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And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.

If not so frequent, would not this be strange?
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, "That all men are about to live,"
For ever on the brink of being born:
All pay themselves the compliment to think
They one day shall not drivel, and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise;
At least their own; their future selves applaud;
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !
Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's vails;
That lodged in Fate's to wisdom they consign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone.
'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool,

And scarce in human wisdom to do more.
All promise is poor dilatory man,

And that through every stage. When young, indeed,
In full content we sometimes nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish,

As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought

Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same.

THE EMPTINESS OF RICHES.

CAN gold calm passion, or make reason shine?
Can we dig peace or wisdom from the mine?
Wisdom to gold prefer, for 'tis much less
To make our fortune than our happiness:
That happiness which great ones often see,
With rage and wonder, in a low degree,
Themselves unblessed. The poor are only poor.
But what are they who droop amid their store!
Nothing is meaner than a wretch of state.
The happy only are the truly great.
Peasants enjoy like appetites with kings,
And those best satisfied with cheapest things.

Could both our Indies buy but one new sense,
Our envy would be due to large expense;
Since not, those pomps which to the great belong,
Are but poor arts to mark them from the throng.
See how they beg an alms of Flattery:
They languish! oh, support them with a lie!
A decent competence we fully taste;

It strikes our sense, and gives a constant feast;
More we perceive by dint of thought alone;
The rich must labour to possess their own.
To feel their great abundance, and request
Their humble friends to help them to be blest;
To see their treasure, hear their glory told,

And aid the wretched impotence of gold.

But some, great souls! and touched with warmth divine, Give gold a price, and teach its beams to shine;

All hoarded treasures they repute a load,

Nor think their wealth their own, till well bestowed.
Grand reservoirs of public happiness,

Through secret streams diffusively they bless,

And, while their bounties glide, concealed from view,
Relieve our wants, and spare our blushes too.

ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

O THOU ? whose balance does the mountains weigh;
Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey;
Whose breath can turn those wat'ry worlds to flame,
That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame;
Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls,
And on thy never-ceasing goodness calls.

Oh! give the winds all past offence to sweep,
To scatter wide, or bury in the deep.
Thy power, my weakness, may I ever see,
And wholly dedicate my soul to thee.
Reign o'er my will; my passions ebb and flow
At thy command, nor human motive know!
If anger boil, let anger be my praise,
And sin the graceful indignation raise.
My love be warm to succour the distressed,
And lift the burden from the soul oppressed.
Oh! may my understanding ever read
This glorious volume which thy wisdom made!

May sea and land, and earth and heaven be joined, To bring th' eternal Author to my mind!

When oceans roar, or awful thunders roll,

May thoughts of thy dread vengeance shake my soul!
When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine,
Adore, my heart, the majesty divine.

Grant I may ever, at the morning ray,
Open with prayer the consecrated day;
Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise,
And with the mounting sun ascend the skies :
As that advances, let my zeal improve,
And glow with ardour of consummate love;
Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun
My endless worship shall be still begun.

And, oh, permit the gloom of solemn night,
To sacred thought may forcibly invite.
When this world's shut, and awful planets rise,
Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies;
Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight,
And show all nature in a milder light:
How every boisť'rous thought in calm subsides!
How the smoothed spirit into goodness glides!
Oh, how divine! to tread the milky-way
To the bright palace of the Lord of day;
His court admire, or for his favour sue,
Or leagues of friendship with his saints renew:
Pleased to look down, and see the world asleep;
While I long vigils to its Founder keep.

FROM LOVE OF FAME.

THE love of praise, howe'er concealed by art,
Reigns more or less, and glows, in ev'ry heart:
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;
The modest shun it, but to make it sure.

O'er globes and sceptres, now on thrones it swells;
Now trims the midnight lamp in college-cells.
'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,
Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades.
Here, to Steele's humour makes a bold pretence;
There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence.
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead:

N

Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes,
Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs.

Allan Ramsay.

Born 1686.

Died 1758.

THIS Scottish poet was born in 1686 at Leadhills, a small village in Lanarkshire, where his father held the situation of manager in a leadmine. He remained there till he was fifteen, when he was apprenticed to a wig-maker in Edinburgh. It was not till he was twenty-six years of age that he commenced writing poetry; when an address to "The Easy Club" brought him into notice. He wrote various light humorous pieces, which were sold separately at a penny each, and which became very popular; he was so successful in this mode of publishing, that he set up a shop as a regular bookseller and publisher. Various small pieces came from his pen, till, in 1726, appeared his celebrated pastoral drama, "The Gentle Shepherd." It was received with universal approbation, not only in Scotland, but in England and Ireland. Gay and Pope both admired the poem greatly. Ramsay now attempted an adventure, never yet known in Scotland, a circulating library, which succeeded well. He also attempted to set up a theatre; but the dislike to it was so great that it was put down, and he lost a good deal of money in the speculation. In 1743 his circumstances enabled him to build a house on the Castle Hill of Edinburgh, which is called Ramsay Lodge to this day. He died there on the 7th January 1758, in the seventy-second year of his age.

LOCHABER NO MORE.

FAREWELL to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean,
Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.
These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear,
And no for the dangers attending on weir;
Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind,
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind;
Though loudest o' thunder on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained;
By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained;
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave,
And I must deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse;
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee,
And without thy favour I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame,
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

ON MARRIAGE.

(From the "Gentle Shepherd.")

Peggy. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to move My settled mind; I'm ower far gane in love.

Patie to me is dearer than my breath;

But want o' him, I dread nae other skaith.
There's nane o' a' the herds that tread the green
Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een:
And then he speaks wi' sic a taking art-
His words they thirl like music through my heart.
How blithely can he sport, and gently rave,
And jest at feckless fears that fright the lave!
Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill,

He reads fell books that teach him meikle skill.
He is But what need I say that or this?
I'd spend a month to tell you what he is!
In a' he says or does, there's sic a gate,
The rest seem coofs compared wi' my dear Pate.
His better sense will lang his love secure;
Ill-nature hefts in sauls that's weak and poor.
Jenny. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst o' a';
Gif o'er your heads ill-chance should begg'ry draw,
But little love or canty cheer can come
Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom.
Your nowt may die-the spate may bear away
Frae aff the holms your dainty rucks o' hay.
The thick-blawn wreaths o' snaw, or blashy thows,
May smoor your wathers, and may rot your ewes.
A dyvour buys your butter, woo, and cheese,
But, or the day o' payment, breaks, and flees.
Wi' gloomin' brow, the laird seeks in his rent ;
It's no to gie: your merchant's to the bent.
His honour maunna want--he poinds your gear;

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