Yet thou shalt still partake my care, And, when I bend the knee
And pour to Heaven a fervent prayer,
I will remember thee.
Farewell! and when my steps depart,
Though many a grief be mine,
And though I may conceal my own,
I'll weep to hear of thine.
Though from thy memory soon depart
Each little trace of me,
'Tis only in the grave this heart Can cease to think of thee!
Life and love are all a dream.-BURNS.
Now, Mary! I am truly so,
If ever man was blessed,
For I have kissed the sweetest lips
That ever mortal kissed.
And I have heard the tenderest vow
That ever woman vowed,
And got thy hand-the dearest gift
That ever was bestowed.
Such were my words unto a maid
I held most fondly dear,
But she has left this world-and me
A hopeless mourner here.
By the skirts of the vale,
Where the streamlet is flowing,
Where the wood-doves bewail,
And the willow is growing,
There's a ghost oft appears,
When the midnight is drearest,
As a fair maid in tears
Cursing him that was dearest.
That maiden was drowned
At the foot of that willow,
And now the cold ground
In its shade is her pillow;
As a suicide there
In her grave she was hurried, Without psalm or prayer,
As such wretches are buried.
But worse was his part
Who had left her all lonely,
And broken the heart
That cared for him only.
Oft we'll weep at the tree
Where the strangers have laid her, But cursed be he
The false man that betrayed her.
How sweet to lie upon this primrose bank
In such a lonely place, where no rude sound
Comes to disturb the quiet of the scene,
And mark the happiness of that sweet pair
Of mountain doves, who, in their cliffy rock,
That overhangs the stream, seem to enjoy-
What most on earth I long wished to enjoy-
A home 'mid the simplicity of nature,
Where never human footsteps but mine own
Should brush the dew-drops from the flower, nor ear
Enjoy the wild bird's song—a home indeed
As quiet as the grave. I do not look
For happiness-my heart is seared by grief,
Even as a blasted tree that never more
Can feel the breath of spring. I only wish
Escape from pain-escape from fellow men.
I was not always thus. There was a time-
O God, had it but lasted !—when I loved
To mingle with the creatures of my kind ;
But then I thought appearances were real.
O what a faithless dream! now I have found
The smile that played upon a beauteous face,
The words that fell from an engaging tongue,
The very hand that welcomed me most kindly-
Have found them all deceitful. Could my heart
Rest in simplicity, or taste of bliss,
Amid such wickedness? I cannot look
Upon the flowers nor hear the birds with joy,
When I consider that a wretch like man
Hath power to do them injury—hath power
To mar the harmony that might exist
Among the works of nature. 'Tis a thought
Most melancholy, but, alas! too true.
Let me be just. There are a few, I own,
Whom I can even call friends-whom I have loved
For feeling and sincerity of heart-
Fit to inhabit such a beauteous world.
Oh, when I think of those I love so well,
I wish not solitude-no, I could wish
To plant a colony-a select few-
And make a paradise of this lone place.
Oh, what a peaceful neighbourhood—the brook
With its soft murmurings-the leaping trout-
The bleating flocks-the booming mountain bee-
The soaring sky-lark-and, still more than all,
The happy family of my beauteous doves.
Yes, ye are blest, my beauteous doves! and when
Again condemned to mingle with that world
I cannot love, then shall I often pray
That God would grant me such a home as yours—
Yea, I shall pray for such a home as yours,
If still condemned to mingle with that world,
'Till God shall hush my sorrows in the grave!
Lo, what a lovely child! O may her God
Protect her innocence, and guide her steps
Through all the 'wildering labyrinths of life;
For she is left, like a neglected flower
Amid tempestuous elements, to bloom
Defenceless and alone.
Her virtuous parents! and how fondly looked,
With hopes and joys that parents only know,
Upon their first-born child! but 'twas a bliss
Too exquisite for weak mortality-
They died, ere she could lisp their name, and both
Were buried, side by side, in the same grave,
And on the same sad evening.
Upon the turf that covers them and wept.
Oh, when succeeding years have passed away,
And she is capable to think what hopes,
What joys, may have been theirs, and mark how soon
They had been blasted-she will also weep.
And may she weep; for all the tears that fall
In sorrow for another, cannot fall
Unseen by God-who can command that she
Shall seldom grieve for sorrows of her own.
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