more!

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my

concern,

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived;
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and
went,

Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er
forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;

And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'T is now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house

while,

They 're a' blawn by, I hae him safe,
Till death we 'll never part;
But what puts parting in my head?
It may be far awa'!

The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.

Since Colin 's weel, and weel content, I hae nae mair to crave;

And gin I live to keep him sae,

I'm blest aboon the lave. And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman 's awa'.

JAMES BEATTIE.

[1735-1803.]

THE HERMIT.

AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,

When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill,

And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove,

'T was thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,

While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began;

No more with himself or with nature at

war,

He thought as a sage, though he felt as

a man:

"Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness

and woe,

Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?

For spring shall return, and a lover be

stow,

And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;

save;

But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?

O, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave?

"T was thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,

That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind,

My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade,

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

'O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried,

"Thy creature, who fain would not wan der from thee!

Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride;

From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free!'