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Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! And while, in that vast solitude to which The tide of things has led him, he appears To breathe and live but for himself alone, Unbalmed, uninjured, let him bear about The good which the benignant law of heaven Has hung around him : and, while life is his, Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers To tender offices and pensive thoughts. Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! And, long as he can wander, let him breathe The freshness of the valleys; let his blood Struggle with frosty air and winter snows. And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath Beat his
gray locks against his withered face. Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness Gives the last buman interest to his heart. May never house, misnamed of industry, Make him a captive! for that pent-up din, Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, Be his the natural silence of old age !
Let him be free of mountain solitudes ;
Said to have been written by a Lady of Rank, nearly two cen
My father is dead, and my mother is dead
They sleep beneath the church-yard tree :
brothers so brave, are all in the grave,
I am an orphan, without a friend-
I was the delight of a gallant knight,
And he vowed he only lived for me; But the turtle I trow, is doomed to woe,
While her faithless mate away doth flee. Courage, my heart, and bear the wrongLife is short, though sorrow is strong.
I had a sweet child, on me he smiled,
And bade me live his fame to see ; But the death-storm blew, and the cold night dew
Blasted the rose so dear to me. I wrapped him in his winding sheet, And strewed him with flowers as frail and sweet.
My kindred are dead, my love is fled ;
Courage, my heart, thou canst love no more ; Pale is my cheek, my body is weak ;
Courage, my heart, 'twill soon be o'er. Dim are my eyes, with tears of sorrow; They ache for a night, without a morrow.
Anon. THE LOVERS.
As gilded barks that hover near
If jealous fortune change our doom,
Thro' many a bright and cloudy day,
And when life's summer suns decline,
Anon. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
A chieftain to the Highlands bound
Cries, · Boatman, do not tarry, · And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry.'
• Now, who be
would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water ?'Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
í And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together ; For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
• His horsemen bard behind us ride ;
Should they our steps discover, Then who would cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover ?'