Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe,
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the Hermit spied,
With answering care opprest:
"And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,
"The sorrows of thy breast?

"From better habitations spurned,
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturned,
Or unregarded love?

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling, and decay;

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:
He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms
Unnumbered suitors came,
Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feigned, a flame.

"Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove;
Amongst the rest young Edwin bowed,
But never talked of love.

"In humble simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he:
Wisdom and worth were all he had-
But these were all to me.

"And when, beside me in the dale,
He carolled lays of love,

His breath lent fragrance to the gale
And music to the grove.

"The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could nought of purity display

To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his; but, woe is me!
Their constancy was mine.

"For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;

And while his passion touched my heart,
I triumphed in his pain;

"Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride,
And sought a solitude forlorn
In secret, where he died.

"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay:

I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay;

"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,
And she was overset:

Down went the " Royal George,"
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea fight is fought,
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle,

No tempest gave the shock,
She sprang no fatal leak,

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-
It vanished with a shriek of sorrow;
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend
And give a doleful groan through Yarrow.

His mother from the window looked,
With all the longing of a mother;
His little sister, weeping, walked
The greenwood path to meet her brother.

They sought him east, they sought him west,
They sought him all the forest thorough:
They only saw the clouds of night,

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,
That crown the wat'ry glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade;
And ye, that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers
among

Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way:

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields beloved in vain!

Where once my careless childhood strayed,
A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow,

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
Full many a sprightly race
Disporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace;
Who foremost now delight to cleave,
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthral?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent,
Their murmuring labours ply,

'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;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;

No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet see, how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,

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,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind;
Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart;
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Scared at thy frown terrific, fly
Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,
Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless
Joy,

And leave us leisure to be good.
Light they disperse, and with them go
The summer friend, the flatt'ring foe;
By vain Prosperity received,

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,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly
Poverty:

Thy form benign, O goddess, wear,
Thy milder influence impart,

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;