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The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath 5 Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yester morn bloom'd waving in the breeze: The faintest sounds attract the ear,-the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating, midway up the hill. 10 Calmness seems thron'd on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,

The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale, And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heav'n-tun'd song; the lulling brook 15 Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen; While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke O'er mounts the mist, is heard, at intervals, The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods: 20 The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Has ceas'd; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare

Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe ;-the toil-worn horse set free, 25 Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large, And, as his stiff unwieldly bulk he rolls, His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray. But, chiefly, Man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, SABBATH! thee I bail, the poor man's day. 30 On other days, the man of toil is doom'd

To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground
Both seat and board,-screen'd from the winter's cold
And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree;
But on this day, embosom'd in his home,

35 He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God,--not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With covered face and upward earnest eye.

Hail, SABBATH! thee I hail, the poor man's day. The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air, pure from the city's smoke, As wandering slowly up the river's bank, He meditates on him whose power he marks 45 In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, And in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around the roots; and while he thus surveys With elevated joy each rural charm,

He hopes, (yet fears presumption in the hope,) 50 That heaven may be one Sabbath without end. But now his steps a welcome sound recalls: Solemn, the knell from yonder ancient pile Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe;

The throng moves slowly o'er the tomb-pav'd ground: 55 The aged man, the bowed down, the blind

Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well-pleas'd; These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach The house of God: these, spite of all their ills, 60 A glow of gladness prove with silent praise They enter in a placid stillness reigns; Until the man of God, worthy the name, Opens the book, and, with impressive voice, The weekly portion reads.



5. The Burial of Sir John Moore.

I Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our Heró was buried.

2 We buried him darkly; at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moon-beams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

3 No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay-like a warrior taking his restWith his martial cloak around him!

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4 Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow-

5 We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow-
How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

6 "Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him."

7 But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring,
And we heard the distant and random gun,
That the foe was suddenly firing-

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8 Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory!
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him-alone with his glory!

6. Eve lamenting the loss of Paradise.

"O unexpected stroke, worse than of Death! Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? thus leave Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades, Fit haunt of Gods? where I had hope to spend, 5 Quiet though sad, the respite of that day That must be mortal to us both. O flowers, That never will in other climate My early visitation, and my last At ev❜n, which I bred up with tender hand


10 From the first opening bud, and gave ye names, Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount? Thee lastly, nuptial bow'r, by me adorn'd With what to sight or smell was sweet, from thee 15 How shall I part, and whither wander down Into a lower world, to this obscure

And wild? how shall we breathe in other air
Less pure, accustom❜d to immortal fruits ?”

7. Soliloquy of Hamlet's Uncle.

()Oh! my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the primal, eldest curse upon't, A brother's murder !-Pray I cannot, Though inclination bé as sharp as 'twill, 5 My stronger guilt defeats my strong intènt : And like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. (°) What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood; 10 Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snów? Whereto serves mèrcy, But to confront the visage of offence?

And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force,
To be forestalled, ere we come to fall,

15 Or pardon'd being down?--Then I'll look up;
My fault is past.—But oh, what form of
Can serve my turn? "Forgive me my foul murder !"
That cannot be; since I am still possess'd
Of those effects for which I did the murder,
20 My crown, mine own àmbition, and my queen.
May one be pardon'd, and retain the offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice;
And oft 'tis seen, the wicked prize itself
25 Buys out the law: but 'tis not so above:

There, is no shuffling; there, the action lies

In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'd,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence.--What thèn ?--what rèsts?
30 Try what repentance can: what can it not?
Yet what can it, when one cannot repent?

()O wretched state! oh bosom, black as death! Oh limed soul; that, struggling to be free, Art more engag'd! Help, angels! make assay ! 35 Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart, with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!

All may be well.

27] Page 128.


1. Matt. xiv.-22 And straightway Jesus constrained his disciples to get into a ship, and to go before him unto the other side, while he sent the multitudes away. 23 And when he had sent the multitudes away, he went up into a mountain apart to pray and when the evening was come, he was there alone. 24 But the ship was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with waves: for the wind was contrary. 25 And in the fourth watch of the night Jesus went unto them, walking on the sea. 26 And when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were troubled, saying, It is a spirit; and they cried out for fear. 27 But straightway Jesus spake unto them, saying, Be of good cheer; it is 'I; be not afraid. 28 And Peter answered him and said, Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water. 29 And he said, Còme. And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus. 30 But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, sàve me. 31 And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt? 32 And when they were come into the ship, the wind ceased. 33 Then they that were in the ship came and worshipped him, saying, Of a truth thou art the Son of God.

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