ING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough ; See aged winter, 'mid his surly reign, At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow. Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies What wealth could never give nor take away! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share. ROBERT BURNS, 1 ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, of N O more, ye warblers of the wood, no more! stole More welcome were to me grim winter's wildest roar. Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies! Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, And soothe the Virtues weeping on his bier : The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, Is in his narrow house for ever darkly low. Robert Burns. ON PARTING WITH HIS BOOKS. S one who, destined from his friends to part, Thus, loved associates! chiefs of elder Art! I now resign you: nor with fainting heart; And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, ECHO AND SILENCE. IN eddying course when leaves began to fly, As 'mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo Through glens untrod, and woods that frowned on high, Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy! And lo, she's gone !-in robe of dark-green hue, For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky! Not so her sister:-hark! for onward still Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill. SIR SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES. F ABSENCE. HERE is strange music in the stirring wind, If she return not with thy cheering ray, Who from these shades is gone, gone far away. WILLIAM LIsle Bowles. |