EPITAPH ON A HARE. HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, Though duly from my hand he took He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite. His diet was of wheaten bread, Thistles, or lettuces instead, On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, And when his juicy salads failed, A Turkey carpet was his lawn, His frisking was at evening hours, But most before approaching showers, Eight years and five round rolling moons He thus saw steal away, Dozing out all his idle noons, I kept him for his humour's sake, My heart of thoughts that made it ache, But now, beneath this walnut shade, She, still more aged, feels the shocks LUCY GRAY. OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray: No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; -The sweetest thing that ever grew You yet may spy the fawn at play, Will never more be seen. To-night will be a stormy night You to the town must go; And take a lantern, child, to light Your mother through the snow. COWPER "That, father, will I gladly do! The minster clock has just struck two, At this the father raised his hook, Not blither is the mountain roe: The storm came on before its time: The wretched parents all that night At day-break on a hill they stood And thence they saw the bridge of wood, They wept, and, turning homeward, cried, 66 In heaven we all shall meet!" -When in the snow the mother spied Then downward from the steep hill's edge And then an open field they crossed – They followed from the snowy bank And further there were none ! -Yet some maintain that to this day That you may see sweet Lucy Gray O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. WORDSWORTH. THE BIBLE. WITHIN this awful volume lies SIR WALTER SCOTT. THE MOTHER AND HER CHILD. BESIDE her mother sat a darling child, Wasted by sickness, from whose cheek the bloom Had passed away: her large blue eyes, as mild And soft-as lovely as the sky in June, Were fixed upon the morning star, so soon, Like her own life, to melt in glorious day; "Mother, dear mother, lift my weary head, And lay it gently on your own dear breast ; Where spirits dwell; and like the golden west See, mother, that bright star is almost gone! I feel so well-the little hymn, the same You taught me months ago, that e'er would bring The mother's heart was lifted up in prayer, As rose the infant voice upon her ear: The note hung quivering on the balmy air, Like that of some sweet birdling, soft and clear; Then, as the song poured forth, the warbled theme She stopped, her head drooped low; the trembling strain Was softly lingering on the hallowed Name |