The son of parents passed into the skies. And now, farewell!- Time, unrevoked, has run 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, left. MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENCE. GOD moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines He treasures up his bright designs, Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take! Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, His purposes will ripen fast, The bud may have a bitter taste, Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his works in vain; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain. JEAN ADAM. [1710-1765.] THE MARINER'S WIFE. AND are ye sure the news is true? 71 Mak haste, lay by your wheel; For there's nae luck about the house, And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown; Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, Gie little Kate her button gown, And Jock his Sunday coat; And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw; It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he 's been lang awa'. There's twa fat hens upo' the coop, Been fed this month and mair; And mak our table neat and clean, For wha can tell how Colin fared Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air; His very foot has music in 't As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, They're a' blawn by, I hae him safe, The present moment is our ain, Since Colin 's weel, and weel content, I hae nae mair to crave; I'm blest aboon the lave. And will I hear him speak? There's little pleasure in the house JAMES BEATTIE. [1735-1803.] THE HERMIT. AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove, 'T was thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began ; No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man: "Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn; save; But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? O, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave? ""T was thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 'O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried, "Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee! Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride; From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free!' "And darkness and doubt are now flying away; No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending, When pains grow sharp and sickness The greatest love of life appears. When sports went round, and all were gay, And beauty immortal awakes from the On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day, tomb." JOHN LANGHORNE. [1735-1779-] THE DEAD. Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold, For many a tender thought is due. Why else the o'ergrown paths of time Why seeks he with unwearied toil, Death called aside the jocund groom And, looking grave, "You must," says he, What more he urged I have not heard, His reasons could not well be stronger; And left to live a little longer. Through Death's dim walks to urge his And further, to avoid all blame |