THE CURE OF MELANCHOLY.

AND thou to whom long worshipp'd nature lends No strength to fly from grief or bear its weight, Stop not to rail at foes or fickle friends,

Nor set the world at naught, nor spurn at fate;
None seek thy misery, none thy being hate;
Break from thy former self, thy life begin;
Do thou the good thy thoughts oft meditate,
And thou shalt feel the good man's peace within,
And at thy dying day his wreath of glory win.

With deeds of virtue to embalm his name,
He dies in triumph or serene delight;
Weaker and weaker grows his mortal frame
At every breath, but in immortal might
His spirit grows, preparing for its flight:

The world recedes and fades like clouds of even, But heaven comes nearer fast, and grows more bright,

All intervening mists far off are driven;

The world will vanish soon, and all will soon be heaven.

Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? Or is thy heart oppress'd with woes untold? Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief? Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold: "Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty; not, when all unrolled, Leaf after leaf its bosom rich and fair [air. Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient

Wake thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night

When death is waiting for thy number'd hours
To take their swift and everlasting flight;

Wake ere the earthborn charm unnerve thee quite,
And be thy thoughts to work divine address'd;
Do something-do it soon-with all thy might;
An angel's wing would droop if long at rest,
And God himself inactive were no longer bless'd.

Some high or humble enterprise of good
Contemplate till it shall possess thy mind,
Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food,
And kindle in thy heart a flame refined;
Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind
To this thy purpose-to begin, pursue,

With thoughts all fix'd and feelings purely kind,
Strength to complete, and with delight review,
And grace to give the praise where all is ever due.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

BURNS.

To a rose, brought from near Alloway Kirk, in Ayreshire,
in the autumn of 1822.

WILD ROSE of Alloway! my thanks :
Thou 'mindst me of that autumn noon
When first we met upon "the banks
And braes o' bonny Doon."

Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough,
My sunny hour was glad and brief,
We've cross'd the winter sea, and thou
Art wither'd-flower and leaf.

And will not thy death-doom be mine-
The doom of all things wrought of clay-
And wither'd my life's leaf like thine,
Wild rose of Alloway?

Not so his memory, for whose sake
My bosom bore thee far and long,
His-who a humbler flower could make
Immortal as his song.

The memory of Burns-a name

That calls, when brimm'd her festal cup, A nation's glory, and her shame, In silent sadness up.

A nation's glory-be the rest

Forgot-she's canonized his mind; And it is joy to speak the best

We may of human kind.

I've stood beside the cottage bed

Where the Bard-peasant first drew breath; A straw-thatch'd roof above his head, A straw-wrought couch beneath.

And I have stood beside the pile,

His monument--that tells to Heaven
The homage of earth's proudest isle
To that Bard-peasant given!

Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot,
Boy-Minstrel, in thy dreaming hour;
And know, however low his lot,
A Poet's pride and power.

The pride that lifted Burns from earth,
The power that gave a child of song
Ascendancy o'er rank and birth,

The rich, the brave, the strong;

And if despondency weigh down
Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then,
Despair-thy name is written on
The roll of common men.

There have been loftier themes than his,
And longer scrolls, and louder lyres,
And lays lit up with Poesy's

Purer and holier fires:

Yet read the names that know not death;
Few nobler ones than Burns are there;
And few have won a greener wreath
Than that which binds his hair.

His is that language of the heart,

In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek;

And his that music, to whose tone

The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan,

In cold or sunny clime.

And who hath heard his song, nor knelt
Before its spell with willing knee,
And listen'd, and believed, and felt
The Poet's mastery.

O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm,
O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers,
O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm,
O'er Reason's dark, cold hours;

On fields where brave men "die or do,"
In halls where rings the banquet's mirth,
Where mourners weep, where lovers woo,
From throne to cottage hearth;

What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed,
What wild vows falter on the tongue,
When "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,"
Or "Auld Lang Syne" is sung!

Pure hopes, that lift the soul above,
Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise,
And dreams of youth, and truth, and love,
With "Logan's" banks and braes.

And when he breathes his master-lay
Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall,
All passions in our frames of clay
Come thronging at his call.

Imagination's world of air,

And our own world, its gloom and glee,
Wit, pathos, poetry, are there,
And death's sublimity.

And Burns-though brief the race he ran,
Though rough and dark the path he trod-
Lived-died-in form and soul a Man,
The image of his God.

Through care, and pain, and want, and wo,
With wounds that only death could heal,.
Tortures-the poor alone can know,
The proud alone can feel;

He kept his honesty and truth,

His independent tongue and pen,

And moved, in manhood and in youth,
Pride of his fellow-men.

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong,›

A hate of tyrant and of knave,

A love of right, a scorn of wrong,

Of coward, and of slave;

A kind, true heart, a spirit high,

That could not fear and would not bow,

Were written in his manly eye,

And on his manly brow.