much dread Mak haste and thraw their necks about, Are big with mercy, and shall break That Colin weel may fare; In blessings on your head,

And mak our table neat and clean,

Let everything look braw, Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, For wha can tell how Colin fared But trust him for his

grace;

When he was far awa'?
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,

His breath like caller air; His purposes will ripen fast,

His very foot has music in 't Unfolding every hour;

As he comes up the stair. The bud may have a bitter taste, And will I see his face again? But sweet will be the flower.

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, Blind unbelief is sure to err,

In troth I 'in like to greet !
And scan his works in vain;
God is his own interpreter,

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, And he will make it plain.

That thirled through my heart,

no more.

mourn

They're a' blawn by, I hae him safe, 0, soothe him whose pleasures like thine Till death we'll never part;

pass away! But what puts parting in my head ? Full quickly they pass, – but they never It may be far awa'?

return. The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw.

“Now, gliding remote on the verge of the

sky, Since Colin 's weel, and weel content, The moon, half extinguished, her cresI hae nae mair to crave;

cent displays; And gin I live to keep him sae,

But lately I marked when majestic on I'm blest aboon the lave.

high And will I see his face again?

She shone, and the planets were lost in And will I hear him speak?

her blaze. I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladIn troth I'm like to greet.

ness pursue For there's nae luck about the house, The path that conducts thee to splendor There's nae luck at a';

again! There's little pleasure in the house But man's faded glory what change shall When our gudeman 's awa'.

renew ? Ah, fool ! to exult in a glory so vain !

“'T is night, and the landscape is lovely JAMES BEATTIE. I mourn, but, ye woodlands,

not for you; (1735-1803.)

For morn is approaching your charms to

restore, THE HERMIT.

Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glit.

tering with dew. At the close of the day, when the ham. Norget for the ravage of winter I mourn, let is still,

Kind nature the embryo blossom will And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,

But when shall spring visit the moulderWhen naught but the torrent is heard ing urn? on the hill,

O, when shall day dawn on the night of And naught but the nightingale's song

the grave? in the grove, ’T was thus, by the cave of the moun-"'T was thus, by the glare of false science tain afar,

betrayed, While his harp rung symphonious, a That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to hermit began;

blind, No more with himself or with nature at My thoughts wont to roam from shade war,

onward to shade, He thought as a sage, though he felt as Destruction before me, and sorrow be

hind.

'O pity, great Father of light,' then I “Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness cried,

“Thy creature, who fain would not wanWhy, lone Philomela, that languishing der from thee! fall?

Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my For spring shall return, and a lover be. pride; stow,

From doubt and from darkness thou only And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall. canst free!' But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,

“And darkness and doubt are now flying Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls

away; thee to mourn ;

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.

save;

a man :

and woe,

JOHN LANGHORNE.

- MRS. THRALE.

73

morn.

me.

So breaks on the traveller, faint and / When pains grow sharp and sickness astray,

rages, The bright and the balmy effulgence of The greatest love of life appears.

This great affection to believe, See truth, love, and mercy in triumph Which all confess, but few perceive, descending:

If old assertions can't prevail, And nature all glowing in Eden's first Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

bloom ! On the cold cheek of death smiles and When sports went round, and all were roses are blending,

gay,
And beauty immortal awakes from the On neighbor Doilson's wedding-day,
tonub."

Death called aside the jocund groom
With him into another room,
And, looking grave, “You must,” says

he,
JOHN LANGHORNE. “Quit your sweet bride, and come with
(1735-1779.)

“With you! anı quit my Susan's side?

With you!" the hapless husband cried; THE DEAD.

Young as I am, 't is monstrous hard !

Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared : Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold, My thoughts on other matters go;

No more the smiling day shall view, This is my wedding-day, you know." Should many a tender tale be told, For many a tender thought is due. What more he urged I have not heard,

His reasons could not well be stronger; Why else the o'ergrown paths of time So Death the poor delinquent spared,

Would thus the lettered sage explore, And left to live a little longer. With pain these crumbling ruins climb, Yet calling up a serious look, And on the doubtful sculpture pore? His hour-glass trembled while he spoke.

“Neighbor,” he said, “farewell! no more Why seeks he with unwearied toil, Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour: Through Death's dim walks to urge his And further, to avoid all blame way,

Of cruelty upon my naine, Reclaim his long-asserted spoil,

To give you time for preparation, And lead oblivion into day?

And fit you for your future station,

Three several warnings you shall have, "T is nature prompts, by toil or fear, Before you ’re summoned to the grave; Unmoved, to range through Death's Willing for once I'll quit my prey, domain;

And grant a kind reprieve, The tender parent loves to hear

In hopes you 'll have no more to say, Her children's story told again ! But when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,

And parteil perfectly contented.
MRS. THRALE.

What next the hero of our tale befell,

How long he lived, how wise, how well, (1740-1822)

How roundly he pursued his course,

And smoked his pipe, and stroked his THE THREE WARNINGS.

horse,

The willing muse shall tell: The tree of deepest root is found He chaffered, then he bouglit and sold, Least willing still to quit the ground; Nor once perceived his growing old, 'T was therefore said by ancient sages, Nor thought of Death as near:

That love of life increased with years His friends not false, his wife no shrew, So much, that in our latter stages, Many his gains, his children few,

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