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Yet while the serious thought his soul approv'd,
(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind,
Pride, in the power that guards his country's coast,
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
No more that awful glance on playful wight,
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,
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
Waft the leaves that are searest,
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,
How sound is thy slumber!
FAITH, like a simple, unsuspecting child,
Sleeps in his bosom, and expects no harm:
Receives with joy the promises he makes,
However deep be the mysterious word,
In vain, with rude and overwhelming force,
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.
MISS CAROLINE FRY.
THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. '
WHEN spring, to woods and wastes around,
The murder'd traveller's bones were found
The fragrant birch above him hung
And many a vernal blossom sprung,
The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
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,
They little knew, who lov'd him so,
Nor how, when round the frosty pole
Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
And mark'd his grave with nameless stones,
But long they look'd, and fear'd, and wept,
And dream'd, and started as they slept,
So long they look'd- but never spied
Nor knew the fearful death he died
A BIRTHDAY THOUGHT
My birthday of nature I've oftentimes kept,
Yet 'twas all but a dream, for I slumber'd and slept,