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And now are seen the youthful and the gray,
young waves racing in the morning sun, That rear and leap with reckless fury on !
But mark yon war-worn man, who looks on high
The cannon's hushed !-nor drums, nor clarion sound;
And see! on this rent mound, where daisies sprung,
Afar, with bosom bared unto the breeze,
But who, upon the battle-wasted plain,
Amid the havoc, Thou art hovering nigh
XLVII.—THE PARISH POOR-HOUSE. -Crabbe. THERE, in yon house, that holds the parish poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door, There, where the putrid vapours flagging play, And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; There children dwell, who know no parents, care; Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there: Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed; Dejected widows, with unheeded tears; And crippled age with more than childhood's fears ; The lame, the blind, and far the happiest they, The moping idiot, and the madman gay!
Here, too, the sick their final doom receive, Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve; Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, Mixed with the clamour of the crowd below: Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, And the cold charities of man to man! Whose laws, indeed, for ruined age provide, And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, And pride embitters what it can't deny !
Say, ye,-oppressed by some fantastic woes, Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance With timid eye, to read the distant glance; Who, with sad prayers, the weary doctor tease,
, To name the nameless, ever new disease; Who, with mock patience, dire complaint endure, Which real pain—and that alone--can cure;How would ye bear, in real pain to lie, Despised, neglected, left alone to die? How would ye bear, to draw your latest breath, Where all that's wretched paves the way for death ?
Such is that room, which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the sloping sides;
Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen,
-THE MARINER'S HYMN.-Mrs. Southey. LAUNCH thy bark, Mariner! Christian, God speed thee! Let loose the rudder-bands !-good angels lead thee! Set thy sails warily; tempests will come; Steer thy course steadily! Christian, steer home! Look to the weather-bow, breakers are round thee! Let fall the plummet now
may ground thee. Reef-in the fore-sail there ! hold the helm fast! So- let the vessel ware! there swept the blast. What of the night, watchman? What of the night? "Cloudy—all quiet-no land yet-all's right." Be wakeful, be vigilant !—danger may be At an hour when all seemeth securest to thee. How! gains the leak so fast ? Clean out the holdHoist up thy merchandise-heave out thy gold ! There- let the ingots go !--now the ship rights; Hurrah! the harbour's near-lo, the red lights ! Slacken not sail yet at inlet or island; Straight for the beacon steer-straight for the high land; Crowd all thy canvas on, cut through the foamChristian! cast anchor now-HEAVEN IS THY HOME !
XLIX.-TO MARY IN HEAVEN.-Burns. Thou lingering star with lessening ray
That lov'st to greet the early morn! Again thou usherest in the day,
My Mary from my soul was torn! O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?
That sacred hour can I forget ?—
Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where, by the winding Ayr, we met
To live one day of parting love ? ETERNITY will not efface
Those records dear of transports past ! Thy image at our last embraco
Ah! little thought we, 'twas our last ! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed; The birds
love on every spray ; Till, too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care ; Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy blissful place of rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?
L.-INSTABILITY OF FRIENDSHIP.Thomas Moore.
'A word unkind, or wrongly taken-
A breath, a touch like this, hath shaken.
eyes forget the gentle ray
And voices lose the tone that shed
As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Breaks into floods, that part for ever!
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,