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The parting words shall pass my lips no¡ (And thou wast happier than myself the
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
Where once we dwelt our name is heard
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,)—
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart, — the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. But no,-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain
WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise,
The son of parents passed into the skies. And now, farewell!-Time, unrevoked,
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again, To have renewed the joys that once were mine
Without the sin of violating thine;
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENCE.
GOD moves in a mysterious way
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill, He treasures up his bright designs, And works his sovereign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take!
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his works in vain; God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.
WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.
THE MARINER'S WIFE.
AND are ye sure the news is true?
Mak haste, lay by your wheel; Is this the time to spin a thread,
When Colin's at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,
And gie to me my bigonet,
My bishop's satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife
That Colin's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockings pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he 's baith leal and true.
Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
There's twa fat hens upo' the coop,
Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
As he comes up the stair.
And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet!
The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, That thirled through my heart,