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What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do,

This teach me more than hell to shun, That, more than heaven pursue.

What blessings thy free bounty gives, Let me not cast away;

For God is paid when man receives, To enjoy is to obey.

Yet not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound;

Or think thee Lord alone of man,
When thousand worlds are round.

Let not this weak, unknowing hand
Presume thy bolts to throw,

And deal damnation round the land
On each I judge thy foe.

If I am right, thy grace impart
Still in the right to stay;

If I am wrong, O, teach my heart
To find that better way.

Save me alike from foolish pride,
Or impious discontent

At aught thy wisdom has denied,
Oraught thy goodness lent.

Teach me to feel another's woe;
To hide the fault I see;

That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.

110

SIR PATRICK SPENCE

Mean though I am, not wholly so,
Since quickened by thy breath;
O, lead me, wheresoe’er I go, -

Through this day's life or death.

This day be bread and peace my lot;
All else beneath the sun

Thou know'st if best bestowed or not,
And let thy will be done.

To Thee, whose temple is all space,
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies!

One chorus let all being raise'
All nature's incense rise !

—O-
SIR PATRICK SPENCE.

THE king sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blude-red wine:

“O, where shall I get a skeely skipper
To sail this ship of mine?”

O, up and spake an eldern knight, —
Sat at the king's right knee, –

“Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor
That sails upon the sea.”

The king has written a braid letter,
And sealed it with his hand;

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the strand.

“To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the faem;
The king's daughter of Noroway,

'T is thou maun bring her hame.”

The first line that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud, loud, laughed he ;

The next line that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his e'e.

“O, wha is this has done this deed,
This ill deed done to me;

To send me out, this time o’ the year,
To sail upon the sea 7

“Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the faem;

The king's daughter of Noroway,
'T is we must fetch her hame.

“Make ready, make ready, my merry men all !
Our gude ship sails the morn.”

“Now, ever alake, my master dear,
I fear a deadly storm.

“Late, late yestreen, I saw the new moon
Wi’ the old moon in her arm;

And I fear, I fear, my dear master,
That we will come to harm.”

They hadna sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,

When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,

And gurly grew the sea.

The anchors brak, and the topmasts lap,
It was sik a deadly storm;

And the waves came o'er the broken ship,
Till all her sides were torn.

I 12 SIR PATRICK SPENCE.

“O, where will I get a gude sailor
To take my helm in hand,

Till l get up to the tall top-mast;
To see if I can spy land 2*

“O, here am I, a sailor gude,
To take the helm in hand,

Till you go up to the tall top-mast;
But I fear you’ll ne'er spy land.”

He hadna gone a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,

When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,
And the salt sea it came in.

“Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith,
Another o’ the twine,

And wap them into our ship's side,
And let nae the sea come in.”

They fetched a web o' the silken claith,
Another o' the twine,

And they wapped them round that gude ship's side
And still the sea came in.

O, laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords
To weet their cork-heeled shoon!

But lang or a’ the play was played,
They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather-bed
That flattered on the faem ;

And mony was the gude lord's son,
That never mair came hame.

The ladies wrang their fingers white,
The maidens tore their hair,

A” for the sake of their true loves,
For them they’ll see nae mair.

O, lang, lang, may the ladies sit,
Wi’ their fans into their hand,

Before they see Sir Patrick Spence
Come sailing to the land. -

And lang, lang, may the maidens sit,
Wi’ their gold kaims in their hair,

A” waiting for their aim dear loves |
For they’ll see them nae mair.

O, forty miles off Aberdeen,
'T is fifty fathoms deep,

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet.

LUCY. — Wordsworth.

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love, –

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eyes

Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

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