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ING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough ;
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain :

See aged winter, 'mid his surly reign,

At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow.
So in lone poverty's dominion drear,

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.
I thank thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,

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,

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ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, of
GRENRIDDEL, APRIL, 1794.

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O more, ye warblers of the wood, no more!
Nor pour your descant, grating on my soul;
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant

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More welcome were to me grim winter's wildest roar.
How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes?

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.
Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet;
Me, memory of my loss will only meet.

Robert Burns.

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ON PARTING WITH HIS BOOKS.

S one who, destined from his friends to part,
Regrets his loss, yet hopes again erewhile
To share their converse and enjoy their smile,
And temper as he may affliction's dart ;-

Thus, loved associates! chiefs of elder Art!
Teachers of wisdom! who could once beguile
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil,

I now resign you: nor with fainting heart;
For pass a few short years, or days, or hours,

And happier seasons may their dawn unfold,
And all your sacred fellowship restore ;
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers,
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,
And kindred spirits meet to part no more.

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ECHO AND SILENCE.

IN eddying course when leaves began to fly,
And Autumn in her lap the store to strew,

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,
'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew ;

For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky!
In shade affrighted Silence melts away;

Not so her sister:-hark! for onward still
With far-heard step she takes her listening way,
Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill!

Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play

With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill. SIR SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES.

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ABSENCE.

HERE is strange music in the stirring wind,
When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone
To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone,
Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclined
Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sere.
If in such shades, beneath their murmuring,
Thou late hast passed the happier hours of spring,
With sadness thou wilt mark the fading year;
Chiefly if one, with whom such sweets at morn
Or evening thou hast shared, far off shall stray.
O Spring, return! return, auspicious May!
But sad will be thy coming, and forlorn,

If she return not with thy cheering ray,

Who from these shades is gone, gone far away.

WILLIAM LIsle Bowles.

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