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My son !* my son ! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine ;
Tha: ne'er wad blink on mine?
Or turn their hearts to thee;
Remember him for me!
O, soon, to me, may summer suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Wave o'er the yellow corn!
Let winter round me rave;
Bloom on my peaceful grave.
AVARICE. — George Herbert.
Money, thou bane of bliss, and source of woe,
Surely thou didst so little contribute
* James the First, King of England.
Then forcing thee by fire he made thee bright;
Man calleth thee his wealth, who made thee rich, And, while he digs out thee, falls in the ditch.
THE TRUMPET. - Mrs. Hemans.
The trumpet's voice hath roused the land ;
Light up the beacon-pyre!-
And waved the sign of fire.
Their gorgeous folds have cast, —
A king to war went past.
The chief is arming in his hall,
The peasant by his hearth;
And rises from the earth.
Looks with a boding eye, -
Whose young hearts leap so high.
The bard hath ceased his song, and bound
The falchion to his side ;
The lover quits his bride.
FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.
And all this haste, and change, and fear,
By earthly clarion spread ! -
The blast that wakes the dead !
FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. — Sir W. Scott.
ENCHANTRESS, farewell! who so oft has decoyed me, At the close of the evening, through woodlands to
roam, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me
Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. Farewell ! and take with thee thy numbers wild speak
ing, The language alternate of rapture and woe; O, none but some lover, whose heart-strings are break
Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came
sorrow, Or pale disappointment, to darken my way, What voice was like thine, that could sing of to-morrow
Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! But when friends drop around us in life's weary wan
ing, The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not assuage; Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining,
The languor of pain, and the chillness of age.
’T was thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing,
To sing how a warrior lay stretched on the plain, And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing,
And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ;
As vain those enchantments, O queen of wild numbers,
To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er, And the quick pulse of feeling in a pathy slumbers ; —
Farewell, then, enchantress! I meet thee no more !
TRUE RICHES. – Walls.
I AM not concerned to know
Glittering stones, and golden things,
I've a mighty part within,
On the same young, flowery tree
There are endless beauties more
That has treasures of its own,