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He begg'd his bread from door to door,
And tuned to please a peasant's ear
The harp a king had loved to hear!

W. SCOTT.

1771-1832.

THE NATIVE LAND.

BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

"This is my own, my native land!"
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he had turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well :
For him no minstrel-raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.
O Caledonia! stern and wild,

Meet nurse for a poetic child!

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band

That knits me to thy rugged strand!

W. SCOTT.

1771-1832.

ALEXANDER SELKIRK'S SOLILOQUY.*

I AM monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute ;
From the centre all round to the

sea,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute.1
O solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech-2
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestowed upon man,3
Oh! had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth;
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly word!

* Alexander Selkirk was a sailor, who, having quarrelled with his captain, was set on shore by him, in the year 1704, on the uninhabited island of Juan Fernandez, and remained there more than four years.

1 of the fowl and the brute, De tout ce qui vole et de tout ce qui rumine.-2 Of speech. De la parole humaine.-3 Divinely bestowed upon man, Dons précieux que l'homme doit à la Divinité.

More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell1
These valleys and rocks never heard ;
Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a Sabbath appear'd.

Ye winds! that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore

Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me?

Oh! tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

W. COWPER.

1731-1800.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

"My birth-day"--what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears !
When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as Youth counts the shining links,
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last.
Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said "Were he ordain'd to run
His long career of life again,

He would do all that he had done."

1 The church-going bell, La cloche qui appelle à l'église.

Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birth-days1 speaks to me;
Far otherwise-of time it tells,

Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly-
Of counsel mock'd-of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines
All this it tells, and, could I trace
Th' imperfect picture o'er again,
With power to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay?

How quickly all should melt away!

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TELL me not in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow 4

Finds us farther than to-day.5

1 The voice that dwells in sober birth-days, La voix de l'âge mûr.-2 Upon unholy, earthly shrines, Sur des autels profanes et mondains.-3 Be up and doing, Debout et à l'œuvre. Each to-morrow, Chaque lendemain.-5 Than to-day, Que la veille.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !1
Be like heroes in the strife!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate ;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

LONGFELLOW.

ANTONY'S FUNERAL ORATION OVER CÆSAR'S BODY.

FRIENDS, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears!
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.

The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Cæsar! Noble Brutus

1 Dumb, driven cattle, Le bétail muet qu'on pousse devant soi.

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