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EPITAPH ON A HARE.
Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, · Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor e'er heard huntsman's hollo !
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care, And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack-hare.
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.
His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw; Thistles, or lettuces instead,
Ile used to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippin's russet peel ;
Sliced carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing himself around.
His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,
Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Duzing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.
I kept him for his humour's sake, .
For he would oft beguile
And force me to a smile.
But now, beneath this walnut shade,
He finds his last long home;
Till gentler Puss shall come.
She, still more aged, feels the shocks
From which no care can save, And, partner once of Tiney's box, Must soon partake his grave.
And, when I crossed the wild,
The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor, -The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
Will never more be seen.
“ To-night will be a stormy night--
You to the town must go;
Your mother through the snow.”—
“That, father, will I gladly do!
'Tis scarcely afternoonThe minster clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon !”
At this the father raised his hook,
And snapped a fagot-band;
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe :
With many a wanton stroke
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb,
But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.
They wept, and, turning homeward, cried,
“ In heaven we all shall meet !”. – When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wall;
And then an open field they crossed -
The marks were still the same;
And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
And further there were none !
--Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;
Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
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 bloomi Had passed away : her large blue eyes, as mild
And soft--as lovely as the sky in June,
Like her own life, to melt in glorious day;
And as its pale beams trembled in the room, Her heart thrubbed wildly, for they seemed to say In whispers, to her spirit, “ Come with us away!”
“Mother, dear mother, lift my weary head,
And lay it gently on your own dear breast; Now kiss me, mother-let your smiles be shed
Upon my heart, for soon your child will rest,
Far from your care, with saints and angels blest :
Where spirits dwell; and like the golden west
See, mother, that bright star is almost gone !
It wears to me a blissful smile, and fain
So sweetly on it that it hushed its pain.
Come, lift me up, and let me see again
I feel so well— the little hymn, the same
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;
While round the child, dispelling every fear, Came floating visions from the land her dream
Had pictured to her happy soul so near; Then, as the song poured forth, the warbled theme But seemed an anthem echoed from a brighter scene.
She stopped, her head (Irooped low; the trembling strain
Was broken where the gushing melody
Whose praises angels sound eternally.