Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
Of this old mendicant, and, from her door
Returning with exhilarated heart,

Sits by her fire and builds her hope in heaven.

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And while, in that vast solitude to which The tide of things has led him, he appears. To breathe and live but for himself alone, Unbalmed, uninjured, let him bear about The good which the benignant law of heaven Has hung around him: and, while life is his, Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers To tender offices and pensive thoughts. Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! And, long as he can wander, let him breathe The freshness of the valleys; let his blood Struggle with frosty air and winter snows. And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath Beat his gray locks against his withered face. Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness Gives the last human interest to his heart. May never house, misnamed of industry, Make him a captive! for that pent-up din, Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,. Be his the natural silence of old age!

Let him be free of mountain solitudes;

And have around him, whether heard or not,
The pleasant melody of woodland birds.
Few are his pleasures; if his eyes,
Have been so long familiar with the earth,
No more behold the horizontal sun

which now

Rising or setting, let the light at least

Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
And let him, where and when he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank
Of high-way side, and with the little birds
Share his chance-gathered meal, and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,

So in the eye of Nature let him die.

RESIGNATION.

Wordsworth.

Said to have been written by a Lady of Rank, nearly two cen

turies ago.

My father is dead, and my mother is dead-
They sleep beneath the church-yard tree :
my brothers so brave, are all in the grave,
The greedy grave that yawns

And

for me.

I am an orphan, without a friend-
Courage, my heart, for life will end.

I was the delight of a gallant knight,

And he vowed he only lived for me; But the turtle I trow, is doomed to woe,

While her faithless mate away doth flee. Courage, my heart, and bear the wrong— Life is short, though sorrow is strong.

I had a sweet child, on me he smiled,
And bade me live his fame to see;

But the death-storm blew, and the cold night dew Blasted the rose so dear to me.

I wrapped him in his winding sheet,

And strewed him with flowers as frail and sweet.

My kindred are dead, my love is fled;

Courage, my heart, thou canst love no more; Pale is my cheek, my body is weak ;—

Courage, my heart, 'twill soon be o'er. Dim are my eyes, with tears of sorrow; They ache for a night, without a morrow.

Anon

THE LOVERS.

As gilded barks that hover near
The shores of sun-lit ocean,

Together launched our hearts shall steer,
To shun the storm's commotion.

If jealous fortune change our doom,

And tempests bid us sever,

True love shall cheer the midnight's gloom,
Our polar star forever.

Thro' many a bright and cloudy day,
Tho' breeze or blast be blowing;
Love still shall burn with steady ray,
And every sigh be glowing.

And when life's summer suns decline,

And age brings wintry weather,

Like kindred flowers our hearts shall twine,

And wither both together.

Anon.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A chieftain to the Highlands bound

Cries, Boatman, do not tarry,

And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry.'

6

Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water ?''Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.

His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who would cheer my bonny bride, When they have slain her lover?'