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Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled?

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,1

1

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild?

But now the supper crowns their simple board!
The healsome parritch,2 chief o' Scotia's food:
The soupe3 their only hawkie4 does afford,

That 'yont the hallan 6 snugly chows her cood:
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd' kebbuck, fell,9
An' aft he's press'd, an' aft he ca's it good;

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,

How 'twas a towmond 10 auld,11 sin 12 lint was i' the bell.13
The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They round the ingle form a circle wide;
The sire 14 turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,
The big Ha'-Bible,15 ance his father's pride;
His bonnet reverently is laid aside,

His lyart 16 haffets 17 wearin' thin an' bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales 18 a portion with judicious care;
And "Let us worship God," he says, wi' solemn air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's 19 wild warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs,19 worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin 19 beats the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

1 Mercy, kind feeling 5 Beyond.

2 Oatmeal-pudding.

6 A partition wall in a cottage.
10 Twelve months.

3 Sauce, milk. 4 A pet-name for a cow 7 Carefully preserved. 8 A cheese 9 Biting to the taste. 11 Old. 12 Since. 13 Flax was in blossom. 14 This picture, as all the world knows, he drew from his father. He was himself, in imagination, again one of the "wee things" that ran to meet him; and "the priest-like father" had long worn that aspect before the poet's eyes, though he died before he was threescore. "I have always considered William Burns," (the father,) says Murdoch, "as by far the best of the human race that I ever had the pleasure of being acquainted with, and many a worthy character I have known. He was a tender and affectionate father, and took pleasure in leading his children in the paths of virtue. I must not pretend to give you a description of all the manly qualities, the rational and Christian virtues of the venerable Burns. I shall only add, that he practised every known duty, and avoided every thing that was criminal." The following is the "Epitaph" which the son wrote for him: O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near, with pious reverence, and attend! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,

The tender father, and the generous friend:

The pitying heart that felt for human woe;

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride;
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe,

"For e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side."

16 The great Bible kept in the hall.

18 Chooses

16 Gray.

17 The temples, the sides of the head 19 The names of Scottish psalm-tunes.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or, how the Royal Bard1 did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or, Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry;
Or, rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire;

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head:
How His first followers and servants sped,

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he,2 who lone in Patmos 3 banished,

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,

And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.

Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"
That thus they all shall meet in future days;
There ever bask in uncreated rays,

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear,

While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's every grace, except the heart!
The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;4
But haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well-pleased, the language of the soul;

And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take off their several way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest;

The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request
That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flowery pride,
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,

For them and for their little ones provide;
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,
That makes her loved at home, revered abroad;
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
"An honest man's the noblest work of God;"

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9 An island in the Archipelago, where John is supposed to have written the book of Revelation. Priestly vestment.

And certes,1 in fair virtue's heavenly road,

The cottage leaves the palace far behind: What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human-kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
And, O! may Heaven their simple. lives prevent
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,

A virtuous populace may rise the while,

And stand, a wall of fire, around their much-loved isle.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide

That stream'd through Wallace's 2 undaunted heart
Who dared to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part,
(The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)

O never, never, Scotia's realm desert:

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard,

In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

1 Certainly.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man, whose aged step

Seem'd weary, worn with care;

His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?

(Began the reverend sage ;)

Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasures 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,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labor to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.

* Sir William Wallace, the celebrated Scottish patriot.

O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mis-spending all thy precious hours
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force give 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 favorites 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,
Are wretched and forlorn;
Through weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the numerous 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'erlabor'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 design'd yon lordling's slave-
By Nature's law design'd,
Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty or 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!

O 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, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;

But, oh! a blest relief to those

That weary-laden mourn!

EDMUND BURKE. 1730-1797.

THIS most distinguished writer and statesman was born at Dublin on the 1st of January, 1730. On his mother's side he was connected with the poet Spenser, from whom, it is said, he received his Christian name. He was educated at Ballitore in the county of Kildare, at a classical academy under the management of Abraham Shackleton, a Quaker of superior talents and learning. Here, according to his own testimony, Burke acquired the most valuable of his mental habits; he ever felt the deepest gratitude for his early instructor, and with his only son, Richard, the successor in the school, he preserved an intimate friendship to the end of his life. In 1744 he entered Trinity College, Dublin, and in 1750 he was entered as a law-student at the Middle Temple, London: but his thoughts were soon entirely turned to literature and politics, to which, henceforth, all his time, and talents, and energies were devoted. His first publication was anonymous, entitled, "A Vindication of Natural Society, in a Letter to Lord —, by a Noble Lord." It was such an admirable imitation of the style of Lord Bolingbroke, that many were deceived by it, and deemed it a posthumous publication of that nobleman, who had been dead but five years. It was ironical throughout, endeavoring to prove that the same arguments with which that nobleman had attacked revealed religion, might be applied with equal force against all civil and political institutions whatever.

In the next year, Burke published his "Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful," which, by the elegance of its language, and the spirit of philosophical investigation displayed in it, placed him at once in the very first class of writers on taste and criticism. His object is to show that terror is the principal source of the sublime, and that beauty is the quality in objects which excites love or affection. The fame acquired by this work introduced the author to the best literary acquaintances, among whom were Sir Joshua Rey. nolds and Dr. Johnson. In 1758 he suggested to Dodsley the plan of the Annual Register, and engaged, himself, to furnish the chief historical matter, which he continued to do for very many years, and which has made that work the most valuable repository of historical knowledge of the times.

In 1765, on the accession to power of the Marquis of Rockingham, he was appointed by that minister his private secretary, and was brought into parliament for the borough of Wendover. It would be impossible, in the limited space assigned to these biographical sketches, to give an outline of his subse

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