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In every place she wandered, where they'd been,
And sadly-sacred held the parting scene,
Where last for sea he took his leave - that place
With double interest would she nightly trace;
For long the courtship was, and he would say,
Each time he sailed, — “This once, and then the day:"
Yet prudence tarried; but, when last he went,
He drew from pitying love a full consent.

Happy he sailed, and great the care she took,
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know,
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow :
For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told,
How he should guard against the climate's cold,
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd with stood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood :
His messmates smiled at flushings on his cheek,
And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain;
Hope was awakened, as for home he sailed,
But quickly sank, and never more prevailed.

He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh
A lover message –

" Thomas, I must die :
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing, go! — if not, this trifle take,
And say, till death I wore it for her sake;
Yes! I must die - blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look, before my life be gone,
O! give me that, and let me not despair,
One last fond look — and now repeat the 'prayer.”

He had his wish, had more; I will not paint
The lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint,
With tender fears, she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
“Yes! I must die;” and hope forever fled.

Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts, ineantime,
Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away :
With him she prayed, to him his Bible read,

Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head;
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart, she sighed; alone, she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think,
Yet said not so Perhaps he will not sink;"
A sudden brightness in his look appeared,
A sudden vigor in his voice was heard ; -
She had been reading in the book of prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seemed, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favorite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,
But she has treasured, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people — death has made them dear.
He named his friend, but then his hand she prest,
And fondly whispered, “ Thou must go to rest!”
“I go,” he said; but, as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound!
Then gazed affrightened; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love, and all was past!

She placed a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engraved -an offering of her love;
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to duty and the dead;
She would have grieved, had friends presumed to spare
The least assistance - 'twas her proper care.

Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
But, if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.

Forbear, sweet maid! nor be by fancy led,
To hold mysterious converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit's pain,
In this sad conflict, will disturb thy brain;
AH have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,
But short the time, and glorious the reward;
Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,
Regard the dead, but, to the living, live.

FROM "THE PARISH REGISTER.”

246. AN ENGLISH Peasant.

To pomp and pageantry in nought allied,
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestioned, and his soul serene :
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid,
At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed :
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace :
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face ;
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seemed and gentleness he loved :
To bliss domestic he his heart resigned,
And, with the firmest, had the fondest mind:
Were others joyful, he looked smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none :
Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distressed
(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind,
To miss one favor which their neighbors find):
Yet far was he from stoic pride removed ;
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved :
I marked his action when his infant died,
And his old neighbor for offence was tried;
The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek,
Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride,
Who, in their base contempt, the great deride ;
Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;
Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few :
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;
A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained,
In sturdy boys to virtuous labors trained;
Pride in the Power that guards his country's coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride, in a life that slander's tongue defied,
In fact a noble passion, misnamed pride.
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there;
I see no more those white locks, thinly spread

Round the bald polish of that honored head;
Nor more that awful glance on playful wight,
Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight,
To fold his fingers all in dread the while,
Till Master Ashford softened to a smile;
No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,
Nor the pure faith (to give it forth), are there;
But he is blessed, and I lament no more,
A wise good man, contented to be poor.

ROBERT BURNS. 1759–1796. (Manual, p. 366.)

247. TO MARY IN HEAVEN.
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,

That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast.

That sacred hour can I forget?

Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,

To live one day of parting love?
Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace !

Ah, little thought we 'twas our last!
Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore,

O’erhung with wild woods thickening green:
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twined amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,

The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon the glowing west

Proclaimed the speed of wingéd day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,

And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression stronger makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

248. JOHN ANDERSON. John Anderson my jo, John,

When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John,

Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither. But we maun totter down, John,

But hand in hand we'll go : And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson my jo.

249. BANNOCKBURN.

Robert Bruce's Address to his Army.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled;
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to glorious victorie!

Now's the day and now's the hour-
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power-

Edward l chains and slaverie !

Wha will be a traitor knave ?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?

Traitor! coward! turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw! Freeman stand or freeman fa',

Caledonian! on wi' me!

By oppression's woes and pains !
By our sons in servile chains !
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be shall be free!

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