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But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be lov'd, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather’d, and the ocean cross'd)
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay:
So thou with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore,
“Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,"
And thy loved consort, on the dangerous tide
Of life, long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss’d,
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course.
Yet oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he !
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not, that I deduce

my

birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth ;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents pass’d into the skies.
And now, farewell—Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renew'd 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 remov'd, thy power to soothe me left.

TO MARY.

The twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast,
Ah would that this might be the last !

My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow-
'Twas my distress that brought the low,

My Mary! !

Thy needles once a shining store,
For
my

sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more :

My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art
Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!
Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language utter'd in a dream;
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary! For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently press'd, press gently mine,

My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, That now at every step thou movist Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st,

My Mary! And still to love, though press'd with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know
How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!

SCOTT.

SIR WALTER SCOTT. Born 1771; Died 1832.
Scott was born in Edinburgh, but was reared in the country,

where he imbibed from infancy the poetry of the Border legends
of Scotland. To this source of inspiration at a later time he
added a thorough knowledge of the Highlands and their

traditions. He began with a succession of poems in which the metrical

romance was revived. These, with Lives of Swift and Dryden,

occupied him until Waverley in 1815 began his novels. It is upon these, which, taken as a whole, are the grandest body

of fiction in this, or in any language, that his fame chiefly rests,

OLD MORTALITY. " Most readers,” says the manuscript of Mr. Pattieson, "must have witnessed with delight the joyous burst which attends the dismissing of a village-school on a fine summer evening. The buoyant spirit of childhood, repressed with so much difficulty during the tedious hours of discipline, may then be seen to explode, as it were, in shout, and song, and frolic, as the little urchins join in groups in their play-ground, and arrange their matches of sport for the evening. But there is one individual who partakes of the relief afforded by the moment of dismission, whose feelings are not so obvious to the eye of the spectator, or so apt to receive his sympathy. I mean the teacher himself, who stunned with the hum, and suffocated with the closeness of his school-room, has spent the whole day (himself against a host) in controlling petulance, exciting indifference to action, striving to enlighten stupidity, and labouring to soften obstinacy; and whose very powers of intellect have been confounded by hearing the same dull lesson repeated a hundred times by rote, and only varied by the various blunders of the reciters. Even the flowers of classic genius, with which his solitary fancy is most gratified, have been rendered degraded, in his imagination, by their connection with tears, with errors, and with punishment; so that the Eclogues of Virgil, and Odes of Horace are each inseparably allied in association with the sullen figure and monotonous recitation of some blubbering schoolboy. If to these mental distresses are added a delicate frame of body, and a mind ambitious of some higher distinction than that of being the tyrant of childhood, the reader may have some slight conception of the relief which a solitary walk, in the cool of a fine summer evening, affords to the head which has ached, to the nerves which have been shattered, for so many hours, in plying the irksome task of public instruction.

“ To me these evening strolls have been the happiest hours of an unhappy life; and if any gentle reader

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