Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman or man ;
I haud by the right aye, as weel as I can ;
We are ane in our joys, our affections, an' a';
Come, gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.
Your mither has lo'ed you as mithers can lo'e;
An' mine has done for me what mithers can do ;
We are ane hie an' laigh, an' we should na be twa;
Sae gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.
We love the same simmer day, sunny and fair; Hame! oh, how we love it, an' a' that are there! Frae the pure air o' Heaven the same life we drawCome, gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.
Frail, shakin' Auld Age will soon come o'er us baith,
An' creepin' alang at his back will be Death;
Syne into the same mither-yird we will fa';
Come, gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.
ROBERT NICOLL, 1814-1837.
HER, by her smile, how soon the infant knows!
How soon, by his, the glad discovery shows!
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,
What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word,
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard.
And ever, ever to her lap he flies,
When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise:
Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue.)
As with soft accents round her neck he flings,
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings;
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart :
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove,
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!
But soon a nobler task demands her care,
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer,
Telling of Him who sees in secret there.
And now the volume on her knee has caught
His wandering eye-now many a written thought,
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet,
His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat.
Released, he chases the bright butterfly;
Oft he would follow-follow through the sky!
Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain,
And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane :
Then runs, and, kneeling by the fountain-side,
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide,
A dangerous voyage! or, if now he can,
If now he wears the habit of a man,
Flings off the coat so long his pride and pleasure,
And, like a miser digging for his treasure,
His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
And in green letters sees his name arise!
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight,
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight. SAMUEL ROGERS, 1762-1855.
My heart was heavy, for its trust had been
Abused, its kindness answer'd with foul wrong:
So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men,
One summer Sabbath-day I stroll'd among
The green mounds of the village burial-place ;
Where, pondering how all human love and hate
Find one sad level-and how, soon or late,
Wrong'd and wrong-doer, each with meeken'd face,
And cold hands folded over a still heart,
Pass the green threshold of our common grave,
Whither all footsteps tend, whence. none depart,
Awed for myself, and pitying my race,
Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave,
Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave ! J. G. WHITTIER, 1808
"The silver is mine, and the gold is mine, saith the Lord of hosts." -HAGGAI, ii. 8.
WHOSE is the gold that glitters in the mine?
And whose the silver? Are they not the Lord's?
And lo! the cattle on a thousand hills,
And the broad earth with all her gushing springs,
Are they not His who made them?
Slight tenantry therein, and call your lands
By your own names, and lock your gather'd gold
From him who in his bleeding Saviour's name
Doth ask a part, whose shall those riches be,
When, like the grass-blade from the autumn-frost,
You fall away?
Point out to me the forms
That in your treasure-chambers shall enact
Glad mastership, and revel where you toil'd
Sleepless and stern. Strange faces are they all.
Oh, man! whose wrinkling labour is for heirs
Thou knowest not who,-thou in thy mouldering bed,
Unkenn'd, unchronicled of them, shalt sleep;
Nor will they thank thee that thou didst bereave
Thy soul of good for them.
The famish'd food, the prisoner liberty,
Light to the darken'd mind, to the lost soul
Take thou the privilege
With solemn gratitude. Speck as thou art
Upon earth's surface, gloriously exult
To be co-worker with the King of kings.
MRS L. H. SIGOURNEY, 1791–
THERE is no sound upon the night,
As by the shaded lamp I trace,
My babe, in smiling beauty bright,
The changes of thy sleeping face.
Hallow'd to us shall be the hour,
Yea, sacred through all time to come,
Which gave us thee, a living flower,
To bless and beautify our home.
Thy presence is a charm, which makes
A new creation to my sight;
Gives life another hue, and makes
The wither'd green, the faded bright.
Pure as a lily of the brook,
Heaven's signet on thy forehead lies,
And heaven is read in every look,
My daughter, of thy soft blue eyes.
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