Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take The spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, The other day ?-the Swan?" His heart began in his throat to rise. 66 Ay, ay, sir; here in the cupboard lies The jacket he had on." "And so your lad is gone!— "Gone with the Swan." "And did she stand With her anchor clutching hold of the sand, 66 For a month, and never stir ?" 'Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land, Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, The kerchief from your neck; "And did the little lawless lad, That has made you sick, and made you sad, Be sure, he sailed with the crew- "And he has never written line, 66 Hold-if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine; And could he write from the grave? "Gone twenty years! a long, long cruise ; And come back home, think you you can 66 You're mad as the sea; you rave- The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, "My d!-my Father!-is it true? My blessed boy-my child My dead-my living child!" TO MARY IN HEAVEN. ROBERT BURNS. [Born in 1759, and dying in 1796, "more," says Mr. Allan Cunningham, "of a broken heart than any other illness," Robert Burns's birth stands on the threshold of the Centenary of British Bards whose writings are most familiar to the present generation. The most convincing proof that the gift of poesy is not the result of "learning overmuch," is found in the fact that Burns was born a peasant, and that his education was only in accordance with his station. He threshed in the barn, reaped, mowed, and held the plough before he wa fifteen. Burns's fugitive pieces naturally passed from hand to hand, and attracted the attention of a few discerning individuals: by their aid he was enabled, in 1786, to publish his first volume. The result was, his name and fame flashed like sunshine over the land: the shepherd on the hill, the maiden at her wheel. learnt his songs by heart, and the first scholars of Scotland courted his acquaintance. He was taken to Edinburgh, fêted, petted-and spoiled. Lords and ladies who had invited him to their houses soon neglected him, or, when they met him, passed over to the other side of the street. What wonder, then, that in the bitterness of disappointed hope, he should speak too freely about freedom, and be voted as one who was to be kept down! When he failed in that farm for which, by their toadyism, they unfitted him, they made him an exciseman, and told him if he would only lick-spittle their order, he might hope to rise to the rank of a supervisor. He couldn't do it; the natural dignity of his genius prevented him. Burns did not "boo and boo" himself into favour, as he might have done; his true genius soared above even this nationality, and he was given to understand that his hopes of preferment were blasted-nay, his continuance in office was made dependent on his silence. He did not survive this degradation long; he never held up his head again. He died in the summer of 1796; and then-the lion dead, uprose the chorus of repentant asses! All Scotland claimed him for her own.] THOU lingering star with lessening ray My Mary from my soul was torn ! O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget ?— Those records dear of transports past! Ah! little thought we, 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, Till, too, too soon, the glowing west Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, My Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 1reast? P TO THE NIGHTINGALE. JOHN KEATS. [See page 167.] My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth! That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret, groan; Here, where men sit and hear each other Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful death, Now more than ever seems it rich to die, Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? THE COMET. JAMES HOGG. [James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, was born on the anniversary of the natal day of Robert Burns, a coincidence he was proud of referring to, January 25, 1782; fortunately for the young poet, some of his fugitive pieces, written at the age of eighteen, were submitted to Sir Walter Scott, who encouraged him to proceed. A volume of ballads, "The Forest Minstrel," was sub |