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Wide-spouted o'er the hill the frozen brook,
A livid tract, cold gleaming on the morn;
The forest bent beneath the plumy wave ;
And by the frost refind the whiten snow,
Encrusted bard and sounding to the tread
Of early shepherd, as he pensive seeks
His pining flock, or from the mountain top,
Pleased with the slippery surface, swift descends.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

Burns

When chill November's surly blast

Made fields and forests bare,
One evening as I wandered forth

Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man whose aged step

Seemed weary, worn with care
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,

And hoary was his hair.
Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ?'

Began the rev'rend sage :
“ Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasure's rage ?
Or haply, prest with cares and woes

Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me, to mourn

The miseries of man.

“ The sun that overhangs yon moors,

Outspreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support

A haughty lordling's pride:
I've seen yon weary winter sun

Twice forty times return,
And ev'ry time has added proofs

That man was made to mourn.

“Oh man! while in thy early years,

How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,

Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway ;

Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,

That man was made to mourn.

“ Look not alone on youthful prime,

Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,

Supported is his right:
But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn;
Then age and want-oh! ill-matched pair!

Show man was made to mourn.

A few seem favourites of fate,

In pleasure's lap carest;
Yet think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest.
But, oh! what crowds in every land,

All wretched and forlorn !
Through weary life this lesson learn-

That man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the num'rous ills

Inwoven with our frame !
More pointed still we make ourselves

Regret, remorse, and shame ;
And man, whose heaven-erected face

The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn !

“See yonder poor, o’erlabour'd wight,

So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth

To give him leave to toil ; And see his lordly fellow-worm

The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, though a weeping wife

And helpless offspring mourn. “If I'm designed yon lordling's slave

By Nature's law designedWhy was an independent wish E’er planted in

my

mind? If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty and scorn ?
Or why has man the will and power

To make his fellow mourn ?
“ Yet, let not this too much, my son,

Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human-kind

Is surely not the last!
The poor, oppressed, honest man,

Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense

To comfort those that mourn !

“Oh Death! the poor man's dearest friend

The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour, my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, feel thy blow,

From pomp and pleasure torn!
But, oh! a blest relief to those

That weary-laden mourn !".

FROM THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

Goldsmith.
Ill fares the land, to hast’ning ills a prey
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay ;
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made :
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began
When every rood of ground maintain’d its man;
For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health ;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain ;
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth, and cumb'rous pomp repose ;
And every want to luxury allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room,
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,
Liv’d in each look, and brighten’d all the green ;
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.

THE POLISH REFUGEES.

Ebenezer Blliott. The day went down in fire, They walk'd, worn gaunt with cares, The burning ocean o'er

Where land and billow meetA son, and grey-hair'd sire,

And of that land was theirs Walk’d, silent, on the shore. The dust upon their feet.

Yet they, erewhile, had lands

Which plenteous harvests bore ; But spoil'd by Russians' hands,

Their own was theirs no more. They came, to cross the foam,

And seek, beyond the deep, A happier, safer home,

A land where sowers reap. Yet, while the playful gold

Laugh'd into purply green The crimson clouds that roll'd

The sea and sky between, The youth his brow uprais'd

From thoughts of deepest woe, And on the ocean gaz'd,

Like one who fronts a foe. The sire was calm and mild,

And brightly shone his eye ;How like a stately child,

He look'd on sea and sky! But on his son's lean cheek,

And in his hands, grasp'd hard A heart, that scorn'd to break,

With dreadful feelings warred; For he had left behind

A wife, who dungeon'd lay; And loath'd the mournful wind,

That sobb’d-Away, away !

Five boys and girls had he:

In fetters pin’d they all ; And when he saw the sea,

On him he heard them call. Oh, fiercely he dash'd down

The tear, that came, at length !Then, almost with a frown,

He pray'd to God for strength. “ Hold up !" the father cried,

“ If Poland cannot thrive, The mother o'er the tide,

May follow with her five. “ But Poland yet shall fling

Dismay on Poland's foes, As when the Wizard King*

Aveng'd her ancient woes ; For soon her cause will be

Rous'd Europe's battle-cry; To perish, or be free !

* To conquer or to die !'” His hands clasp'd o'er his head,

The son look'd up for aid ; “So be it, Lord !” he said,

And still look'd up, and pray'd, Till from his eyes, like rain

When first the black clouds growl, The agony

of pain
In tears, gush'd from his soul.

SCENE FROM " KING RICHARD 11."

Shakspeare.
Enter King RICHARD, attended; John Of Gaunt, and other Nobles

with him.
K. Rich. Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd Lancaster,
Hast thou, according to thy oath and bond,
Brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son;
Here to make good the boisterous late appeal,
Which then our leisure would not let us hear,
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ?
Gaunt. I have, my liege.
K. Rich. Tell me, moreover, hast thou sourded him

• The name which the Turks in their superstitious dread gave to the great Sobieski.

If he appeal the duke on ancient malice;
Or worthily, as a good subject should,
On some known ground of treachery in him ?

Gaunt. As near as I could sift him on that argument,
On some apparent danger seen in him,
Aimed at your highness; no inveterate malice.

K. Rich. Then call them to our presence ; face to face,
And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear
The accuser and the accuséd freely speak :-

[Exeunt some Attendants. High-stomached are they both, and full of ire; In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.

Re-enter ATTENDANTS, with BOLINGBROKE and NORFOLK.
Boling. Many years of happy days befal
My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege !

Norf. Each day still better other's happiness ;
Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap,
Add an immortal title to your crown!

K. Rich. We thank you both : yet one but flatters us,
As well appeareth by the cause you come ;
Namely, to appeal each other of high treason.-
Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ?

Boling. First, (Heaven be the record to my speech!)
In the devotion of a subject's love,
Tendering the precious safety of my prince,
And free from other misbegotten hate,
Come I appellant to this princely presence.-
Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee ;
And mark my greeting well: for what I speak
My body shall make good upon this earth,
Or
my

divine soul answer it in heaven :-
Thou art a traitor and a miscreant;
Too good to be so, and too bad to live;
Since the more fair and crystal is the sky,
The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly.
Once more, the more to aggravate the note,
With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat;
And wish (so please my sovereign), ere I move,
What my tongue speaks my right-drawn sword may prove.

Norf. Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal ·
'Tis not the trial of a woman's war,
The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,
Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain :
The blood is hot that must be cooled for this.
Yet can I not of such tame patience boast,
As to be hushed, and nought at all to say.
First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me
From giving reins and spurs to my free speech,
Which else would post until it had returned

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