Yet while the serious thought his soul approv'd,
Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he lov'd:
To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,
And with the firmest had the fondest mind.
Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none :
Good he refus'd with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caus'd reflection's sigh;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd:

(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind,
To miss one favour, which their neighbours find:)
Yet far was he from stoic pride remov'd;
He felt humanely, and he warmly lov'd;
I mark'd his action, when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried.
The still tears, trickling down that furrow'd cheek,
Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride
Who, in their base contempt, the great deride:
Nor pride in learning-though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;
Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few:
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;
A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd;
In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd;

Pride, in the power that guards his country's coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride, in a life that slander's tongue defied;
In fact, a noble passion, misnam❜d pride.

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there:
I see no more those white locks, thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honour'd head;

No more that awful glance on playful wight,
Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight,
To fold his fingers, all in dread the while,
Till mister Ashford soften'd to a smile;

No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there: But he is bless'd, and I lament no more

A wise good man, contented to be poor.



He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The font, re-appearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow,

But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,

But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory;
The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.

1 The Coronach of the Highlander, like the Ululoo of the Irish, was a wild expression of lamentation poured forth by the mourners over the body of a departed friend.

Fleet foot on the correi1,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray 2,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!



FAITH, like a simple, unsuspecting child,
Serenely resting on its mother's arm,
Reposing ev'ry care upon her God,

Sleeps in his bosom, and expects no harm:

Receives with joy the promises he makes,
Nor questions of his purpose or his pow'r:
She does not doubting ask, "Can this be so?"
The Lord has said it, and there needs no more.

However deep be the mysterious word,
However dark, she disbelieves it not;
Where reason would examine, Faith obeys,
And "It is written" answers ev'ry doubt.

In vain, with rude and overwhelming force,
Conscience repeats her tale of misery;
And pow'rs infernal, wakeful to destroy,
Urge the worn spirit to despair and die.

1 The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies. 2 A plundering expedition.

As evening's pale and solitary star

But brightens while the darkness gathers round, So faith, unmov'd amidst surrounding storms,

Is fairest seen in darkness most profound.



WHEN spring, to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again,

The murder'd traveller's bones were found
Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch above him hung
Her tassels in the sky;

And many a vernal blossom sprung,
And nodded careless by.

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead,
And fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.

1 Some years since, the remains of a human body, partly devoured by wild animals, were found in a woody ravine, near Stockbridge, a village of Massachusets. It was supposed that the person came to his death by violence, but no traces could be discovered of his murderers. It was only recollected that in the course of the previous winter a traveller had stopped at an inn in the village; and that, in paying the innkeeper, it appeared that he had a considerable sum of money in his possession. Two ill-looking men were present, and went out about the same time that the traveller proceeded on his journey. Several years afterward, a criminal, about to be executed, confessed that he had been concerned in murdering a traveller in Stockbridge for the sake of his money. Nothing was ever discovered respecting the name or residence of the person murdered.

But there was weeping far away,

And gentle eyes, for him,

With watching many an anxious day,
Were sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who lov'd him so,
The fearful death he met,
When shouting o'er the desert snow,
Unarm'd, and hard beset;

Nor how, when round the frosty pole
The northern dawn was red,
The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole
To banquet on the dead;

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dress'd the hasty bier,

And mark'd his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoisten'd by a tear.

But long they look'd, and fear'd, and wept,
Within his distant home;

And dream'd, and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.

So long they look'd- but never spied
His welcome step again,

Nor knew the fearful death he died
Far down that narrow glen.



My birthday of nature I've oftentimes kept,
And rejoic'd in the revels of youth;

Yet 'twas all but a dream, for I slumber'd and slept,
Quite a stranger to God and his truth.

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