Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries, But nothing could a charm impart His rising cares the Hermit spied, "From better habitations spurned, "Alas! the joys that fortune brings And those who prize the paltry things More trifling still than they. "My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he, And all his wealth was marked as mine: "To win me from his tender arms "Each hour a mercenary crowd "In humble simplest habit clad, "And when, beside me in the dale, His breath lent fragrance to the gale "The blossom opening to the day, To emulate his mind. "The dew, the blossom on the tree, "For still I tried each fickle art, And while his passion touched my heart, "Till quite dejected with my scorn, "But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay: I'll seek the solitude he sought, "And there, forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I." "Forbid it, heaven!" the Hermit cried, And clasped her to his breast: The wondering fair one turned to chide'Twas Edwin's self that pressed! A land-breeze shook the shrouds, Down went the " Royal George," Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; It was not in the battle, No tempest gave the shock, She ran upon no rock. The "Royal George," 108 guns, was lost off Spithead on the 29th of August, 1782. She was undergoing some repairs, and was careened over, when a sudden gust of wind overset her and she sank. A great number of persons were on board at the time from Portsmouth. Two or three hundred bodies floated on shore, and were buried in Kingston churchyard. :0: JOHN LOGAN. 1748-1788. YARROW STREAM. THY banks were bonnie, Yarrow stream, When first on thee I met my lover; Thy banks how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover! For ever now, O Yarrow stream, Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my love-the flower of Yarrow. He promised me a milk-white horse, To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page, To squire me to his father's towers. He promised me a wedding ring, The wedding day was fixed to-morrow: Now he is wedded to his grave Alas! a watery grave in Yarrow. Sweet were his words when last we met; My passion I as freely told him; Clasped in his arms, I little thought That I should never more behold him. Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost- His mother from the window looked, They sought him east, they sought him west, They only heard the roar of Yarrow. No longer from thy window look Thou hast no son, thou tender mother; No longer walk, thou lovely maid, Alas, thou hast no more a brother! No longer seek him east or west, No longer search the forest thorough; For, murdered in the night so dark, He lies a lifeless corse in Yarrow! The tears shall never leave my cheek, No other youth shall be my marrow; I'll seek thy body in the stream, And there with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. The tear did never leave her cheek, No other youth became her marrow; She found his body in the stream, And with him now she sleeps in Yarrow. -:0: THOMAS GRAY. 1716-1771. ODE ON A DISTANT VIEW OF ETON COLLEGE. YE distant spires, ye antique towers, Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way: Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Where once my careless childhood strayed, I feel the gales that from ye blow As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second Spring. Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen The paths of pleasure trace; The captive linnet which enthral? While some on earnest business bent, 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint To sweeten liberty: Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry: Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy. Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possessed; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast. Their buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new, And lively cheer, of vigour born; Alas! regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band, Ah, tell them they are men! These shall the fury Passions tear, And Shame that skulks behind; That inly gnaws the secret heart; Scared at thy frown terrific, fly And leave us leisure to be good. To her they vow their truth, and are again believed. Wisdom in sable garb arrayed, Immersed in rapturous thought profound, And Melancholy, silent maid, With leaden eye that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend; Warm Charity, the general friend, With Justice, to herself severe, And Pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear. Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head, Dread goddess, lay thy chast'ning hand! Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, Nor circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen); With thund'ring voice and threat'ning mien, With screaming Horror's funeral cry, Thy form benign, O goddess, wear, Thy philosophic train be there To soften, not to wound my heart. The gen'rous spark extinct revive, Teach me to love and to forgive, Exact my own defects to scan, What others are to feel, and know myself a Man. -:0: ROBERT BURNS. 1759-1796. THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. THE small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear through the vale; The hawthorn-trees blow in the dews of the morning, And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green dale; |