From loins enthroned, and rulers of the

earth;

But higher far my proud pretensions

rise,

The son of parents passed into the skies. And now, farewell!- Time, unrevoked, has run

His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,

I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again,

To have renewed the joys that once were mine

Without the sin of violating thine;
And while the wings of Fancy still are
free,

And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his
theft,
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me

left.

MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENCE.

GOD moves in a mysterious way

His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take!
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his works in vain; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain.

JEAN ADAM.

[1710-1765.]

THE MARINER'S WIFE.

AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?

71

Mak haste, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread,
When Colin 's at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

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'.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown;
For I maun tell the baillie's wife
That Colin's in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockings pearly blue;
It 's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he 's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;

Gie little Kate her button gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been lang awa'.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop,

Been fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare; And mak our table neat and clean,

Let everything look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa'?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air;

His very foot has music in 't

As he comes up the stair. 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!

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,
That thirled through my heart,

He passed his hours in peace.
But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,

As all alone he sate,
The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

Half killed with anger and surprise, "So soon returned!" Old Dodson cries. "So soon, d'ye call it!" Death replies; "Surely, my friend, you 're but in jest! Since I was here before 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoined;

"To spare the aged would be kind: However, see your search be legal; And your authority, - is 't regal? Else you are come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant. Beside, you promised me three warnings,

Which I have looked for nights and mornings;

But for that loss of time and ease
I can recover damages."

"I know," cries Death, "that at the
best

I seldom am a welcome guest;
But don't be captious, friend, at least:
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable:
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, though, of your strength!"

"Hold," says the farmer, "not so fast! I have been lame these four years past." "And no great wonder," Death replies : "However, you still keep your eyes; And sure to see one's loves and friends For legs and arms would make amends." "Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight.'

"This is a shocking tale, 't is true;
But still there's comfort left for you:
Each strives your sadness to amuse;
I warrant you hear all the news.

"There's none," cries he; and if there

were,

I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." "Nay, then," the spectre stern re joined,

"These are unjustifiable yearnings:
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You 've had your three sufficient
warnings;

So come along, no more we 'll part."
He said, and touched him with his dart.
And now Old Dodson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate, so ends my tale.

ANNA L. BARBAULD.

[1743-1825.]

THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL.

SLEEP, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born;

Ye shall not dim the light that streams From this celestial morn.

To-morrow will be time enough

To feel your harsh control;
Ye shall not violate, this day,
The Sabbath of my soul.

Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts;
Let fires of vengeance die;
And, purged from sin, may I behold
A God of purity!

THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS. SWEET is the scene when virtue dies!

When sinks a righteous soul to rest,
How mildly beam the closing eyes,
How gently heaves the expiring breast!

So fades a summer cloud away,
So sinks the gale when storms are o'er,
So gently shuts the eye of day,

So dies a wave along the shore.

Triumphant smiles the victor brow,

Fanned by some angel's purple wing;Where is, O grave! thy victory now? And where, insidious death! thy sting?

Farewell, conflicting joys and fears, Where light and shade alternate dwell!

JOHN LOGAN.

[1748-1788.]

TO THE CUCKOO.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of spring!
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,

And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,

And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy, wandering through the wood

To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

O, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.

YARROW STREAM.

THY banks were bonnie, Yarrow stream,
When first on thee I met my lover;
Thy banks how dreary, Yarrow stream,
When now thy waves his body cover!